Chris Ryan spends a night stranded in the Blue Mountains National Park, plagued by mosquitoes and his own mental demons.



Four friends head off for a day trip in the great outdoors, exploring the hard to-reach splendours of canyons in the Blue Mountains: it’s the kind of thing you’d see in the opening of a b-grade horror movie, which is how it feels before the day is out.

We get a lift past Katoomba airfield and are dropped off under power lines running through the National Park. There are no paths or markers to follow. We have to bush-bash to Katoomba Creek through scratching thorns, over boulders, and down steep slopes, clutching at ferns so we don’t fall into a gully and break a leg. People do this for fun.

Katoomba Creek gives relief from the heat and the clambering. I could drift in the large pools for the day, enjoying the rough-hewn beauty of the gorge. But we are here to go canyoning not gorging, and there will be no relaxing. We pull on our wetsuits and get down to business.

A length of rope is thrown around a tree then into a dark, deep hole. One of our crew abseils to the floor of Arethusa canyon. The last time I abseiled was at a school camp where we played trust games and learned about condoms, so I’m given a refresher course. There is welcome advice like, “Keep your legs perpendicular to the face of the canyon wall,” and less welcome advice like, “Even if you’re knocked unconscious, you wouldn’t fall that quickly from this height.”

We get down safely, if laboriously. We only have one harness for the four of us and have to haul it out of the canyon between abseils. Call it an early indicator of our great preparation.

In the canyon the grandeur surrounding us is overwhelming. I can’t believe it’s a Saturday arvo and we have the place to ourselves. There should be crowds of people escaping the press of the city, enjoying these ancient pools. The green moss and soft light create an otherworldly feel. Trout dart through the water, bright orange yabbies scuttle under rocks as we approach. Who’d have guessed that until a few years ago the canyon was copping sewage from nearby Medlow Bath.

We have another abseil, this one over twenty metres and alongside a waterfall. I’m an old hand now and take it in my stride. Out of the canyon we follow the flow of a broad river, climbing along the banks when it is too dangerous scampering over the slippery rocks. I fall frequently, bashing my hips, twisting my knees, but staying in one piece.



Photos: Tom Brennan OZultimate.com Canyoning

It’s hard to say when we realise we are lost. It is probably well before anyone pipes up and asks, “Where are we going?”

There is a long discussion about the surrounding landmarks as we try to get our bearings in the fading light. My only contribution is to ask if Khan Wall, an imposing cliff face, is named after Genghis Khan. Turns out it’s Carne Wall. I wonder why we don’t just look at our maps, and learn we don’t have any.

Tangles of vines and fallen logs obstruct our search for the path to Beauchamp Falls and out of the gorge. Slips and falls that we laughed off earlier are met with angry yells. “This is fucked,” someone mutters. We all realise, even if we won’t say it aloud, that when people get lost out here they aren’t always found alive. We’ve only got one muesli bar and a litre of water between us. We cross a creek three times as we tramp about, but no one thinks to fill up their bottles.

A single headlamp lights our way through the darkness. Before someone falls off a cliff we make camp in a small clearing. By “make camp” I mean throw down our packs and lie in the dirt. Our mobiles don’t get reception. We can’t call loved ones to tell them we’re safe. We won’t be able to call emergency services tomorrow, to tell them we’re in trouble.

It is a clear, mild night, stars shining brightly and mosquitoes buzzing loudly. No one has insect repellent. The mozzies attack by the dozen, stinging through shirts and making rest impossible. A breeze blows them off course and shakes the trees around us. Twigs and bark drop from the branches above. I hear a muffled grunt from the darkness. It must be a wild dog, waiting for me to nod off so it can tear me to pieces like a barbecued chicken. I sit up and look around: it’s my sleeping friend.

My mouth is dry. How will we survive tomorrow without water or food? My friends are pretending they know where we are going. I’m not fooled. If they knew where we were, we wouldn’t have been lost for the last two hours. Who will be the first to drop, and how long do we have to wait until we can eat them? Would it be poor form if a rescue party found us after two days, and we were already sitting down to a meal?

Exhaustion has knocked me about. I’m not thinking sensibly. I snatch a couple of hours sleep in-between slapping mosquitoes, listening for the wild dogs, and watching for falling branches.

With the coming of the dawn, we see things in a positive light. In the morning cool we can walk for an hour on the litre of water we’ve got. The river is easy to find if we run dry before we hit upon a trail, then we can head back downstream. It’s a worst-case scenario that doesn’t come up.

It’s not long until we find the trail that is meant to go to Beauchamp Falls, only it doesn’t. It’s a relief to be wrong as it leads us out of the gorge by way of Evan’s Lookout, a faster route. Twenty hours after we left for our day trip, we finally escape from the Blue Mountains National Park.