“Flooded Out: The Night East Leichhardt Dam Tried to Swallow Us”:
That night at East Leichhardt Dam—it’s burned into my memory with the kind of clarity that only real fear brings. March 2024. What was meant to be a laid-back camping weekend turned into a flood-soaked nightmare. No ghosts, no monsters, just nature turning on a dime, and the kind of creeping dread that builds when you're cut off, helpless, and in the dark with a baby in your arms. This story doesn’t need exaggeration. It’s as true as it gets.
We’d been going out there for years. East Leichhardt Dam is a hidden slice of peace in Queensland’s northwest—around 40 kilometers from Mount Isa, tucked away in the vast, dusty outback. No traffic. No city noise. Just red earth, open sky, the quiet slap of water against the shore, and the occasional screech of cockatoos overhead. Perfect for families who wanted to disappear for a few days. And we did. That weekend, twenty-nine of us showed up in utes and SUVs, towing trailers and tents. Friends, cousins, neighbors. We all knew the drill. We’d done this nearly every Easter.
Mark, our little one Emma, and I had our tent pitched right by the water—maybe a little too close in hindsight. It had been a typical Queensland March day: stinking hot, sun blazing down, dragonflies skating across the surface of the dam. Kids ran barefoot between tents, yelling, laughing, faces sticky with melted icy poles. Emma napped in the shade most of the afternoon while Mark fished with Tom and Sarah’s boys off a rocky outcrop nearby. I remember looking out and thinking how perfect it all was. The sun dipped low and turned the water coppery. We cooked snags over the firepit, and someone strung up fairy lights between two gum trees. For a few hours, it really felt like we were the only people on Earth.
After the kids were tucked away in their tents, we gathered around the fire with beers and marshmallows. I handed Sarah the bag while Jake jabbed at the flames with a stick, getting just a bit too close like kids always do. Everyone was relaxed, talking about fishing plans, teasing each other, laughing like there wasn’t a care in the world. At about 10, we zipped up our tent, checked on Emma—she was out cold in her little sleeping bag—and laid down listening to the fire crackle outside. The sky was clear, stars so thick it looked painted.
Then I woke to the sound. A strange, low roar that didn’t make sense at first. Not thunder. Not wind. Something else. Disorienting. I sat up fast, heart pounding, and felt something off—my sleeping bag was damp. Not sweat, not condensation. Wet. I threw the flap off and reached down. My hand touched freezing water pooling on the tent floor.
“Mark!” I whispered, trying not to scare Emma, but my voice shook. “The tent’s flooding!”
He jolted up, groggy at first. “What?” But when he moved, water sloshed.
That’s when we heard Emma’s cry, a thin wail cutting through the dark. I scooped her up, my hands shaking. She was dry, thank God, but I could feel the cold coming up through the tent floor. Water was at our shins and rising. We didn’t understand how—it hadn’t rained much that day. But something had changed. Maybe they opened a release valve upstream. Maybe a hidden storm upstream dumped a load on us. We didn’t have time to wonder.
Mark lunged for the zipper, tugged, swore. It was jammed. The fabric was swollen, the zipper stiff with grit. Panic clawed at my throat. The water was at my knees now. The baby was crying louder.
“Try harder!” I snapped, every nerve on fire.
Mark went under the waterline, trying to force the zip. For a second I thought he’d vanished. Then he burst up, gasping, and ripped it open with a grunt. We spilled out into hell.
The campsite was a different world from what we’d gone to sleep in. The fire was out. The whole lower area was submerged in churning, muddy water. Flashlights cut the dark in erratic streaks, people shouting names, kids crying. Lightning flashed and in those moments of light, you could see tents collapsing under the weight of water, coolers floating away like toys, gear torn loose.
Sarah came wading toward us, water up to her waist, dragging Jake behind her. His mouth was open in a cry but he made no sound—just wide eyes and shivering lips.
“The river’s flooding! Move to the hill!” she yelled, spitting rain.
We grabbed what we could—Emma, a baby bag, our phones in a zip pouch—and joined the mass of wet, panicked people slogging through water toward the hill that edged the camp. The dam had breached into the lowlands and was swallowing everything. I nearly slipped three times on the slick mud. The current tugged hard at my thighs. A chair went spinning past. A cooler slammed into my leg. All I could do was grip Emma tighter, whispering promises I wasn’t sure I could keep.
On the hill, someone had grabbed a blue tarp and we all crowded underneath, shivering and soaked. A few men were taking stock—counting heads, calming the kids. But you could feel the edges fraying. People were trying not to cry. I remember seeing Sarah wrap Jake in a wet towel, his lips blue, and Tom trying to call emergency on his phone.
“No signal,” he muttered. “None of us have signal.”
Of course we didn’t. This was the outback. Beautiful, remote, and entirely cut off once you left the bitumen. We were stranded. Water kept rising below us. I could hear it—loud and relentless, like it wanted to climb higher.
“Mark,” I whispered, “what if it reaches us up here?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just pulled Emma in tighter and looked out into the blackness, eyes narrowed like he was trying to will the water to stop.
Then came the splashes. Not gentle ones. Sharp, heavy. Something big moving in the water, snapping branches. At first we thought it was debris. But it came again. Closer. The kind of noise that didn’t sound right. That felt alive. I thought of crocodiles. I’d heard rumors they could be in this dam, even if they weren’t supposed to be. That fear crept in fast and hard. We were on a narrow hill with kids, no shelter, and a baby in my arms.
I heard one of the kids whisper, “Is it a monster?” And no one answered.
Jake started crying again, and then doubled over, clutching his stomach. He was pale, sweating, teeth chattering.
“He’s not okay,” Sarah said, panicked.
That’s when I remembered my phone. My iPhone 14. The one with the new Emergency SOS via satellite thing. I fumbled it out, terrified it had drowned, but it came to life. The screen lit up like a beacon. I opened the SOS app, hands clumsy and wet, following the steps—point it at the sky, wait for a connection. It felt like it took forever, but suddenly the status changed: Connected.
I nearly dropped it from relief.
“I’ve got it!” I yelled. “It’s working!”
The others went still, watching me, barely breathing as I talked to emergency services. I told them where we were, what had happened, the number of people, the sick child. I didn’t even realize I was crying until the operator gently said, “Help is on the way. Stay put, stay together.”
We passed the phone around so everyone could confirm their names, the count. That little bit of contact changed everything. Not the fear, not the cold, but we weren’t alone anymore.
Still, the wait was torture. The night dragged on, every noise out in the black making us jump. A splash here, a rustle there. Someone swore they saw eyes glowing in a flashlight beam. It could’ve been anything. Could’ve been nothing. But no one slept. We huddled tight, holding our children, teeth chattering, watching the water edge closer.
Finally, sometime after four, we saw the first lights. They shimmered in the distance, then bobbed—flashlights, then headlamps. And voices. Rescuers. They came in inflatable boats, moving carefully through the submerged mess that had been our camp.
“Emergency services!” one shouted. “Stay where you are!”
We did. Tears, cheers, shouts of thanks erupted. They helped us down the hill in groups, starting with the littlest kids and Jake, who could barely walk. I passed Emma over, my arms nearly numb, and a woman wrapped her in a thermal blanket.
“You’re safe now,” she said. “We’ve got you.”
By sunrise, we were all in Mount Isa. Cold. Exhausted. Shell-shocked. But alive. Jake was taken to hospital, treated for dehydration and an abdominal infection. He’s fine now. We all are. Physically, anyway.
But every time I hear rain on a tent roof now, something twists in my stomach.
We talk about that night sometimes. Usually not in detail. But I always tell people about the tech—the SOS satellite feature. If that hadn’t worked, I don’t know how long we would’ve waited. And I always remind them: out there, nature doesn’t care about your plans. You might go looking for peace and still find terror. No ghosts. No monsters. Just the real kind of fear.
The kind that leaves you checking the sky for rescue.
"Buried in White: The Weekend That Nearly Killed Us":
I thought we were in for a fun weekend, a little escape from the grind, something to clear our heads and reset before winter really set in. Instead, we got something else entirely—a brutal, terrifying fight for survival that still haunts me. Snow trapped us, fear gripped us, and if it wasn’t for our SPOT satellite device, I don’t think we would’ve made it out alive. Every word of this is true.
It was the last weekend of October, one of those weird transition periods where autumn’s just about done but winter hasn’t fully settled in yet. Me, Lisa, Ryan, and Emma had been planning the camping trip for weeks. The idea was to get off the grid—no phones, no emails, no traffic—just four friends, a roaring fire, and the quiet majesty of the wild. We picked a remote valley in British Columbia, a place Lisa had found online that looked stunning—hidden river, thick pine forest, mountains rising in every direction like massive stone sentinels. It was supposed to be perfect.
I packed the essentials—tent, stove, food, layers of warm clothing. But I also packed something else, something I never go out into the wilderness without anymore: a small orange SPOT device that can send an SOS signal via satellite in case of an emergency. I clipped it to the side of my pack as we loaded up the car. Lisa noticed it immediately and raised an eyebrow, smirking.
“What’s that, your alien tracker?” she joked, tossing her sleeping bag into the trunk.
“It’s a satellite messenger,” I said, not looking up. “No cell service where we’re going. This could save us if anything goes wrong.”
Ryan gave me one of his trademark smirks. “Save us from what, bears?”
“Or bad weather,” I said, more seriously than I intended. “You never know out there.”
Emma was already in the backseat, scrolling through a playlist. “Whatever, Tom. Let’s just go. We’re burning daylight.”
The drive to the trailhead took a few hours, winding through stretches of dark forest and narrow mountain roads that made the car feel small and fragile. We parked just before a closed forestry gate and slung our packs on, the air cold enough to make our breath visible. The ground was layered in fallen pine needles, and every step crunched underfoot as we started the hike. The four-mile trail to the valley was beautiful, dotted with tiny waterfalls and glacial boulders half-covered in moss. We took our time, laughing, snapping photos, passing a thermos of coffee back and forth.
The clearing was even more beautiful than we’d hoped. A wide, flat space by the river, framed by towering trees, the sound of rushing water just loud enough to drown out everything else. We pitched our tents, gathered deadfall, and built a fire. As dusk settled over the valley, we cooked burgers on a camp stove, roasted marshmallows, and told stupid ghost stories. That night felt perfect—crisp, clean air; stars sharp as glass; and the flicker of flames dancing off our faces. It felt like a dream.
But sometime after midnight, I woke up to a noise. At first, I thought it was just wind—a long, low moaning sound sweeping through the trees. Then I heard something crunching outside, slow and deliberate. I held my breath, listening. It stopped. Maybe just a deer or branches shifting under snow weight. I zipped my bag tighter and eventually drifted back to sleep.
The next morning looked fine—gray clouds, yes, but nothing alarming. We made campfire coffee, cooked eggs, and spent most of the morning fishing along the river. It was peaceful, until the air started to feel… different. Heavy, still. You know that weird silence that comes before a storm? That’s what it felt like.
“Looks like snow,” Emma said, glancing at the sky, brows drawn.
Ryan pulled out his phone, even though it had no reception. “Weather app said flurries. Light stuff.”
I didn’t feel good about it. “Maybe we should head back early. I’ve got a bad feeling.”
Lisa rolled her eyes and sighed. “Tom, come on. We came out here to relax. Don’t be that guy.”
I let it go, even though everything in my gut told me to push harder. Around noon, the first flakes began to fall. Soft, harmless little things that melted as soon as they touched the ground. We kept fishing, figuring it would pass. But it didn’t. The flakes got bigger, and soon the wind picked up, howling down the valley like something alive. By 2 p.m., the ground was coated, and the snowfall was so dense we could barely see the trees across the river.
“We need to go,” I said firmly. “Now.”
Ryan shook his head. “We’re fine. We’ve got gear. We’ll ride it out.”
Emma looked around, her face pale. “It’s piling up fast. The tents… they’re already sagging.”
We started packing, but by then it was too late. The trail we came in on had vanished, buried under at least a foot of snow. Every direction looked the same—just white and trees and the ghost of the river’s path. Lisa checked her phone again, futilely. Nothing. No signal. My stomach turned. We were cut off.
“Stay calm,” I said, trying not to let my voice shake. “We’ll hunker down, conserve heat, wait it out.”
As darkness fell, the storm only got worse. The wind tore at the tents, snow driving sideways like bullets. We ended up cramming into one tent, knees pressed together, sharing body heat, wrapped in every layer we had. The food was down to a couple of protein bars and a bag of soggy bread. Our water bottles were freezing solid. I kept hearing things outside—twigs snapping, something moving just beyond the tent wall. Probably deer or coyotes. But in that storm, with no way out, even the smallest sound felt menacing.
“We’re gonna freeze out here,” Lisa whispered at one point, her lips barely moving.
“Don’t talk like that,” Ryan said sharply. “The storm’ll pass. It has to.”
But it didn’t. By morning, the snow was waist-deep in places. The fire pit had vanished. The tents were buried halfway. We couldn’t feel our toes. Emma’s face was ghost-white, her hands trembling. That’s when I pulled out the SPOT.
“We need help,” I said, holding it up. “We’re stuck.”
Ryan looked at it like it was a grenade. “What if it doesn’t work? Or if no one comes?”
“We have to try,” Emma said through chattering teeth. “Please, Tom.”
I pressed the SOS button. A red light blinked to life, slow and steady. I set it on a flat rock outside the tent, brushed snow away from it, and whispered a silent prayer. Then we waited.
That wait was the longest day of my life. We barely spoke. Just sat there, arms wrapped around each other, listening to the wind batter the tent. Lisa cried quietly. Ryan stared at the wall like he was somewhere else. I kept checking the SPOT every hour, making sure it wasn’t buried. I couldn’t stop thinking about the worst-case scenarios. What if the battery died? What if no one was monitoring? What if rescue couldn’t reach us in time?
Around 4 p.m., I heard it—a low thumping sound, like a heartbeat in the sky. I stumbled out, half-frozen, shielding my eyes. Then I saw the lights through the snow—rotating, piercing the blizzard. A helicopter. I yelled, screamed, waved my arms like a lunatic. The others poured out of the tent, doing the same. The chopper touched down near the river, rotors kicking up a white cyclone. Two rescue workers in neon orange jackets came running, shouting through the wind.
“Did you activate the satellite beacon?”
“Yes!” I yelled, holding up the device. “We’re over here!”
They moved fast, wrapping us in blankets, checking our vitals, asking questions. Emma could barely walk. Lisa was on the verge of collapsing. They said we were lucky—we were all showing signs of hypothermia, but we’d make it. As we lifted off, I looked down at what was left of our camp. Just a few barely visible mounds in the snow. The fire pit was gone, the tents crushed under powder. We were so close to not making it.
At the hospital, they gave us hot drinks and warm beds. A doctor told us the storm had dropped four feet of snow in less than 18 hours—one of the worst early-season blizzards in that region’s history. Another group a few miles away hadn’t been found yet. The SPOT device had saved us. Its signal cut through the storm and gave rescuers our exact coordinates.
Later that night, Ryan clapped me on the shoulder, his eyes red. “I was wrong about that thing. You saved our asses.”
I didn’t say much. I was still shaking, not just from the cold, but from everything we’d just been through. Lisa and Emma didn’t speak much either, just sat close, quiet and exhausted. We made a promise that night—no more late-season camping trips. No more ignoring the signs. And never again without a satellite device.
Nature’s beautiful. It can give you moments of peace that nothing else can. But it doesn’t care about your plans. It doesn’t care if you’re prepared or if you’re scared. It just is. And out there, a single mistake, a single decision to wait too long, can be the difference between life and death. If it wasn’t for that little orange box, I wouldn’t be here writing this. None of us would.
“Whispers in the Ozarks”:
Last summer, in July 2024, my friends Mike, Tom, Lisa, and I decided to go camping in the Ozark foothills. We’d been talking about getting out of the city for months—tired of concrete, honking horns, and the constant buzz of our phones. The Ozarks felt like the perfect escape. Wild, untouched in places, with thick forests, winding trails, and waterfalls that looked like they belonged in a movie. We loaded up two cars with gear, snacks, and enough firewood to last the weekend. Spirits were high. None of us had any idea that we were about to live through a night that would haunt us forever.
We pulled into a small, primitive campground tucked beside a cold, bubbling brook late Friday afternoon. The trees towered above us, their leaves shimmering in the sun. Pine, damp earth, and a whisper of wildflowers filled the air. It felt good to breathe it in, to be away from everything. We chose a spot near the water, flat and soft enough to pitch tents. Mike immediately began wrestling with his, grumbling as he tried to fit mismatched poles together. “These instructions might as well be in Greek,” he said, tossing the crumpled paper over his shoulder. Lisa, more patient, stepped in to help him while Tom and I focused on the fire pit, stacking rocks and kindling in a neat cone.
That night, with the fire crackling and the stars bright overhead, we sat in a loose circle, roasting marshmallows and planning our hike. Tom spread out the map between us, the edges fluttering in the breeze. “It’s only about two and a half miles to the waterfall,” he said, tracing a faint red line with his finger. “Piece of cake.” The trail looked simple—well-marked and looping back to the main path. We weren’t worried. We were young, strong, and more than a little overconfident.
The next morning, we packed day bags with granola bars, trail mix, water bottles, and a first-aid kit. I tucked my GPS tracker into the side pocket of my pack. It wasn’t fancy—just a small brick of plastic and buttons, with a screen the size of a playing card. I’d bought it after reading one too many articles about people vanishing in national parks. Mike rolled his eyes when he saw it. “You really think we’ll need that?” he teased. “It’s the Ozarks, not the Amazon.” I shrugged. “It’s insurance.” I didn’t expect to use it. None of us did.
The trail started easy, shaded by dense trees, sunlight dappling the ground like golden coins. We followed the wooden trail markers, each painted with a faded white triangle. Birds chirped, bugs buzzed, and every now and then we’d pause to admire wild mushrooms or strange rock formations. About an hour in, we came to a fork. One trail bent to the right and looked maintained. The other veered left—narrower, more overgrown. The map didn’t match what we were seeing.
“I think it’s this way,” Mike said, pointing left. “It probably loops around.” Lisa frowned, brushing back her hair. “That path barely looks like a trail.” I checked the map again, but the lines were vague, with too few landmarks to orient us. Tom looked down the left trail and nodded. “Feels right to me.” So we went. I still regret that moment.
The deeper we went, the more the trail vanished. Bushes scratched our legs, and low branches snagged our clothes. The ground was uneven, tangled with roots and hidden holes. It became clear we’d left the trail behind, but we kept walking, convinced we’d find it again just ahead. My unease grew with each step. The sun filtered less and less through the dense canopy, casting long shadows that played tricks on the eyes.
Around 3 p.m., we admitted we were lost. The path had fully disappeared, and the forest pressed in around us like a wall. Tom tried to keep the mood light, but even he was sweating more than from the heat. “We’ll just backtrack,” he said, voice tight. But everything looked the same—trees, rocks, moss. Our footprints had long been erased by the underbrush. Panic crept in like cold water.
Then we saw the cabin.
It emerged out of nowhere in a small clearing, swallowed by vines and ivy. The wood was dark and rotted, the windows shattered, the door half-hanging on rusted hinges. For a long moment, none of us spoke. It was as if time had forgotten the place, and maybe something else hadn’t. “This is straight out of a horror movie,” I said. Lisa crossed her arms. “Can we not go inside?” But curiosity is a powerful thing, especially when you’re scared and tired. We peeked through the door.
Inside, it was dark, the air stale and sour. A metal bed frame sat crooked in the corner, its mattress torn open. On one wall, yellowed photos curled in broken frames—men in hunting gear, rifles slung over their shoulders, their faces grainy and expressionless. A pile of animal bones lay in a heap near the back. Something about that place felt wrong in a way I couldn’t explain, like it held onto emotions. We didn’t stay long.
After that, the forest felt different. More silent. The birds had stopped singing. The wind had stilled. We moved faster now, trying to find any sign of a trail. The sun was setting fast, casting everything in shadow. That’s when we heard the growl.
It was low, guttural, and far too close. It stopped all of us in our tracks. “Could be a deer,” Tom whispered, though he didn’t sound convinced. “Or a bear,” Mike said grimly. Lisa clung to my arm, and my heart thudded against my ribs. We waited, barely breathing. But the growl didn’t come again. Instead, we heard something worse—footsteps. Slow, steady, crunching over twigs and leaves. Then, whispers. Faint, too soft to make out words, like voices being carried on the wind. But there was no wind.
We ducked behind a fallen tree and crouched low. The whispers moved around us, circling. The footsteps would stop, then start again, like whoever—or whatever—was out there was pacing, searching. My mind raced. Maybe hunters. Maybe locals trying to scare us. Maybe something else. Then a light appeared in the trees. Small, like a flashlight, bobbing slowly. It passed just beyond the clearing, then stopped. The light flickered. Then vanished.
We didn’t move for ten minutes.
I remembered the GPS tracker in my pack. My hands were shaking as I pulled it out. The battery light blinked red. I pressed the SOS button, and it beeped once. “Please work,” I whispered. “Please.” I told the others it might take hours—if it worked at all. None of us wanted to admit out loud what we were all thinking: that we might not make it through the night.
The darkness was total now. We huddled together in the clearing, surrounded by shadows that shifted and breathed. Every snap of a twig felt like a gunshot. I thought I heard breathing nearby, then nothing. The minutes stretched, then hours. The cold seeped in, making my fingers stiff. Mike eventually broke the silence. “What if nobody’s coming?” he whispered. “They will,” I said, though I wasn’t sure anymore.
Then, just before midnight, came the faint sound of rotors. At first, I thought I was imagining it. But then the thrum grew louder, and a spotlight cut through the trees. We stood up, shouting, waving our arms. Relief nearly knocked me to my knees.
The helicopter hovered, and two rescuers rappelled down. One was a tall man with a blunt face and a calm voice. “You okay?” he asked, shining a flashlight in our eyes. “Just cold and scared,” I said. They guided us to a flat area where the helicopter could land, and we climbed in one by one. As we lifted into the sky, I looked down at the forest—a sea of darkness.
Back at the ranger station, wrapped in wool blankets, we were given coffee and told the GPS beacon had come through just in time. Without it, we might not have been found until daylight—if then. I asked the rescuer about the light, the whispers, the footsteps. He just shrugged. “People hear all kinds of things out here,” he said. “This forest’s old. Lots of stories. Sometimes, it’s just your mind filling in blanks.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
I’ll never know exactly what was out there that night. But I know we weren’t alone. I know we were being watched. And I know that without that tiny piece of technology, this story would have had a very different ending.