Why I Needed to Get Lost

When Skilled Hikers Go Missing and the Lost Find Their Way

Spending so much time in my head, I often find myself lost in familiar places, as if I’ve gone offline. Usually, recognition snaps back if I keep moving, but sometimes a deeper fear surfaces that no amount of knowledge or luck can protect me from nature’s indifference, and one day the comfort of knowing will not return. That uncertainty of where I am or where I’m headed has become a metaphor for my life, and occasionally a reality I cannot escape.

As a teenager, I managed to convince my family to let me hike solo. My father had spent his life hunting in the mountains, photographing scenes that to me seemed lifted straight from an adventure novel. I recall an image of his hunting buddies climbing a glacier with wooden-handled ice axes, wool shirts and leather blinkered goggles, their silhouettes against the snow revealing the toll of a steep ascent.

Dad taught me photography on his OM-1 Olympus 35mm SLR from the 70s, and I poured a small fortune into rolls of film, chasing light in that little box. With only 24 frames and full manual control, every shot had to count. At school I learned to develop black-and-white by hand, and I chose rivers and streams as my project theme, two passions in one. It gave me the excuse I needed to spend weekends in the mountains, and before long I was persuading my parents I’d be safe alone in the places Dad and I had already explored.

Having proven my prowess on solo expeditions after a while, I was soon making a case for going further afield, into untested territory.

This time, though, having received my arms licence at sixteen, I wanted to bring home the bacon.

I found a new adventure on an old map, planning a climb that dropped into a valley, prime country for pig. I presented my ambitions and didn’t relent until I had the answer I wanted.

A couple of hours of driving and then I climbed: a dense and steep ridge in a novel area. Sucking in the musty air, grinning from ear to ear, I was my own man, creating my own adventure and living my own life.

Subalpine gnarly trees shrouded in moss stood at the highest elevation, the path snaking around their trunks as the ridge descended.

Tuned into the rhythm of a smooth pace, there were no views to be had. Thick rainforest, like a hobbit’s habitat, hid the outside world. I flowed swift and measured, ears and eyes begging for the slightest sign of an animal.

Magazine loaded, bolt closed on an empty chamber, I was all focus.

The valley looked promising: boggy, scrubby, and full of sign. Rooted turfs and muddy prints with no humans for miles. A shadow crashed through the undergrowth ahead, gone before I could see it clearly, but there was no mistaking the scent on the breeze. No wonder you need dogs, I thought. The dense bush made for difficult hunting.

At the lowest point of the valley I recalled Dad’s wise words: never get downhill of a pig, they will run straight through you.

After some attempts at tracking I figured I had missed my chance, though I was excited to return another time now that I had scoped the place out.

Full of youthful satisfaction I charged back up the hill, slipping the rifle from my shoulder for some pest control as a stoat bounded along the path ahead. With ears ringing from a .30-06 round and no sign of success, it was another moment to share with Dad after an eventful hike.

Time to pick up the pace, I was losing light.

Then the sense of unfamiliar surroundings dampened my mood. Maybe I would recognise something in the next few minutes. But I did not. The track felt different, more like a game trail. I spun around and retraced my steps. It is easy to veer off on an animal’s route; they often use the trails before cutting back off piste.

Finding a fork and a marker, I was off again, but it still wasn’t feeling right. I pushed on, consulted the map. Where I thought I was didn’t correlate. Yet the trail was marked.

Time to let Dad know I was running late and not to worry. I was fine, just needed to get my bearings. Smartphones had not been invented yet. I had a brick, and one bar of battery.

Up and down the trails I went as the light continued to fade. If I could not get my bearings in the day, there was no hope in hell by torchlight.

I looked for high ground, something to give me a frame of reference against the map. I had my compass out for general direction, but the trail had been full of dog-legs on the way in, skirting gullies and impenetrable forest. The margin for error was ever increasing.

I felt sick with shame. Typical. The one time I tried something new and my parents’ apprehensions were going to be proven right.

The frustration was intense, but I also felt there was nothing to be afraid of. I loved it out here. I sensed that a night under the stars would only add to the fun, and I could sort it out in the morning when the sun came up. Despite my awareness of seasoned hikers ending up missing in these ranges, I was blissfully ignorant of the danger I was in.

I had only bare essentials for a day excursion, nothing to set up camp. I did not see the point in building a bivi, overkill for one evening outside with no rain forecast.

As darkness enveloped my surroundings, I put on all the clothes I had and sat in the dirt to await the morning.

The wind picked up, bending and thrashing the canopy, whistling through trees in wild waves, the ground sucking heat from my body.

I emptied my day pack and slid my bare legs inside to ease my discomfort. Laying back, I could make out clouds whipping past the silhouettes of waning branches. The winds sounded as angry as I was annoyed with my own incompetence.

I wondered how disappointed my father would be, a deer stalker of forty years whose child did not match up to his teachings and expectations.

I could not sleep for the cold. Bouts of jogging on the spot to warm up gave little comfort. I did not think I would die of exposure; I just thought what a miserable way to spend an evening, awake minute after minute. Checking the time and it was not even midnight.

Hunger drove me to distraction too. After a big day of burning calories, where I had expected to make up for it back home, the long night dragged on. I had one snack bar left and decided to save it for breakfast, to see me out at sunrise.

In the morning, with no clearer idea of my position, I figured it would be wiser not to risk ending up deeper in no man’s land. I made one last contact, asking Dad to drive out and head up the trail. Whistle and I will hone in, I said. I am not far from the trailhead. And bring food, I am starving.

So I made a day of it while I waited for Dad’s whistle, the kind that cuts the air with nothing more than his teeth and tongue. I built a shelter to hang out in, I wove a mat from local flora to sit on, I took a selfie so if my body was found there would be a record of the fun I was having. I loved that book Into the Wild, even though it did not end well.

I explored out from camp, meticulously marking routes to return, but if I was not heading to a cliff-edged ravine, I was blocked by impenetrable forest. I was still having a ball.

I heard a helicopter and thought, someone’s having a worse time than me. I heard a distant call, but it was not my dad’s, so I did not respond.

And so I sat quietly and waited. I studied the map and made a best guess where I might be, but the compass bearings did not prove out.

Climbing trees I could not get a view over the canopy.

Late that afternoon, some hunters showed up with their dogs. To my surprise, they were looking for me.

GPS was so new and expensive that it was mostly in the hands of professionals. I asked them to show me where I was on the map. Sure enough, I was only an hour’s bush-bashing downhill to the car park, but nowhere near where I thought I was.

They were happy to see me in fine fettle. I dismantled my temporary camp and shouldered my pack.

“Didn’t you hear us calling?” they asked.
“Oh…”
“The helicopters have been sweeping the area too.”
“Oh…”

The penny dropped. Search and rescue had three teams on the ground and a helicopter. While I sat in silence, waiting for my dad to save the day, in blissful ignorance.

And save the day he had. The first call he made when I did not return that night was to his search and rescue buddies to assemble.

My rescuers radioed the news that I was alive and well, letting all know I was walking out with them. The search was off.

Not long into the descent, the dogs took off, and moments later a boar came crashing through the bush straight at us. In one motion the lead raised his rifle and dropped it metres from his feet. It was so heavy they abandoned carrying it out, marking a waypoint to return later, and we moved on. I couldn’t believe my luck, rescued, and handed a glimpse of pig hunting glory. But the ride home loomed, and with it the music I had to face.

I was embarrassed, blind to the scale of it all, oblivious to the panic I had caused. I had the weight of disappointment to contend with for years.

Dad was such a trusted and sensible figure, and I had delivered a shameful blow to his reputation. I did not know how to repair it, but the lessons never left.

There was a revelation in my confusion too. The map was nearly as old as my father. It turned out there were many trails, fully marked, that were not displayed. As we retraced my actions it became obvious I had no way of cross-referencing the tracks I thought I was on with the map I had. Like a book with missing pages, I did not have the full story. Lesson one: always get the latest map.

Before returning solo, I eventually bought an essential bit of kit: one of the early handheld GPS units, complete with black-and-white LCD screen and giant pixels. I still tried to navigate myself, but with my confidence stripped, it offered reassurance every time doubt crept in, which was more often than not.

Now, when I disappear into landscapes far from home, I carry a distinct mental checklist. I imagine myself caught out, maybe with a twisted ankle, alone and exposed. What do I need to survive a night in comfort?

Regardless of the duration or weather, I pack an emergency bivi bag, thermal leggings and top, full waterproofs and a hat. Then I consider my reliance on gadgets, add a battery pack, sometimes a second phone, and always a traditional compass.

I also take a few snacks and spare water, never to be consumed until I reach civilisation unless desperation comes first.

Preparations have changed too. I can now study areas in three dimensions, even trace the paths with increasing resolution. I can form a picture of the expected scenery and keep an eye on the geography for reference.

At first it felt like I was cheating, robbing myself of surprise and awe with prior research. But nothing competes with the real thing. The sights, smells and sounds are just as affecting.

Decades on, and while solo hiking is still a big risk, the management of that risk has never left me. I have no ego out there, never entirely trusting any felt certainty, always cautious, always humble.

I still get lost: wrong turns that offer unexpected views, misdirection in the disorientating dark, added hours on a missed fork. It can frustrate, but it is part of the adventure. More often than not I get a bonus photo or experience otherwise missed.

I no longer hunt, preferring instead to photograph the incredible wildlife that lives the way I wish I did, to the beat of nature.

My self-reliance has only increased. I recognise the severity of these situations, seeing how many people actually remain missing.

When my father’s best mate, who had been part of my own rescue mission, went missing years later, I witnessed the trauma first-hand.

He was as experienced as they come, always running the tops on solo excursions. A firefighter by trade, he was the epitome of safety.

As events unfolded, it was that reputation that had everyone in knots. He always phoned in progress, always laid out his intentions. He had a community of rescuers and friends in deep concern.

One day passed with no news, then another, and another. People scoured terrain and maps, trying to narrow down his location and guess at his whereabouts.

It was devastating. The man who had been my dad’s closest ally for a lifetime, who I had joined on many childhood hikes, had vanished.

It took over a week to find his body. He had slipped from a precipice while photographing, it was surmised, disappearing from the more accessible paths. Never a more sobering moment to recognise our fragility, as his wife and children were left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives.

It was in an area we knew well. My father and I helped plant a grove in his name at the valley trailhead.

Some might think it selfish, even irresponsible, to keep chasing pursuits that carry such risk. Perhaps it insults our ancestors’ struggle for survival, to reach the safety of modernity only to walk back into the wilderness and tempt fate.

But if I stopped, then those we have lost were for nothing. What drives us is a visceral connection, a deep contentment in the natural world. It is written in our biology. Modern life forgets that every living thing is locked in the fight for survival, and that is what shapes us. When we have all the food, all the comfort, all the safety we could ever want, and still wonder why we are restless and miserable, perhaps the answer is simple: we need to get lost.

Because when we are lost, someone is looking. And when we are found, we remember what it means to be alive.