- Michelle Pittman, 47, was looking forward to a lovely walk with her son Dylan when they became lost in the bush
- After taking a wrong turn the pair wandered alone for ten days
- Fighting dehydration and hunger they were finally rescued but healing took a long time
- Michelle wrote a book about the experience
Here Michelle tells her story in her own words.
Pulling up the handbrake, I turned to my son Dylan.
‘Ready to explore?’ I asked him.
‘Let’s do it, Mum,’ he replied.
Dylan, then nine, and I had come to check out Mount Royal National Park, near our home, to see if the trail was suitable for tackling another day.
The skies were gloomy as we set off into the bush at around 12.30pm.
We weren’t quite dressed for hiking – me in capri jeans and a T-shirt, and Dylan in shorts and shirt. But we figured we wouldn’t venture far.
Walking along, we stopped to take photos along the winding path.
Further down the trail, we crossed a dry riverbed, before reaching a fork in the path.
STORY CONTINUES BELOW
‘Let’s go right,’ Dylan suggested.
‘Okay, but after that we’re turning around,’ I replied. By now my phone had no service and was low on battery.
As we continued, the ground grew denser with clusters of red cedar, eucalyptus gums and thick shrubbery.
Reaching the end of the path, we turned back.
But as we trod on, nothing looked familiar.
I swore the riverbed was right here? I thought, as we were met with a wall of dense bush.
As the sun was getting lower, I tried to put on a brave face for Dylan, but it was clear we were lost.
Checking my phone, I realised we’d been walking for a couple of hours and my battery was now down to just 10 per cent.
Climbing to higher ground, I hoped it’d help with reception, but the bar remained at zero.
Exhausted and scared, we scrambled back down the hill.
Once again, nothing looked familiar.
After a while I realised that we’d have to spend the night in the bush…
Then, at 8pm, my phone died.
I tried to put on a brave face for Dylan, but it was clear we were lost.
We hadn’t told anyone where we were going.
Not even my three eldest children Daniel, then 22, who was away, and Sarah, 18, and Timothy 17, who lived out of home.
We also had no water, food or warm clothes.
It’s going to be freezing overnight, I gulped, trying to stem my rising panic.
‘It’s just like camping,’ I promised Dylan, gathering tree branches to create a makeshift shelter – something I’d seen survival expert Bear Grylls do on TV.
Crawling inside, we huddled together.
I swapped my jeans for Dylan’s shorts, desperate for him to have any extra warmth.
The next morning, our teeth aching from shivering so hard during the night, we set off walking in what felt like the direction we’d come.
But after hours of trudging through the dense bush, the sun started to set once again. It meant we faced another night sleeping in the dirt.
Wrapping Dylan in my arms to keep him warm, I wiped his tears.
‘I’m scared, Mum,’ he confessed.
‘I won’t let anything happen to you,’ I vowed.
The next two days passed like this.
Our stomachs ached with hunger and we tried to stay hydrated by licking water droplets off leaves.
Each day we’d walk, hoping to find the creek bed again.
Each night we’d hold each other tight, only managing broken sleep.
By the fourth day we were desperate for something to quench our thirst. My mind went to Bear Grylls again.
In one episode, he drank his own wee to stay hydrated. I remember being grossed out by the thought of it.
But desperate times called for desperate measures. And we were running out of options.
Detaching the case from my phone, I used it to catch my stream, covering the camera holes with my fingers to keep in as much liquid as possible.
It’s just apple juice, I told myself as I brought it my lips and swallowed.
I made Dylan drink some of his too.
Shortly afterwards, we could see planes flying above us.
‘They’ve got to be looking for us,’ I told Dylan.
With no chance of being spotted among the dense trees, we climbed yet another mountain. Our legs burned, but we refused to give up.
Every time I heard the hum of the plane engine, I’d scream and wave my arms in the air.
But they never saw us.
On the seventh day, Dylan was so badly dehydrated his lips were chapped and bleeding.
And after a quick nap, I woke to find his face turning purple.
Thankfully it didn’t last long. And as soon as he felt well enough, we set off down the mountain again.
On the ninth day, we couldn’t believe our luck when we came across a puddle of water.
‘Dylan, come and drink this,’ I cried, overwhelmed with joy.
It felt like liquid gold as we drank.
On the 11th day, I felt so delirious I could barely put one foot in front of the other.
‘Mum, I think we’re on a road,’ Dylan suddenly croaked.
Sure enough, the loose stones and dirt under our feet had transformed into tightly crushed rock.
Pulling Dylan in for a hug, tears streamed down both our cheeks.
‘We made it out!’ I cried.
Moments later, a police car appeared.
Slamming on the brakes, an officer rolled down his window.
‘Michelle? Dylan? We’ve been looking for you,’ he told us.
I couldn’t believe it. We were rescued.
My legs gave way, my body giving out to exhaustion.
The officer helped us into the car.
We drove for just 10 minutes, pulling into the campground where we had parked 11 days earlier.
SES volunteers, police and paramedics flooded the area, along with my mum Teresa, then 60, and my other kids.
‘We’ve been so worried,’ Daniel said, explaining he’d made missing posters for us.
‘We’re okay now,’ I soothed.
Detectives explained they were able to work out our location after a search of our home.
They’d found a piece of paper that Dylan and I had written possible walking locations on – one of them was Mount Royal.
‘We checked the CCTV cameras and saw your car drive in but never leave,’ they explained. ‘You’re very lucky to be alive.’
At the search and rescue tent, Dylan chowed down on a Subway roll, but I couldn’t stomach anything more than a few sips of bottled water.
Transferred by ambulance to Singleton Hospital, we were both treated for dehydration and tick bites.
After a few weeks, we were discharged.
It took 18 months for my tastebuds to return to normal, and to be able to walk without my legs tingling.
The mental scars took longer to heal.
For years I carried a lot of guilt about us getting lost. Dylan and I both underwent therapy, and in 2024 I wrote a book about our ordeal.
It was my way of making sure Dylan, now 16, and I always had a reminder of how strong we are.
And we still hike.
But we make sure to tell our family where we are going, and stick to busier areas, like the Three Sisters in Katoomba.
I’m so grateful I had Dylan by my side.
Without him, I’m not sure I would have survived.
Buy Michelle’s book at michellepittmanlost.com.au
