In the Shadow of Ozymandias

(longlisted in the 2025 Sydney Hammond Short Story Competition)

My name is Ben. My kids rarely talk to me; it’s not their fault or mine. Just wrong choices bringing pain to too many. Still, they know I love them. Let’s leave it at that because, right now, the pain that’s killing me is on my feet. Every step punishes. And I still haven’t found water.

When I turned fifty, I began trekking to balance the monotony of clothes marketing and the misfortune of never taking a business risk in my life. For me, the more isolated the wilderness journey, the greater its solace and comfort. Three-day hikes are sweetest. Depending on whether they’ll allow me time off work, I might even fit in a five-day multi-stage tour each year, like this one now.

Prime times are either side of summer. We don’t get the wild temperature swings of higher latitudes, but autumn and spring are still my favourites. Big treks in summer are madness even if you choose a high-altitude route. The Oz weather is fickle, and a string of 40-degree days can grab you unaware. Sure, weather forecasts are great with their high-end models, but you can’t expect them to include the local topography. A cool breeze on a ridge becomes a clinging-shirt sauna half an hour later in a dark, airless valley.

My freeze-dried meals are the latest from BCT. When I started trekking, I’d make my own, like simple curries and rice. Stews never dried enough; they turned blue with mould by day three. Once, I nearly killed myself from dehydration after food poisoning.

These Scarpa boots have done hundreds of kilometres. I don’t know why they’re now failing me. My socks are soaked in blood, and brittle when dry. What fool said the Bibimulya Trek was a grade three? For a week it’s been a grade two, then it leapt past grade five! May as well call it a six, if that even exists.

I’ve spent the last day climbing instead of walking. Clambering over rocks, pushing through thickets so coarse my tear-proof jacket is ripped. Some sections would be better done with a rope; but I’m alone, so that’s not an option. Even sleeping has been a challenge, with no flat ground and ticks giving me hell. There could be one in my left ear; I can’t reach that far in.

This morning my urine turned cola coloured. I can’t find water anywhere and I’m down to a quarter of a canteen. Yesterday, the emergency transpiration bag over eucalypt leaves only made 50ml of yellowish water. I’ve faced challenges, but none this tough.

What’s weird is I’ve never written a note for someone I haven’t met. My pack’s side pocket held an old biro, almost empty, and I didn’t bring a pencil. My usual preparedness has failed me; I always carry a notepad to record bird sightings. At least this Prospector’s book is tough and waterproof. Its durable paper resists rotting.

A lyrebird follows me, whose repertoire includes a chainsaw and fire truck siren. This morning his calls raised my hopes for a second.

Before me, I have two options. I could avoid this mountain altogether by taking the long way around to the fire-trail on the northern side. At least the topographic map shows a fire-trail; and they’re usually right. Whether it then leads to anywhere good is another story. Could be twenty miles before it hits a trafficked road.

My other choice is to climb for the telecom tower at the mountain’s peak. I tried signalling a plane with my mirror yesterday. Utterly futile. From the contrails, it must’ve been an international flight to New Zealand, forty thousand feet up. Not a hope of seeing me. Reaching the fire-trail is at least a day’s walk; maybe more with torn blisters. Attempting the tower requires only a day’s climb if I can bypass the cliffs. They must have used a chopper to build the tower. I’ve found no road, no track, not even a wallaby trail heading up. It’s a route only for birds.

Signalling from above presents uncertain success, but it’s preferable to repeating attempts from inside this forest. Down here, my senses are betraying me.

I used to imagine doing a trek with my son, back when he was younger, and we still spoke. Sometimes I wonder if he’d even recognise my voice now. I’d point out bird calls, show him how to use the signalling mirror. Maybe even let him navigate. But he grew up fast. Faster than I could keep up.

I swear I heard him call my name earlier from across the valley. Could it be that he’s sorry?

I’m leaving this note in an empty food satchel, hoping it’ll be found. I trust that the fire-scarred area I burned out yesterday keeps smouldering, drawing attention. My clothes are smoky now; even swallowing hurts. I have faith you’ll discover this and follow me. It seems the lyrebird has given up. The headache is worsening. My steps are unsteady.

Reader, I chose to go up.