Not dark yet. But it was getting there.

It was early afternoon in spring, one carefree year in the early 1990s. We were camping deep in the Victorian alps, having left Melbourne in warm sunny conditions that morning. Up in the mountains, it was cooler and fresher. Clean water flowed down from the peaks and it was drinkable straight from the stream. 

We were as far in as you can get via four-wheel drive; you could hike deeper into the bush but we were there for only two nights. We had approached the location via Licola (the southern gateway to the Alpine National Park, population 11, and the only Victorian town not connected to the electricity grid), and from there we had proceeded slowly along a narrow four-wheel-drive track through a valley between two rises. There were four of us. Paul Murphy; one of his mates; and me and my son from my first marriage. He was about twelve.  

At the campsite, ridges towered above us on both sides of the creek. The campfire was crackling and a billy had been set over it. Sun slanted gold through skyscraping eucalypts, casting kaleidoscope ribbons across the scene. It was serene, peaceful, bucolic; even if a little wild. Complete isolation. 

I had an idea. While the campfire was settling down into hot coals that would cook dinner, I would scamper up the ridge and survey the surrounding country from the top. It was late afternoon; plenty of time before we ate.

Although steep, the ascent was no problem. I was fit; had just finished a stellar season of track culminating in national championships. I reached the top in about thirty minutes; the arduous angle of ascent flattening slightly towards the top; as it would, of course. 

I saw distant peaks away towards the north, where the alpine region rose above the entire State. Southwards, distant plains of Gippsland lay under grey haze. I looked down but the campsite, presumably directly below, was obscured by the mid-ridge bulge, a topographical bull terrier's nose. In fact, I could see nothing of the creek at all. Although the day was still afternoon, the sun was sitting on the opposite ridge like a ball on a fence. It would drop soon and plunge the gorge into twilight. I began the descent. 

The ascent had been all effort. You don't notice the corrugations, the slight contours. You just leap over them. I noticed them now. Gravity pulled me into, along them. No, get back to straight, I told myself. 

Here it is: the lesson every bushman learns the hard way if he isn't taught first. Going down into a valley without bearings is fraught. It's like a desert. You curve.  I had no point to guide me. The opposite side was now in shadow; the only light fell behind me, getting fainter. Yet it was only fifteen minutes; halving the ascent time, before the creek came into view. Easy.

But no camp. Just look along the creek, then. Not possible. It's a creek, not a road. It wound. You couldn't see farther than forty metres either way, upstream or down. It was obscured by an overhanging tangle of undergrowth, old dead trunks, overgrowth, bush, call it what you want. It was badly in the way. Now it was getting ... less light. I didn't want to countenance the word 'dark' yet. Not yet.

I had a decision to make but didn't know what I needed to know: whether I had hit the creek up or downstream of the campsite. I could wade along the creek one way or the other. Simple, like tossing a coin. Or I could ascend again, and try to get a view. But I would have to find a steeper outcrop that would afford that glimpse. And I would have to angle both to correct my inaccurate descent while accurately pinpointing the camp. This is getting to be guesswork. I took the latter option, climbed halfway up again and looked out. 

Nothing.

I stopped. Sight wouldn't find it. Sound had to: if in range. Had there had been any wind, that wouldn't work anyway. I let out the bushman's coo-ee. Waited. Called, waited again. 

A voice. It wasn't an adult; it was a child. Amazing how the voice of a child - especially your own - can carry to your ears from a distance. I followed it, climbing a diagonal ridge which had led away from my direction and down to where it made the creek divert around its lower limits, bulging out into a great ribboning loop that could not be seen from the campsite. Had I unknowingly followed the creek from further upstream, I would have walked twice the distance, possibly still not reaching the camp, and maybe even doubling back and walking the other way. That's how people get lost. 

I walked into camp. Dinner was good that night. Steak, coal-charred potatoes, wine, tall stories, songs,  sleeping bag, unconsciousness.