Wilderness adventure isn’t meant to be a walk in the park. Even for the most experienced, an intrepid outing can quickly turn into a waking nightmare.
Every year people get lost, injured or sometimes even tragically killed while pursuing their favourite activity.
Just this week a skier on Mount Bogong had to be rescued following an injury. This event surreptitiously followed the news that a heli-skier from Sydney had died in an avalanche in New Zealand.
These traumatic events are a reminder that outdoor enthusiasts must take all precautions when guaranteeing their safety, which includes making thorough contingency plans and packing the right gear should the worst-case scenario eventuate.
A few weeks ago, we asked our network to send through some of their own tales of wilderness survival, danger or misadventure, putting three ACR Firefly Pro ‘Solas’ strobe lights up to entice the best stories.
The following tales have been selected from those sent through for their variety and candour, they should act as cautionary tales for anyone seeking their thrills in the great outdoors. More tales of survival can be found on ACR’s ‘Survivor Stories’ webpage.
Caught in a Crevice – Russell Brown
It was in the summer of 1969/70 and six of us were on a trip to Perth, travelling along the unsealed Highway 1 across the Nullabor Plain. We detoured to explore some of the then little known caves. We were young, fit and knew it all. I went heading off, exploring an ongoing small passage and found myself in a very small, circular chamber with no exit. The entry that I had squirmed through was distinctly convoluted and unlikely to be passable in reverse mode.
The limestone of the Nullabor is only about 10 million years old, but more importantly has not been subjected to the immense pressures and heating that much of our east coast limestone has endured. There is no marble or smooth, fine-grained bedrock. Instead the original shapes of the shellfish and crustaceans can be seen clearly in their beds of porous, sharp grit.
In my cramped chamber the walls and ceiling were rough and catchy and seemed to be attaching permanently to my overalls. It was like being in a cocoon made of Velcro and the more I tried to turn around, the more I seemed to be stuck. This was no good as I was some distance from my caving colleagues.
Trying not to panic and to apply some practical analysis to my situation, I took some deep breaths and concluded that if I had come in, I must be able to get out and that it was only the stress and effort of trying that made me stiffen up and expand in my confined cubicle.
I relaxed and breathed out. I moved one limb at a time until I was able to turn not around but over, so that I was able to face the tiny entrance crevice and slither forthwith, leaving more than a few shreds of khaki overalls in this remote cavity.
The memory has stayed with me and although “we knew it all” then, I know a lot more now and ensure that when introducing people to the delights of caving that they all know not to head off on their own, lest they too find themselves having to shred their overalls or maybe await others to show the way out of some subterranean labyrinth.
Hooked – Ricky French
Sometimes danger can lurk where you least expect it. There were three of us in the hiking party, climbing mountains in New Zealand’s Ruahine Ranges. It was winter and by the third night the cold was beginning to wear a bit thin, and our food a bit low. We were relieved to make it to a mountain hut in the middle of the ranges for some well-deserved rest before we started the two-day walk out.
Our party leader, Andrew, decided to clean out the fireplace, and was bending down near the fireplace with a dust pan and shovel when he suddenly yelled out in pain.
His back was to us, but when he turned around we saw with horror what had happened. A rusty iron hook, used for hanging a billy over the fireplace, was wedged under his eyelid and against his eyeball. He obviously hadn’t noticed it hanging there when he plunged his face into the fireplace to sweep it out.
The rusty hook had rotated under the eyelid. No one wanted to attempt to remove it, for fear of doing serious damage to his eye. After lying the patient down and giving painkillers it was decided we weren’t qualified to operate, and he was certainly in no position to walk out of the mountains. With no personal location beacon, one of us were going to have to get help.
I set off that afternoon and made it four hours through the bush before night fell. I pitched a tent overnight and spent a cold night worrying about our leader and whether he might be permanently bind. At first light I started on one of the longest hiking days of my life; ten and half hours over difficult terrain. When I got to the road I hailed a car and the driver took me to the nearest farmhouse, which is where I called the police.
The rescue helicopter left the next morning and landed at the hut, where Andrew was treated at the scene and airlifted out. The hook was removed in hospital and now hangs proudly on the wall of our hiking club. Andrew wore an eyepatch for six weeks, but fortunately his eye escaped permanent damage. This accident impressed me with the fact that you really can’t account for every possible risk – sometimes you simply can’t see the danger coming.
Hell of a Hop – Michele Kohout
Walking the Thorsborne Trail solo, I was looking at a fan-flower and not looking where I was placing my feet as I came over a spur. I slipped and badly sprained my ankle. Within moments it was black and swollen. Somehow I managed to hobble to the first campsite (Nina Bay). Here, another couple saw my predicament and told me to stay at the camp and they would raise the alert five days later when they left the island.
That night I felt very alone and scared, the only time I have done so while bushwalking. Next morning I made the decision to return to the ferry drop-off point, not even knowing if it was coming that day. I felt terrible leaving my pack behind, but I couldn’t carry the weight. I took water, suncream and my camera. I had to crawl over the rocky creek crossings. The distance was four kilometres of “difficult grade” track.
The ferry came that day, and two blokes that were dropped off to start the walk kindly offered to walk to the first campsite and retrieve my pack. My trip to Queensland continued, but I was limited to hobbling about on daywalks. It wasn’t until two weeks later back in Melbourne that x-rays revealed I had broken my ankle.
Have you got a similar story to share with us? Email wild@primecreative.com.au and you could get it published online or in print.