Day 2
During what felt like a never-ending night I had heard ripples in the water, sounds made by small marine life I assumed. When first light arrived (around 6am), I was surprised to discover how close to the water I had decamped for the night. The spot on the sand where, overcome by fatigue, I had crashed in pitch darkness was about a metre away from one of the “natural pools”. Looking around at my surrounds in daylight I soon realised that this was not the old swimming holes as I had imagined the night before, rather it was just a wider part of the creek. Disappointed, I slowly gathered myself together and splashed water on my face to clear my head, and tried to figure out the best route from here. As I had come this far (how far was that exactly?), I felt that my best bet was to continue the search for the swimming holes, which according to the (now seriously compromised) guidebook map connected via an access path with the elevated walking track from which I had unwisely strayed. Once here I felt escape from this bush maze would be within easy access.
By now the seriousness of my situation was starting to kick in. I was undeniably stuck in this deep, unknown ravine and needed to find a way out. The bush on both sides of the creek looked very daunting with no favourable prospects for progress evident wherever I glanced. I pushed on nonetheless down the creekside in my original direction, but the path through the bush was so difficult that I eventually abandoned the “make a path” route and decided to try my chances in the creek bed itself.
The creek presented a different but equally arduous challenge. The rate of headway I was making was even slower than on land. My movements were ever so tentative as the creek was precarious and deceptive … my feet and shins made this discovery with painful clarity. Each forward step I made was taken with a degree of trepidation. The large stones and boulders, covered by thick coatings of moss at the end of each section of water, proved an incredibly slippery obstacle.
I lost count of the number of times I slipped and landed heavily in the water. Sometimes the only way forward was to climb over the large boulders which acted as natural dams curtailing the flow of water into a trickle at different points in the creek. From there I would continued on the creek floor, treading ever so warily because of the unseen submerged logs and large rocks, which despite my ultra-cautious approach, I would still regularly manage to hit with my shins. I soon discovered that wading through the entire length of the creek was not a possibility, as regularly I would walk, crab-like, across a long, flat rock platform and suddenly without warning the platform would end and plunge me into a two metre watery hole. I would find myself submerged, backpack and all, under the water, and forced to swim strenuously for a good 30 or 40 metres until I could again stand up. As I am not a strong swimmer, the more I had to do this, the more it was taking out of me physically, and also pushing my anxiety levels up.
Struggling to negotiate this hazardous water course, I started to entertain a new thought: what are the chances of drowning in this perilous creek? They seemed to be increasing the further I went. My misadventure had already prompted me to contemplate the prospect of meeting my quietus in this bush entanglement, but I had thought the most likely danger was expiring from thirst or perhaps from hypothermia. The thought of death by accident or misadventure in this stark environment, maybe something sneaking up on you unexpectedly, was a new anxiety, one that would revisit me again later this very day.
Soon after venturing into the creek I noticed a helicopter circling round in the approximate vicinity of the valley. As I had seen absolutely no one else anywhere along Glenbrook Creek since descending into this off-track jungle, I reasonably concluded that the helicopter must be searching for me. This reassured me somewhat and seemed to confirm that some of my emergency calls the previous day had been received or at least traced. My flagging spirits were uplifted a little, someone was aware that I had gotten myself lost, someone it appeared was looking for me. This optimism was to prove, in the end, without foundation. Nonetheless, for the time being, it did give me hope. Later on in my escapade things things looked much grimmer, although I can honestly say that I never really gave up hope, not then or at any point.
After an hour-and-a-half to two hours in the creek, struggling alternately to walk, tread water and swim, and finding nothing, I came to the conclusion that the swimming holes were either non-existent or the guide map had got their location very wrong. I decided to backtrack in the direction of the old ladder (where I had unhappily first entered this unforgiving stretch of ‘wildness’). As the day wore on, I became increasingly dehydrated, the sludgy, copper-metallic looking water in the creek was unprepossessing to the palate as well as the eye, so I decided drinking from it was not something I wanted to risk … not just yet (although I acknowledged to myself that this was a decision I might be forced to re-evaluate as I became more desperate for water).
When I got tired of trudging through the creek I switched to the far side bank and hacked my way through as best I could. All the while I was trying to see across the creek through the foliage to identify one of several distinctive markers or features that I had committed to memory on my initial trip down the creek. I was searching for some clue which would tell me I was close to the point at which I had made my entry on Wednesday. The problem here was that the only way I could get through the dense jungle of trees and bushes was by following the line of least resistance. This meant sometimes moving away from the creek, higher up the hillside where the thicket and shrubbery was not so all-invasive. From this position it was very difficult to get a sighter of the obscured creek, let alone the far side of the bank. As a consequence, I completely missed spotting any of the markers that I was relying on as my lodestars. Thinking that these distinctive features were much further downstream than I had originally imagined, I continued on along the creek, until I was far past the point where the old ladder was.
Discouraged by my failure to spot the target, I decided to turn back and head east once again. It was late afternoon by now. During the day I had had several sightings of the copter and also a light plane that seemed to be in search mode. Most of the time though, the aircraft were a long way from where I was. Something else about them was causing consternation, their search method: they was making wide, sweeping passes across the creek from one peak to the other and then taking a line down the contours of the mountain ridges which took them away from the creek. Now, I don’t profess any expertise in the area of ‘best practice’ search and rescue, but surely, common sense would say that (if they were looking for me), then the bush on the flanks of the valley was so dense and thick that there was zero chance of spotting anyone in the midst of such a boscage of foliage. When I first heard the copter overhead, I had decided to stay in or on the creek for as long as possible whilst walking. I reasoned that the best chance (the only chance realistically) of the copter spotting me was if I put myself in as open as possible position, ie, either in the water itself or on a clear area like a sandbar alongside the creek! But for some reason that I couldn’t fathom, the copter never once, in all the time it was hunting for me, attempted to search down the line of the creek itself!
Pausing on a sandbank for several minutes, I mused on some of the other implications of being isolated in the bush for an extended period. One consideration which I found mildly concerning was that I did not have my blood pressure tablets with me in the wilderness. At this time it wasn’t worrying me to miss a few days (I had done this before without concern) but I knew that I couldn’t go without my BP medication indefinitely, especially if my stress levels rose which was likely.
I decided to move off the sandbar and make for the upper slope to try to find a more manageable pathway through the bush. I got only 15 metres or so up the hill when I heard the copter again, this time however it was hovering high up but directly above the creek line. I scrambled back down to the sandbar and began waving my hat and bright blue backpack in the air to attract the copter’s attention, even trying to hoarsely shout out (I knew they wouldn’t be able to hear me but desperate straits drives you to try even the lowest of percentage chances!). It was to no avail, straight away the copter turned away from me and made a line for further west. I was left wondering if only I had stayed on the sandbar two minutes longer, would it have made the difference in the copter spotting me? Who knows, but this is just the sort of negative and futile idea that you naggingly cling to when one of the very few thin shreds of opportunity you had has just slipped through your fingers. The realisation had hit me by this time that I was trapped – and my options for escaping this trap seemed to be diminishing rapidly.
Disheartened at losing what I thought was a real chance of escaping the dilemma, I decided (wisely or unwisely) a different stratagem was required … I chose one which reflected my desperation. I was now convinced that the helicopter wasn’t going to find me, in my more delusional moments I may have even felt that they were not even trying to find me! I concluded that I had to find my own way out and couldn’t rely on external factors to do it. And I had to do it now! All I knew was that I did not want to spend another freezing night in the national park. The approach I decided on was a very direct one, I would charge up the nearest gradient on the northern side of the creek, which I knew was the direction of the walking track leading back to Blaxland, back to civilisation. With scant regard for myself, I set off. I didn’t care anymore about the likelihood of further damage the briar, bramble and other thorny bushes might do to my already tortured legs (my left leg with its ragged criss-cross pattern of scratches was already beginning to resemble the handiwork of a clumsy, blind tattooist!). Perhaps I was gripped by one of those atavistic urges that people find it trendy to reference these days, but, whatever, I was just intent at that moment on throwing myself wholeheartedly if recklessly into the tree-laden hillside. I was determined to reach the top and get free of the bush by nightfall!
After taking a circuitous route up the hill, I soon reached my first formidable barrier, a range of massive, stone-faced rocks. Everywhere I looked along the rocky range I could see only sharp vertical inclines, no easy, gradual ascent to the top revealed itself. After much deliberation, I decided on the route that seemed least hazardous. Somehow, going slowly, up and sideways, I managed to scramble to the top of these massifs, only to be confronted immediately with a next, higher level of stony cliff-faces! I scouted round the parameter of the base and eventually found an easier, lateral pathway up to a sort of ‘mezzanine’ level of rocks, which shortened the vertical portion of this climb.
I scrambled up the tree-lined hill with a determination now verging on desperation to reach my goal by nightfall. A third, sheer vertical incline of massive rock formations loomed into view. I contemplated my options for several minutes and again elected for the zig-zag approach to the top, up, sideways and up again. This time, the linear vertical incline portion of the cliff was longer than the previous ones, some 50 to 55 feet in length. I studied the rock-face, noting that the horizontal crevice lines in the rock were not at all pronounced, barely deep or wide enough to take the toe of a boot.
I psyched myself up to take on what I knew would be a Herculean task for a novice climber (let alone someone like me without any climbing experience whatsoever and without any equipment at all!). I slowly but determinedly started the ascent, miraculously I got about three-quarters of the way up, I won’t say I did it easily because that would give the wrong impression, but it seemed to be going OK. Steadying myself to take another step and grab, which would take me almost to the top, I noticed that the heel of my left foot was starting to come out of my boot. As I was precariously balanced on the vertical rock, I wasn’t game to reach down and try to nudge it back into the boot, I was fairly certain if I did, I would lose my balance, with predictable and dire consequences. I didn’t feel that I had any real choice about my next move, I knew I couldn’t hover there indefinitely and I wasn’t confident about reversing back down, so after a moment’s hesitation and deliberation, I took the next step up … one small step etc, but a disastrous one for this man! My left foot, half-in, half-out of the boot, couldn’t support itself in the narrow crevice, and with the boot working its way off, the leg gave way and I plummeted down. I was powerless to stop my descent, gravity and the rocky ground below controlled what would happen next.
If you are ever unlucky enough to find yourself in freefall like this, there isn’t time to think about anything much … its all happening so fast! If anything registers at all, it’s perhaps a kind of sense of unreality (like this can’t be actually happening to me!), and a feeling of anticipation, a dread of something bad. Then there’s a very sudden thud of body (your body!) connecting with solid ground. You are no longer moving rapidly, you’ve gone from 30km to 0 instantly, you have completely stopped dead, and you are left with a numbing sense of shock about what just happened. Well, that was my experience anyhow.
Although it all happened in a blink, when I had time later to reflect on it I could distinguish three separate stages in the trajectory of my fall: first, I immediately clipped the upper ridge of the cliff-face with my feet, then there was a second, much more solid contact (also with my feet) with a lower ridge on the rock-face, and finally, after involuntarily twisting my body around 180 degrees to be facing away from the cliff-face, I landed neatly on a flat stone step on my rump on the narrow path ledge below the rock-cliff. Because of the velocity that I was travelling at, I bounced off the step and was flung sideways on the path. Had I have bounced forwards rather than a lateral direction, I probably would have followed my detached boot which plunged down the hillside thirty metres or so to the floor of the ravine. The impact of my collision with the stone (cushioned a little by leaf litter ground cover) was taken squarely on my tailbone, but I instantly felt a very sharp shooting pain in my right side lower back – identified later by X-ray as around the L2 region.
I lay prone on the ground face-down for a couple of minutes in a state of shock, quite incredulous at what had happened. I checked myself, the pain at least was an indicator that I was not paralysed, and I was able to move. After gathering my wits and instinctively trying to come to terms with the enormity of what had occurred, I slowly got to my feet. I stared ruefully up at the vertical cliff-face, cogitating on the folly of what I had attempted. I did a bit of a mental calculation as to the likely distance I had fell. I wanted reassurance that the fall wasn’t as bad as I first thought. I considered the linear distance, I thought 30 feet, Ummm? I measured it again with my eyes. No, not 30 I muttered to myself, I had been too conservative in my estimate, no, it was probably more like 40, yes 40 feet! A chill went down my spine as I thought, God! 40 fucking feet!
As sobering a thought as this was, I didn’t really want to dwell on the disturbing implications of this realisation at that moment, and so I pushed any thoughts I had of dread to the back of my mind. I knew that later on there would be time to replay the traumatic and painful incident in my head over and over. All I knew right now was that I had been lucky (lucky to be still alive) … but maybe also not lucky (if it turned out I had sustained possibly a serious spinal injury).
Despite what had just occurred I was immediately gripped by a manic urge, possibly a subconsciously self-destructive one, to get straight back up there, to reach that cliff-top somehow, to not let myself be beaten by it. My haste to immediately try again wasn’t entirely an irrational response, there was a sense of urgency to my action … I knew I didn’t have any time to waste, I needed to reach the summit before dark and the night curtain was already starting to engulf the sky.
I started back up the vertical face from the same point I had just fallen from. This time though, when halfway through my ascent, I spotted a side route up to the top which looked less daunting than my original straight-up route which I already had just demonstrated was fraught with peril. Despite still feeling somewhat shaken from the fall I contemplated the merits of this alternate route. It involved jumping from the top of the rock I was perched on to another, slightly higher rock just over one metre away. Though easier than the sheer cliff-face I had still set myself a risky task that was very ‘hairy’ indeed. One small miscalculation could have been calamitous, missing the rock or bouncing off it would certainly result in another, this time more dangerous fall and quite conceivably a fatal one.
Fortunately I managed to make the jump unscathed and from there clamber up to the rock-face. I now found myself at an intermediate point in the rock-face, to get to the level ground of the top I still had to traverse another huge boulder, which I ungracefully did by dragging myself backwards with great effort, up the boulder using a thin tree (close by, precariously perched on the edge of a high drop) as leverage. With my back wedged against the massive, round rock, I used my feet (one shoe on, one shoe off) to slowly winch myself up the tree bit by bit. With enormous relief, I found myself at the top, or at least I thought I was at the summit.
I struggled through the thick underbrush on the upper slope of the rock-face but by now the light had deteriorated making visibility on the mountain an extremely ‘iffy’ proposition. I scouted round for somewhere to ‘crash’ for the night. There were no good prospects but hastily decided on a dicey patch of unstable ground on a rocky ledge. This was a place to rest rather than actually sleep for a couple of reasons. The precariousness of my perch wasn’t conducive to sleep. It was too uncomfortably rocky and the ground sloped away at the edges. I was exhausted enough to sleep but for most of the night I was repeatedly harassed by a particular pair of persistent mosquitoes working, it seemed, in tag-team unison on a mission to irritate and annoy! Also, being high up on a mountain, lightly clad and still wet from the creek, I was just too cold to sleep … and to compound my predicament it started to rain lightly which persisted through the night. Notwithstanding all of this, I was feeling strangely optimistic, buoyed by the sense that, finally, apparently, I was tangibly within reach of escaping this overgrown bush prison.
