"Echoes in the Forest":
I'm no hero, but last spring, I found myself in the middle of something that still haunts me. It was supposed to be just another solo hike—peaceful, quiet, a chance to clear my head. I'd gone to that trail near the 150-foot waterfall in Santa Barbara more than once, but that morning felt off from the beginning. The parking lot was almost empty. Not unusual for a weekday, but still, something about the silence clung to everything like a fog. I remember stepping out of my car and pausing, waiting to hear birdsong or the distant rush of water. Nothing. Just wind, faint and listless, rustling through the brush like a whisper I couldn’t quite hear.
The trailhead was half-hidden behind a tangle of blackberry vines, overgrown more than I’d remembered. As I pushed through, thorns snagged at my jacket and scratched my forearms. I cursed under my breath and kept going, brushing away gnats that hovered in lazy clouds. The trail was narrow and damp, slick in places from recent rain. Moss-covered rocks jutted out like broken teeth. My boots crunched on gravel, occasionally slipping, making me tighten my core and steady myself. I was two hours in when I noticed the air shift—like the temperature dropped a few degrees all at once. The trees were taller here, older, their branches knit tight above me, filtering out most of the light. The smell of damp earth and pine filled my lungs, grounding me, but even that comforting scent felt somehow wrong.
That’s when I saw her.
At first, she didn’t look real. Just a shape in the mud, maybe twenty feet off the trail, near the edge of a steep drop where the roar of the waterfall echoed up through the trees. It wasn’t until I stepped closer that the details snapped into place. Her body was twisted, half-buried in wet leaves and dirt. Her clothes were soaked in blood. Her hands, face—smeared with it. Her legs—God, I’ll never forget how they looked—bent at impossible angles, jagged bone gleaming through torn jeans. I stopped dead, nausea hitting me like a wave. For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
“Hey!” I called out, voice breaking as I stumbled toward her. “Can you hear me?”
Her eyes fluttered open—glassy, unfocused. Her lips barely moved. “Help,” she whispered. “Please… help.”
I dropped to my knees, sliding in the mud beside her. My hands hovered, unsure where to start, afraid to make anything worse. “I’m here. You’re gonna be okay,” I lied, trying to sound calm, but my voice trembled. My pulse was a thunderclap in my ears. “What happened?”
She swallowed, wincing. “Fell… me and Brendan… we were climbing. I slipped. He… he went for help.”
“Brendan?” I looked around, suddenly aware of how alone we were. “Where is he now?”
She shook her head, tears mixing with grime on her cheeks. “Don’t know… hours ago… never came back.”
I reached for my phone, fingers fumbling. No signal. Just that mocking No Service message blinking up at me. I climbed partway back up the trail, waving the phone overhead, willing a bar to appear. Finally, one lonely bar flickered. I dialed 911 and practically screamed when someone answered. I gave them every landmark I could remember, voice cracking as I tried to stay coherent. “She’s hurt bad,” I told them. “Really bad. We’re near the falls—middle section of the south trail, about two hours in.”
They told me to stay put. A rescue chopper was on its way, but it would take time. I slid back down to her, my boots skidding on the slick slope. “They’re coming,” I told her. “Just hold on.”
She gave a faint nod, her breathing ragged. I pulled off my pack and started digging—water, granola bar, an emergency blanket I’d thrown in months ago and forgotten about. “Try to drink,” I said, holding the bottle to her lips. She took a sip and grimaced, her body shaking.
“Cold,” she murmured. Her lips were turning blue, her hands trembling.
I stripped off my jacket and wrapped it around her, tucking it close to her neck and chest. “Stay with me, okay? Talk to me. What’s your name?”
“Saylor,” she whispered. “From Ventura.”
“Hi, Saylor. I’m glad you’re here. Well—not here here. But… you know what I mean.” I tried to smile, to ease her fear. “Waterfall’s worth the trip, right?”
She managed a weak nod but didn’t speak. Her eyes kept drifting shut. I grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t sleep. Talk to me. Favorite movie?”
Her lips moved but no sound came out. I leaned in, and she finally managed, “Jaws.”
“Classic,” I said. “But maybe not the best choice for outdoor adventures.” I kept talking—about movies, music, anything to keep her grounded. I even told her about the worst date I’d ever had, involving sushi, a food truck, and a very unexpected allergic reaction. She cracked a half-smile at that.
But then, the forest changed.
It started with the wind—or the absence of it. The trees stopped swaying. The air got heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks. Then came the growl. Low, guttural, deep enough to rattle my ribs.
I froze.
Saylor tensed too. “What… was that?” she whispered.
“Probably just a coyote,” I said, trying to believe it. But my throat went dry.
I grabbed a thick branch lying nearby, gripping it like a bat. My eyes locked on the brush maybe thirty feet away. Something was in there. I could feel it.
“Don’t move,” I told Saylor, standing between her and the sound. “It’s okay. I got this.”
“Don’t leave me,” she said, voice small, terrified.
“I’m not,” I promised, even though every instinct screamed at me to run.
The growl came again, closer. Something rustled the bushes. I shouted, trying to scare it off. “Go! Get out of here!”
A shape moved—large, low to the ground. I stepped back fast, nearly stumbling. Then silence. Just the quiet drip of water from the leaves. I didn’t know if it had left… or if it was still watching.
I dropped to my knees beside Saylor again, the branch trembling in my hand. “It’s gone,” I whispered, more for myself than for her.
She was crying now. Quiet, helpless sobs. I held her hand and kept whispering assurances I didn’t believe. I don’t know how long we sat there, but it felt like time was melting, stretching into something unbearable. Every sound became a threat. I flinched at the crack of branches, my eyes scanning the shadows, waiting for something to leap out.
Then—salvation.
I heard the blades first. A low whomp-whomp echoing through the canyon. I jumped up and waved my arms, yelling until my throat burned. The chopper hovered, then lowered ropes through the trees. Two rescuers—one in a bright orange jacket, the other in black—slid down like it was nothing. They moved fast, checking Saylor, asking questions, securing her to a stretcher. I stepped back, still gripping the branch.
“You did good,” the one with the buzzcut told me. “She’s lucky you found her.”
I nodded, barely hearing him. Saylor grabbed my hand one last time before they lifted her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I didn’t have words. Just watched as the stretcher disappeared into the canopy.
The female rescuer stayed with me, her face serious. “We need to talk about her friend.”
“Brendan,” I said. My stomach dropped.
“We found him,” she said. “Down by the creek. He didn’t make it.”
I think I nodded. I’m not sure. Her words felt far away, like they came from underwater. I was shivering now, though I hadn’t noticed the cold before.
The hike back was a blur. The trees seemed darker, more twisted. Every birdcall made me flinch. I kept looking over my shoulder, certain I’d see that shadow again, those eyes watching from the brush.
By the time I reached my car, my hands were shaking too hard to put the key in the ignition. I sat there for what felt like hours.
I found out later Saylor survived. Long surgeries, rehab. She’s learning to walk again. Brendan didn’t make it. His fall must’ve happened fast, brutal. I still think about him—about what he must’ve felt, trying to help her, then vanishing into that ravine.
I still hike. But never alone. And never to that waterfall. Sometimes I dream about it. I hear that growl again, louder, closer. I wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding. I tell myself it was just an animal. But part of me remembers how it felt. Like the forest wasn’t just watching. It was warning us.
And we didn’t listen.
"Over the Edge: A Yosemite Survival Story":
I'm not sure I’ll ever forget that summer in 2014. There are moments in life that feel so vivid, so permanently etched into your memory, that they refuse to fade with time—and for me, that trip to Yosemite is one of them. My friends Sarah, Mike, and I had been planning it for months. We'd spent countless late-night group chats debating which trails to hike, which campsites to reserve, what gear to bring. It was the kind of anticipation that builds like a slow burn, every new piece of equipment we bought, every map we studied, every YouTube video we watched about Yosemite’s beauty just stoking the fire more.
We were beyond excited. It wasn’t just another vacation—it felt like a rite of passage. None of us had been to Yosemite before, and the idea of seeing it with our own eyes was electric. We had this list, this almost sacred checklist of sights: the towering face of El Capitan, rising like a cathedral of stone from the valley floor; the wildflower-choked meadows where deer grazed in the morning mist; and of course, Yosemite Falls, the crown jewel, that thunderous, two-stage cascade plummeting over 2,400 feet. The numbers didn’t do it justice. The Middle Cascades alone dropped 675 feet, a white blur of snowmelt roaring over sheer granite. The water came straight from the Sierra’s high-altitude ice fields—melted snow so cold it shocked the skin like a taser. Beautiful, yes. But terrifying if you got too close. One wrong step and it was over.
We rolled into the valley just before sunset on the first day, the last light painting the cliffs in gold and burnt orange. I remember standing in the parking lot with my head tilted back, mouth open, trying to comprehend the scale of it all. Mountains taller than skyscrapers. Trees older than countries. There was something primal about it—humbling. Even Mike, the most practical and cautious of us, stood speechless for a moment before muttering something about the bear-safe food lockers. We laughed, clumsily putting up our tent under a sky slowly bleeding into twilight. Sarah was practically vibrating with excitement. “This is gonna be epic,” she said, grinning as she shoved a tent pole through the wrong sleeve for the third time. I just breathed in the crisp air, heavy with pine and earth, and smiled. No emails. No traffic. No noise except for wind and birds. Just us and this place.
The second day was the one we were all waiting for. We packed light—sandwiches, trail mix, water bottles, and of course, our phones for pictures. We hiked to a lookout near the falls, a place that wasn’t on most maps but had come highly recommended by a ranger we chatted with the day before. It was incredible. The noise of the falls hit us before we even saw them, like a freight train roaring through the trees. And then—bam—there it was. A white torrent crashing down from the cliffs above, mist curling through the air like smoke. It soaked everything, our clothes, our skin, even the granite we sat on. It felt like standing in a cold hurricane.
We laid out a blanket, laughing as the wind kept flapping the corners. Sarah took dozens of selfies, her damp hair plastered to her cheeks, her eyes sparkling. I shouted something about how insane it all was, and Mike, ever the dad of the group, kept his eyes on the rocks near the water, clearly uneasy. “Don’t get too close,” he warned. “That current’s no joke.” I brushed him off. “Relax, Mom,” I said, with a grin. I could see he didn’t find it funny, but I didn’t think much of it. I was feeling invincible.
After lunch, we started packing up. That’s when I noticed my sunglasses—my beat-up, beloved pair with scratched lenses—sitting on a slick rock maybe ten feet from the edge. The wind must’ve knocked them out of my pack. Without thinking, I stepped toward them, boots sliding a little on the wet granite. “Be right back,” I called, my voice casual. Mike looked up sharply. “Yo, man, seriously—watch your step. That stuff’s slippery.” I smirked, cocky, feeling like nothing could touch me. “I got this.”
I didn’t have it.
My left boot hit a patch of moss I hadn’t seen, and suddenly the world tilted. My arms flailed for balance, grabbing nothing but air. I fell backward, slamming into the rock before tumbling into the water. It hit me like a fist made of ice. Every nerve in my body screamed. It was beyond cold—it was paralyzing. The shock of it stole the air from my lungs before I could even scream. The current grabbed me instantly, spinning me like a rag doll. I saw the edge coming and all the blood drained from my head. “No, no, no!” My brain screamed even as my mouth couldn’t form the words. And then—I went over.
The fall was a blur of water and wind and fear so sharp it cut into me like a blade. Time stretched. I could see everything and nothing. Granite walls flashing past. My limbs twisting. My heart hammering out a frantic beat. And then I hit the pool below with a force that cracked the air from my chest and sent pain through every inch of me. I sank deep, blinded, disoriented, lungs burning. I fought my way upward, broke the surface, gasped—and was immediately slammed by another wave that pushed me toward a tangle of rocks at the edge.
I grabbed onto one, my fingers barely holding. The water was relentless. It surged and pulled, slapping my face, dragging at my legs. My body was going numb fast. I could barely feel my hands. I was shaking uncontrollably, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. My teeth clattered together like castanets. I tried to scream, but the roar of the falls drowned everything. Still, I screamed anyway. “Sarah! Mike!” My voice cracked and died in the mist.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. My grip slipped a little more each time I blinked. My mind went places it never had before. I saw my mom getting the phone call. I saw my body pulled out days later, bloated and broken. I tried to fight the thoughts, but the cold was eating me alive. I whispered to no one, to God maybe, to luck, to fate—“Please… someone.”
And then—faint, like a voice through fog—I heard Sarah. “Where are you?!”
I forced my head up, eyes stinging. There they were—blurry figures on the rocks. “Over here!” I croaked, barely more than a whisper. I raised one shaking arm. Mike’s voice came next. “I see him! He’s on the rocks!” Relief flooded through me, almost too much to take. I let my head fall forward, dizzy, exhausted. I didn’t even register the helicopter at first—just this low, rhythmic thump that grew louder until it felt like the sky itself was shaking.
A ranger, in a harness, descended through the mist like some kind of superhero. He was calm, focused, every move practiced. “Don’t move! I’ve got you!” he shouted over the wind and water. He clipped the harness onto me with hands that didn’t shake, even as mine trembled uncontrollably. “You’re gonna be okay.” That’s what he said, and I believed him, even if I couldn’t speak.
The ride up was chaos—wind tearing at my face, water dripping from my clothes, the rotor wash hammering my ears. And then I was down on solid ground again, barely conscious, wrapped in blankets that felt like heaven. Sarah was crying, hugging me like she’d never let go. Mike just kept repeating, “I thought you were gone,” over and over, like if he said it enough times he could convince himself I wasn’t.
At the hospital, the doctor stared at my chart, baffled. No broken bones. Just bruises, some deep cuts, and stage-one hypothermia. They kept me overnight, pumping me with fluids, checking my vitals every hour. Sarah and Mike stayed with me, quiet, shaken, eyes rimmed red. At one point, Sarah looked at me and whispered, “You scared the hell out of us.” I nodded, throat too tight to speak. Mike just muttered, “You’re lucky, man. Really lucky.”
The rangers told me later that I should’ve died. Most people don’t walk away from a fall like that—especially not into water that cold. They told me about others who hadn’t been so lucky. I listened, heart pounding, wondering why I was the exception. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was the fact that my friends never stopped looking. Either way, I walked out of that hospital the next day, changed.
I still camp. I still hike. But I’m not the same person I was on that slick granite edge. I’m more careful now. I listen. I respect the power of places like Yosemite. Because that summer I learned something hard and unforgettable—nature is stunning, awe-inspiring, soul-filling… but it doesn’t care about you. It doesn’t slow down for your ego or your missteps. One slip, and it can take everything. That day, I came as close as I ever want to come to finding out how easy it is to disappear out there. And I’ve never looked at a waterfall—or my own mortality—the same way again.
"Thunderstruck":
That summer of 2017 had started like all our best summers did—full of plans and promise. I’ve always loved camping, and I wanted to pass that love on to my kids. Nothing beats waking up in a tent with sunlight leaking through the nylon walls, the smell of pine in your nose, and birdsong filtering through the trees. So I packed up the gear, triple-checked our supplies, and took my son Aidan—twelve and on the edge of teenagerhood—and my daughter Nadia, nine, who still liked holding my hand when we walked trails. We headed to the woods near Jennie Lake in Sequoia National Park. A place I'd been once as a teen, remembered as wild and peaceful. We were buzzing with excitement—Aidan teasing Nadia about beating her at cards, Nadia asking if there would be squirrels, and me just soaking up the joy of being unplugged and out there with them.
We hiked in, our packs bouncing, boots crunching over needles and dirt. The air was fresh, sharp with pine and the faintest whisper of distant water. We found a flat spot near the lake’s edge to set up camp. The kids helped me pitch the tent, each taking pride in hammering a stake and unrolling sleeping bags just right. We made a small fire with care, roasted hot dogs and marshmallows, and told stories as the sun melted into the trees. That first night was perfect—cool but not cold, stars winking above us, and the sounds of frogs and crickets lulling us to sleep. I lay there listening to them breathe, thinking there was nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.
The next morning, September 3rd, dawned gray. The air felt heavy, like something was holding its breath. Aidan noticed it first. “It’s kinda dark for morning,” he said, staring up. I looked up too. Thick clouds had started piling on the horizon, deep blue and charcoal-colored, curling like smoke. Weather can shift fast in the mountains, but I didn’t want to scare them. “Might be some rain later,” I said casually. “We’ll be fine.”
We spent that morning hiking a short trail along the ridge, just a few miles round-trip. Nadia collected leaves and made up names for trees. Aidan found a rock shaped like a bear and insisted we keep it. By midday, the wind had picked up. I remember how the trees started to sway in that slow, groaning way, like they were warning us. We made it back to the tent just as the first drops started falling. I told them to get inside, and we zipped up tight.
It was cozy in the tent, despite the weather turning. We laid out the cards, lit our little camping lantern, and started a round of Go Fish. Aidan rolled his eyes but played anyway, half-heartedly. Nadia was giggling every time she made a match. Outside, the wind moaned louder, the trees creaked, and the sky got even darker, like twilight had come early. Then it started—a low rumble at first. Thunder. One of those distant growls that seems to come from the belly of the earth.
“Dad, is it gonna rain?” Nadia asked, her voice small.
“Probably,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Let’s play cards in the tent till it passes.”
Aidan groaned. “Cards again? Boring.” But he stayed close, flopping down on his sleeping bag with a sigh.
Then it hit. A thunderclap so loud it made the ground jump. The tent vibrated. Nadia squealed, clamping her hands over her ears. Aidan’s cards flew from his hands like leaves in the wind. My heart started to race. “Stay calm, guys,” I said, trying to sound in control. “We’re safe in here.” But even as I said it, something in me felt the opposite.
The rain came hard and fast, hammering the tent like rocks. We huddled together. Then came the flash—so bright it burned through my closed eyes. I didn’t even have time to react. A second later, the world exploded. A sound like a bomb detonated right beside us. The tent lit up like it was made of fire, then everything went white.
I don’t remember hitting the ground. I don’t remember the moment my body gave out. One moment I was trying to shield them, the next there was nothing—just pain and silence and whiteness. I must’ve been out for seconds, maybe longer, because when I woke up, everything was wrong. My skin screamed. My arms stung and smelled like cooked meat. My ears rang with a high-pitched shriek that drowned everything out. The tent was wrecked—half-collapsed, flaps torn and blowing in the wind like flags in a war zone.
I tried to move, but I couldn’t. My legs were dead weight. Panic started to rise like a tide. “Aidan! Nadia!” My voice was weak, cracked. I sounded like a stranger.
“Dad?” Aidan’s voice, distant but alive. I turned my head and saw him curled up, face pale, legs pulled in. Blood soaked through his pants around the ankles. His shoes were practically melted.
“I can’t hear you good,” he said, his voice wobbling. “My feet hurt bad.”
“Nadia!” I forced my body to move. Every inch was pure agony. My muscles spasmed, my hands barely worked. I dragged myself through torn nylon and wet dirt. I found her a few feet away, tangled in a sleeping bag. “Daddy?” she whispered. Her cheeks were muddy, her eyes wide and scared.
“I’m here,” I said, gathering her into my arms. She winced, her left arm badly burned, the skin angry and raw.
“It hurts,” she sobbed, tears cutting streaks down her dirty cheeks.
“I know, sweetie. I know. You’re okay. We’re okay,” I kept saying it like a prayer, like repetition could make it true. But we weren’t okay. I looked down—my boots were shredded, and my feet felt wet and wrong. Later, I’d learn the lightning had exited through us. Ground current. That’s what they called it. It hits the earth and travels through anything conductive—roots, water, bodies.
We were miles from help. My phone was dead, probably fried by the surge. The storm was still raging, and I couldn’t even stand. My kids were hurt, bleeding, shaking with fear. I’d never felt so powerless in my life.
That’s when I heard it—faint over the rain and wind. A voice. A man shouting. “Hello? Anyone there?”
“Help!” I screamed. It tore my throat, but I kept yelling until they saw us.
Two figures emerged from the trees, blurred by the downpour. A man and a woman, both in soaked rain gear. The woman dropped to her knees next to Aidan.
“Oh my God,” she said, looking at his legs. “What happened?”
“Lightning,” I croaked. “My kids—we’re burned. I can’t move right.”
The man, Mike, nodded fast. “I’ve got a sat phone. I’ll call for help.” He sprinted back toward his camp while the woman—Sarah—stayed with us. She wrapped a blanket around Nadia, checked Aidan’s pulse, helped me sit up straighter. She never stopped moving.
“It’s gonna be okay,” she kept saying, mostly to the kids, but I think also to herself. Her hands were shaking.
Aidan was crying now, biting his lip against the pain. “Dad, it hurts so bad.”
“I know, buddy. Just hang in there. You’re doing great,” I said, wishing I could absorb their pain.
To keep them focused, I started talking about old trips. “Remember the lake where we made pancakes and they turned out like soup?” I said, and Nadia gave a tiny smile through the tears.
Mike came back twenty minutes later, breathless. “Helicopter’s on the way—Highway Patrol. They’re going to land in a clearing near the ridge.”
They helped us move. Every step felt like walking on knives, but we got closer. Aidan leaned on Mike, groaning with every shift. Nadia clung to Sarah. I did what I could, mostly staggering. When the sound of that helicopter hit the air—loud, slicing, real—I cried. Just a few tears, hidden in the rain.
The medics worked fast. Bandages, stretchers, straps. “We’ve got you,” one said, eyes kind but intense. As they lifted us up, I held Nadia’s hand tight. I saw Aidan’s eyes drift shut, not from sleep, but from sheer pain. I whispered, “We’re okay. We’re safe now.”
At the hospital, it was chaos—doctors, beeping machines, wires, saline, antiseptic. Aidan’s burns were serious. He needed grafts. Nadia’s were less severe but still painful, and her left eardrum was torn. Mine… my hearing never fully came back. My arms were wrapped like mummies, and I had burns on both feet. But we were alive.
Those nights after, I sat by their beds and watched them breathe. The fear never left. Sometimes I’d hear phantom thunder and snap awake. One night, Aidan reached for me. “You okay, Dad?” His voice was hoarse, dry.
“Yeah, bud,” I said, stroking his hair. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
Nadia gave me a picture one morning—crayons on a tray table. It showed a family holding hands under a giant rainbow. “No more storms,” she told me. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I just hugged her, tears wetting her hair.
We don’t camp the same way anymore. I triple-check the weather, the gear, the exit routes. But we still go. Because the woods still call to us. And despite everything, I still love being out there—with them. Because nothing’s guaranteed. And every quiet morning by a fire, every goofy card game, every shared laugh under the trees… it’s all a gift. A gift I don’t take for granted anymore.
"One Wrong Step":
I’ve always loved hiking alone. There’s something calming about it. The quiet woods, the steady rhythm of walking, the way the world seems to slow down. It’s where my head clears. That’s why, on April 23rd, 2024, I planned a solo overnight hike through the Blue Mountains in New South Wales, Australia. I needed a break—from people, from work, from screens. I parked at the Wentworth Falls picnic area around 8:00 a.m., shouldered my 40-liter pack, and set off toward the National Pass Trail. I had my map, compass, food, water, a basic first-aid kit, and a borrowed emergency blanket tucked into a side pocket.
The weather was near perfect—18°C, cool breeze, blue sky, no rain in the forecast. The trail winds along cliffs and into fern gullies. I’d done this one twice before, so I wasn’t nervous. I was planning to camp that night at a designated site near the Valley of the Waters. I figured I’d get there around 4 p.m., set up, make a quick dinner, and just unwind under the stars.
Around 11:45 a.m., I stopped at a lookout. It wasn’t an official stop—no railing or platform—just a narrow offshoot trail that led to a natural ledge overlooking the Jamison Valley. The drop was steep, but the view was breathtaking. Trees blanketed the valley below like a sea of green. I wanted a photo. I stepped closer to the edge.
There was a sign nearby—weathered and half-covered in dirt—“CAUTION: Unstable Ground. Do Not Approach Edge.” But I’d seen dozens of signs like that. They’re mostly to cover liability, right?
I took one more step forward and the ground gave out.
I felt my body pitch forward. The rock crumbled under my boots. I clawed at the edge—caught air—and then I was falling. I landed maybe five or six meters down, smashing onto a sloped shelf of sandstone and then rolling into a narrow ravine thick with bush. I remember the sound my body made hitting the ground. I remember the silence after.
The pain hit seconds later. Blinding, white-hot pain in my left leg. I screamed. I screamed again. I don’t even remember the words. Just noise. I tried to move. My leg didn’t move with me. I looked down and felt everything twist in my stomach. My shin was bent in the wrong direction. Bone was sticking through the skin of my pants. Blood was soaking through my boot. It was a compound fracture. I’d never seen one in person until then.
I tried to stay calm. My breathing was fast, shaky. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my phone. No bars. I held it up. Still nothing. I turned it off and on. Nothing. I was deep in the valley now, surrounded by trees and cliffs, far below the trail.
I took stock. My left leg was destroyed, but everything else seemed intact. No head trauma. No spine pain. I could move my arms and wiggle my fingers. That meant I had a chance. I pulled off my shirt, tore a strip, and tied it tightly just above the injury. I packed gauze around the wound from my kit, but it barely helped. I couldn’t stop the bleeding completely, and the bone was still exposed.
The day started to drift by. The sun moved. Shadows changed. I could hear birds, wind in the trees, the occasional rustle of lizards in the brush. But no voices. No other hikers. I lay on the ground in the shade, curled under a small rock overhang. I ate half a granola bar and drank maybe a third of my water. I wrapped myself in my emergency blanket to keep warm. My body was going into shock. I could feel it—shivering, teeth chattering, heart pounding.
I must’ve dozed off, because when I opened my eyes again, it was almost dark. The shadows were long. I felt cold, and the pain in my leg was worse. Every movement made me want to pass out. I checked my phone again. Still no signal.
That night was brutal. I didn’t sleep. I lay there listening—bush rats scampering nearby, owls calling, one long scream that might have been a fox or a feral cat. I imagined worse. My mind wouldn’t stop. I kept picturing someone finding my body days later, bloated and mauled. I imagined my parents getting the call. I thought about writing a message in case I didn’t make it.
By sunrise—maybe 6:15 a.m.—I made up my mind. I wasn’t going to wait and die. I had to try to crawl back to the trail. I remembered where I’d fallen. If I could just get above the ravine, maybe 300 meters, I might get a signal. I splinted my leg using two sticks and my trekking pole, wrapping them with duct tape and cord from my bag. Then I started crawling.
Every push forward was excruciating. I dragged myself over rocks, through thorny scrub that tore at my skin, across fallen logs. My injured leg kept catching on things. At one point, I passed out. I don’t know for how long. When I came to, it was maybe 9:30 a.m. I had made it about 150 meters. I could see the cliff face above me. I pushed on.
At 10:15 a.m., I heard something.
Voices.
They were faint—far away—but they were real. I shouted. Nothing. I shouted again. I used my metal water bottle to bang on a rock. Then I heard a voice reply.
“Hello? Is someone down there?”
I shouted again. “Help! I’m hurt! I fell!”
Two hikers appeared above the ravine, looking down through the trees.
“Hang on! We see you! Are you alone?”
“Yes! My leg’s broken!”
“We’re calling emergency now—just hold tight!”
One of them scrambled partway down to reach me. He was probably mid-thirties, wearing a green jacket and a white sunhat. His hands were shaking as he opened his pack.
“Mate, you’re in bad shape,” he said quietly. “We’ve got help coming. You’re gonna be okay.”
The other guy called Triple Zero. They stayed with me, giving me sips of water, checking my pulse, making sure I stayed awake. About an hour later, I heard it—the whump-whump of helicopter blades echoing down the cliffs. A rescue crew was rappelling down within minutes. They moved fast, efficient. They gave me morphine, stabilized my leg, and strapped me into a stretcher.
The airlift out was surreal. I was hoisted into the air, looking down at the green valley where I’d almost died. I cried. I didn’t even try to hide it.
At Nepean Hospital, I had emergency surgery. They cleaned the wound, reset the bone, and placed a titanium rod in my leg. The surgeon said if I’d waited another twelve hours, I might’ve lost the leg—or worse. I stayed in the hospital for a week, then another two months of rehab.
Now, a year later, I still have a scar that runs from my knee to my ankle. I walk with a slight limp in the cold. But I’m alive. And I learned something I’ll never forget.
The wilderness is beautiful, but it doesn’t care. It doesn’t give second chances. If you make one wrong step—one careless decision
"Through the Rain: A Rescue in Morton National Park":
It started as a weekend trip, something simple to clear our heads after a rough year. It was early March 2021, just before the cold really settled in, and Ben and I had been itching to get out. After months of being stuck indoors, we both needed it—the bush, the quiet, that feeling of being miles from anyone. Morton National Park was our pick. It was far enough from Sydney to feel like wilderness, but still close enough to drive back by Sunday evening. We’d planned a two-day hike down near Bundanoon Creek. The trails there are less traveled, a bit more rugged. That’s what we liked.
We left just after sunrise on Saturday. Ben drove, his old Subaru rattling up the Hume Highway while we sipped lukewarm servo coffee and ran through our checklist out loud like we always did. Tent, stove, food, headlamps, maps, beacon, first aid, snake bandage. We were confident. Too confident, maybe. We’d done dozens of trips like this.
We parked near Long Point Lookout around 9:00 a.m. The trail dipped steeply from the lookout down into a thick forest that smelled like eucalyptus and damp soil. The morning was cool but pleasant. A few clouds drifted above the canopy, but the forecast had only mentioned “light, scattered showers.” Nothing serious. I remember thinking how good it felt to be away from traffic, phones, people. Just the two of us and the bush.
The first few hours were smooth. We followed the track along the ridge for a while before descending toward the creek. The trail got narrower, lined with ferns and fallen branches. We stopped for lunch around noon near a quiet bend in the creek. The water was clear, freezing cold. We sat on flat rocks eating peanut butter wraps and dried mango, talking about work, girlfriends, and how we needed to do more of these trips. That’s always how it starts—easy conversations, no tension, no sense that something could go wrong.
Around 1:30, we packed up and moved on. That’s when the sky started to change. It wasn’t dramatic—just darker, slower-moving clouds that gradually swallowed the sun. A chill crept into the air. The forest dimmed. I remember glancing at Ben and raising an eyebrow. He shrugged and said, “Just a bit of weather. We’ll be fine.”
Fifteen minutes later, the rain started. Light at first. Then steady. Then cold.
We stopped to throw on our rain jackets, but it didn’t help much. The trail got slick fast. Mud caked to our boots. Some parts of the track were sloped and narrow, with loose gravel and wet moss that made footing sketchy. We were aiming for a small flat area another hour ahead where we’d camped once before, near a dry creek bed. But the trail slowed us down, and the rain kept coming. The fog rolled in next, creeping through the trees and swallowing the ridgeline. Our visibility dropped to maybe thirty meters.
That’s when it happened.
We were descending a short slope where a log crossed the trail at an angle. I stepped over it, cautiously, then turned around just in time to see Ben’s foot slide sideways. His boot hit the moss, and he went down hard. There was this sickening crack—like a branch snapping—but it wasn’t a branch. It was his leg.
Ben screamed—short, sharp, then bit it off, groaning through clenched teeth. He was on his side, hands gripping his ankle.
“Jesus—Ben!” I dropped my pack and rushed back. His face was pale. He was sweating, even in the cold.
“Ankle’s gone,” he muttered. “I heard it. Felt it.”
His left foot was twisted inward, already swelling beneath the soaked fabric of his pants. I touched it gently, trying to assess. He flinched hard and nearly vomited. It was definitely broken. No way he was walking out.
The rain kept coming. My hands were already shaking, and it wasn’t from fear—it was the cold setting in. I stripped off my gloves and dug into my pack for the emergency tarp. We were exposed—no real shelter around—so I dragged him about five meters off the trail to a slightly more level patch between two boulders. I set the tarp up using my trekking poles and paracord, rigging it to keep the worst of the rain off him. Then I pulled out the emergency blanket and wrapped it around him. He was already shivering uncontrollably.
We tried calling for help—no signal, of course. Not down here. I checked the satellite beacon, snapped the cover open, and held the button until the red light flashed. That’s it. That was all I could do. Send a signal and wait.
The next hour was rough. I did what I could—elevated his leg with my pack, wrapped his ankle in gauze to stabilize it, gave him sips of water. He drifted in and out of sleep, kept asking what time it was. His face was ghost white, and I could see the cold was sinking into him fast. I kept shaking him awake every twenty minutes.
“You gotta stay with me, man,” I told him. “Help’s coming.”
He nodded weakly. “I’m so cold.”
“Here,” I said, cracking a heat pack and tucking it against his chest. “Stay awake.”
By the time darkness hit, everything was soaked—our gear, our clothes, our socks. I’d wrapped my sleeping bag around both of us under the tarp, but it was already damp. The temperature dropped fast. I was shivering now too, lips numb, hands stiff.
Then—just after 8:45—I heard it.
The faint sound of rotors. A deep, low beat in the air. I scrambled out from under the tarp, nearly slipping in the mud, and grabbed my flashlight. I waved it in circles, flashing SOS into the trees. It took a few minutes, but I finally saw the spotlight break through the fog. The chopper made two slow passes before hovering just above us. The noise was deafening.
They lowered a rescue paramedic—full gear, harness, helmet. He landed like a ghost, calm and focused, and knelt beside Ben immediately.
“Name?” he shouted.
“Ben Lacey,” Ben mumbled.
“How long has he been down?”
“Since around three. It’s a break. Swollen. Cold. I’ve been keeping him warm.”
“You did good,” the medic said.
He radioed up to the chopper, and within minutes, Ben was strapped into a stretcher and hauled up through the canopy. I stood there, soaked and exhausted, my boots sinking into the mud, staring as he vanished into the dark.
They came back for me ten minutes later.
The ride out was surreal. Inside the helicopter, everything was loud and cold and metallic. The medic handed me a space blanket and a cup of something hot. I didn’t speak. Just stared out the window at the endless stretch of forest, barely lit by the moon.
We landed in Nowra just after 10:30 p.m. Ben was taken straight to emergency. X-rays confirmed a compound fracture of his lower tibia. He’d need surgery. He also had early hypothermia. They kept him in for four days. I was released the next morning after they warmed me up and gave me fluids.
One of the SES guys came by to debrief me. He was in his fifties, calm, experienced.
“You did everything right,” he told me. “More people die from cold than from injuries in situations like this.”
It stuck with me. Because we had everything—gear, training, experience—but still, one slip, one fall, and it nearly became something much worse. The bush is beautiful, but it doesn’t care how careful you think you are.
I still hike. Still go camping. But I carry two beacons now. And I always look up when the clouds start gathering, no matter what the forecast says.