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ABC News
4 days ago
- Entertainment
- ABC News
What the stories of Robert Bogucki and Christopher McCandless reveal about our cultural obsession with survival
How would you cope if you got lost in the bush? How long could you survive if you had to rely on your own skills? Would you drink your own wee if it was the only option? They're questions few of us will ever answer. Most of us are too busy watching survival TV shows and scrolling wilderness content on social media, all from the safety of the suburbs. However, every year there are people who risk death to prove they can live off the land and endure the elements. People like Robert Bogucki, who danced with death during his 1999 pilgrimage into the Great Sandy Desert, and captivated strangers all over the world. Decades later, we're still hooked on watching folks more brazen than us grapple with their mortality. Survivor, about to embark on its 49th season, is one of the longest-running reality TV shows of all time, while Alone Australia remains SBS's most successful franchise, with its latest season pulling in 3.5 million viewers. But at a time when Australians are more buffered from risk than ever before, the pop culture obsession with outback survival is a strange phenomenon. It hints at a craving for hardship and a desire for meaning that many feel is lacking in their lives. For thousands of years — and to this day, in many parts of the world — humans struggled to locate enough water, food, and shelter to survive. These days it's typically people from privileged backgrounds who test their mettle in outback survival quests — flexing their practical skills to achieve a sense of strength and psychological wellbeing by enduring discomfort and overcoming adversity. Others opt for a safer, entry-level option — booking into the growing number of commercially run outback survival retreats. But most people only watch survival challenges vicariously online. Mike Atkinson, who's trained in outback survival in the Australian military and showcased his skills on the reality TV show Alone, has noticed interest growing in recent years. "Most of us in our current lifestyles probably don't get out into the wilderness, but there's definitely a growing trend in recent years for people wanting to explore that kind of area," he says. Atkinson now creates content about his wilderness adventures full time, and goes by "Outback Mike". He believes people are drawn to the genre because they feel disconnected from nature. "Modern life is pretty devoid of real challenges and outback survival gives you that real challenge," Atkinson says. "It's a connection to our evolutionary past, and they want to experience it. "But I reckon less than half of people watching this material will ever actually use the skills, whether it's on camping trips or overnight hikes, or trying more challenging outdoor activities." Reality TV shows create an illusion of risk, with paramedics and evacuation teams waiting on standby to snatch contestants away from danger if needed. But a small number of people risk their lives in search of solitude and spiritual growth, drawing on an age-old belief that romanticises nature as "authentic", and capable of revealing fundamental human truths. This yearning for spiritual connection is what sent Robert Bogucki out into the Great Sandy Desert in 1999. His remarkable story of survival, as told in the ABC's Expanse: Nowhere Man podcast, inspired visceral reactions among the public. Some were envious of his chance to seek solitude and challenge away from the shackles of daily life, while others were angry about the resources that went into large-scale search efforts to find him. Many were simply baffled by an impulse to disappear alone that they couldn't understand. While Bogucki and his long-time partner Janet North received letters of support and celebration of his survival from around the world, there was also significant backlash. The WA Premier at the time described Bogucki's actions as reckless, while letters to the editor scolded him as a "'selfish ignorant rich kid" who "needed a good smack in the mouth". Ben Martin, a former reporter for The West Australian who joined the search for Bogucki in 1999, believes the public response is revealing. "There's a fine line between celebrating some sort of frontier spirit, versus someone regarded as doing something a bit weird," he reflects. "People judged Robert so harshly … but people are paying thousands of dollars to go to yoga retreats to disconnect and just think, which is not that different to what Robert was seeking. "So I think the depth of thought that Robert was seeking was lost on a lot of people." The saga revealed a double-standard in how we respond to people who undertake risky endeavours. An attempt to break a world record is considered brave and bold, and extreme sports like base-jumping are deadly but tolerated. But dangerous journeys to achieve a spiritual, psychological or religious objective tend to puzzle and even offend the general public. The fall-out from Bogucki's odyssey revealed a deeper tension between the desire of the state to keep people safe, and the freedom of the individual to live and die as they wish. There are similarities with the much more famous case of Christopher McCandless, who starved to death in remote interior Alaska in 1992. McCandless — whose story was immortalised in the 1996 book Into The Wild, and later adapted for film — was determined to prove he could live off the land, but misjudged river levels and became trapped as the freezing winter approached. Both Bogucki and McCandless were intelligent, independent-minded young American men from highly educated and well-to-do families. Both embarked on physically and mentally challenging journeys into the wilderness, with an awareness and acceptance of the risks involved. But only one lived to tell the tale, while the other died a preventable death in the prime of life. Looking back now, Robert Bogucki says he can understand the comparison, although their motivations differed. "All I can say about McCandless is that he got what he wanted, to be out there alone in the wilderness," he says. "And I think he had a fulfilling life. He got what he asked for. "Some people would say 'oh, that's terrible because he died', but where do you want to die, in a hospital with a bunch of tubes sticking out of you?" While Robert's quest was primarily spiritual, he endured many of the challenges and discomforts experienced by those undertaking more straight-forward survival quests. Towards the end of the trip, he was so weakened by dehydration and malnutrition that he felt he'd die if he succumbed to the feelings of despair, or stopped moving to sit under a tree for more than a few minutes. On day 36 on his journey, he was so thirsty he considered drinking his own urine, but decided against it, deciding it would be akin to "giving up". Ultimately, Bogucki believes it was his faith in God and positive mindset that allowed him to endure a level of deprivation that the guidebooks suggest no-one could survive. "The simple answer [for how I survived] is by focusing on the good and not the bad — the life aspect, as opposed to the things that sucked energy from me," he says. "It came down to believing in God because of the love of life, as opposed to a fear of dying or hell." Those long, hot days and nights in the desert changed Bogucki, instilling a self-awareness and confidence in his ability to endure hardship that would be difficult to replicate. "It definitely caused me to slow down … it helps you identify your ego, that detrimental part of your self-awareness that I had to learn about, and that's always there," he says. "To be aware of that definitely helps deal with these modern times." Bogucki, now aged 59, lives with his partner Janet in a log cabin in remote central Alaska — not far from where McCandless died. He recognises that many people face adversity and hardship in daily life. "Not everyone's going to go for a walk in the desert, or go to the edge of the abyss, but they'll have their own troubles and trials and tribulations," he says. "I learnt you have a strength you don't know you have … everyone's got their cross to bear." The Bogucki saga exposed deep divisions over whether people should be allowed to undertake risky activities in the outback, or be protected from themselves in what's often characterised as a "nanny state" intervention. Opinion pieces published in the wake of his rescue dissected the ideological tension. One, by Alaskan outdoorsman Charlie Campbell, captured the culture of staunch individualism that's more pervasive in the US than Australia. "[Bogucki's case] raises an interesting question, one with profound moral dilemmas attached," he wrote in the Fairbanks Daily Miner. "What is society's responsibility to rescue people who may not want to be rescued? "We live in an age where more and more a huge safety net is created under most any activity we undertake. The problem with this is it runs counter to a basic human need to exercise free will." He pointed to the installation of boardwalks and handrails across scenic locations and national parks, "excessive" warning signs, and children so buffered from risk they would emerge into adulthood timid and unchallenged by adversity. The column also suggested a legal disclaimer could be considered for those of sound mind who wanted to undertake high-risk endeavours without intervention by authorities. It's an idea supported by Atkinson, who believes society has tipped too far in favour of minimising risk. "People end up so risk-averse that they've lost the ability to actually weigh up the positives and negatives of a risk decision, and they're missing out on a heap of positive experiences in nature because of that," he says. "It's detrimental, especially when parents seem to set this goal that my child shouldn't go through any hardship, whereas really it needs to be: 'What are the suitable risks that they can take, and what are the deliberate hardships that I'm going to allow them to experience in order for them to grow?'" A 2024 study from the Australian Institute of Family Studies showed the amount of time children under five spend indoors has increased in recent years, with researchers warning it could negatively impact wellbeing and development. Atkinson is by no means reckless. His wife and children are forefront in his mind, and he says he assesses the dangers of each journey carefully, whether it's sailing a handmade canoe through tropical waters or surviving alone on a remote beach for weeks. At times, he's carried a satellite communication device, leaving instructions to contact authorities if he doesn't do a digital "check-in" for more than seven days. But the 47-year-old former military pilot believes strongly that individuals should retain the right to risk their lives, so long as they're of sound mind and communicating clearly. "I've thought a lot about the most responsible way for people to do something like what Robert Bogucki did, and I think an indemnity form is the answer," he says. "So you can sign a form saying to the authorities: 'Hey, I'm going out bush, and I'm not going to tell you where, because I don't want you to have to feel responsible for searching for me.' "You should be able to do that as a kind of basic human right, because otherwise it opens up a whole bag of worms about how much risk you're allowed to take in your own life." It's the kind of system that could help authorities navigate cases like that of Thomas Seibold, a German man who disappeared in 2012 during an ambitious adventure in remote interior Alaska. Seibold was an experienced, resilient survival instructor at an outdoor skills school in Wisconsin. The police incident report into his disappearance, obtained by the ABC, states that Seibold had hiked to a remote cabin and planned to stay a couple of months alone to "spend time with nature". He was due to trek the 40 kilometres out to safety at the start of winter, but was never seen again. An inventory of his belongings — found at the cabin — included maps, winter clothing, a 0.22 calibre rifle, a moose carcass and a handful of berries. "Seibold has been presumed deceased … he is officially listed as a missing person," the police report states. Another life likely lost in the pursuit of solitude in the wilderness, in a manifestation of free will that few would choose. In Australia, it's becoming harder and harder to be alone in the wilderness to test your skills and enjoy peace and quiet. Every year, the spiderweb of sealed road spreads across the outback landscape. And mobile phone reception is expanding across the vast interior, making it difficult to avoid the incessant buzz of notifications. It's no doubt a positive for remote residents, for whom the bitumen and bars of reception are a critical link to help in times of crisis. But many, like Bogucki, believe we're less happy because our increasingly safe, suburbanised existence. "It's pretty clear that the answer is to get back to respecting the earth and having a connection with it," he says. "When you're in the city everything's so easy to get … and when you tear away all that modern world stuff, you can feel the benefits. "Your ego drops, you stop looking at yourself in the mirror. Don't take the selfie, don't take your phone out there and take selfies. It's not conducive to the spirit path, and it's not conducive to life." As technology expands to fill almost every facet of our lives, the promise of the wilderness shimmers like a mirage in our minds — a place to disconnect, to be alone, and, in as Bogucki puts it, "strip away the bark to find your essence". This concept of choosing to "go bush" for spiritual enlightenment is, in some ways, a privileged perspective. Aboriginal people continued to "survive" in some of the most challenging wilderness landscapes in Australia until around 50 years ago. Many still rely on age-old hunting and fishing techniques in places where shops are far away and incomes low. They're skills that help people survive when things go pear-shaped out bush. And it's often local Indigenous people who find and help tourists when they become stranded. Jabirr Jabirr and Nyikina man Lindsay Greatorex says older Aboriginal people's knowledge of Australia's remote landscapes is unparalleled and underestimated. "For tens of thousands of years, Aboriginal people built this incredible knowledge of country … they knew where the soak holes were, they knew the weather and the timing of everything," he says. "That's how we survived in those arid locations over the years, and there's still this survival instinct of the mob. Greatorex worked as a police officer across Western Australian for almost 20 years, and was part of the local team that went out in search of Bogucki in 1999. At times throughout his career, he watched in disbelief as men who'd grown up in the desert used their tracking skills to quickly locate missing people in remote areas. But he says the skills are at risk of disappearing, with younger generations largely stuck in towns and unable to learn how to live off the land their ancestors survived in for generations. "It's sad to see, and it's why it's so important we do our best to get our kids out bush," he reflects. "I have a bit of knowledge, but even I get my bush tucker from the supermarket — it's not like the old days, that's for sure." Outback survival makes for riveting viewing because it captures a reality that terrifies most people — being forced to rely on only yourself as imminent death looms. Australians are increasingly buffered from risk, and living longer than ever before. Outback survival offers a glimpse at an earlier existence that few would want to relive, but one that many suspect offered a sense of focus, purpose and wellbeing many now struggle to achieve. As Australian writer Ruth Ostrow observed in an article about Bogucki's disappearance in 1999, the fear of a life unlived haunts those of us fortunate enough to never know how we'd cope in a life -or-death situation. "As I stare into Bogucki's eye, I am afraid. Afraid of letting life pass me by," she wrote in a piece titled In Search of Peace on Earth. "But most of all, I'm afraid that I will never roam barefoot through dusty sand dunes, totally alone with the sound of my heartbeat and the wind, in the wilderness of my soul. "We've grown fat on money, food and possessions. But still we remain empty.
The Guardian
09-08-2025
- General
- The Guardian
‘Do I need to purchase camels?' Australian preppers have found their voice since Covid, but tough questions remain
Shortly after Israel announced its attack on Iran in June, Trevor Andrei sent a message to some of his fellow Australian preppers telling them to stock up on petrol and buy a few hundred dollars' worth of groceries. 'I was like, OK, this is super significant, there's going to be a response … shit's going to go down,' Andrei says. 'Most years, [Australia is] lucky if we've got 28 days [of petrol reserve] so … if anything hits the world's oil supply, we can be out of petrol in a month.' Andrei describes himself as Australia's most famous prepper and is one of the few happy to speak publicly about a famously secretive subculture. The survivalist runs bushcraft courses (two hours for $299), makes and sells soap with his daughter, makes his own jerky, and has a property with fruit trees and a dam full of rainbow trout. He has great relationships with his farmer neighbours, he says – he'll process lambs mutilated by foxes so that the meat can be shared around the community for pet food, and when a tree comes down on one of their properties, Andrei will chop it up in exchange for some of the haul. He has formerly worked as a landscaper specialising in edible gardens and a tour guide in the outback. In short, when shit hits the fan (SHTF, in prepper parlance), Andrei is going to be all right. He's not so sure about the rest of us. 'Shit hits the fan every day,' he says. 'It just matters how close you are to the fan and whether or not it splattered on you, right? But the real shit hits the fan is what we call a fire sale, right? And that's where it's literally everything that could go wrong has gone wrong … So the pointy end of the scale is, you imagine like a cyberwar: there's no gas, there's no water, there's no electricity, you can't flush your toilet, there's no radio. 'Every single day of your life you have expected to … put some food on a plate and stick it in your mouth. So why would you not prepare for that ahead of time? There are so many people who don't do it.' And yet increasingly, it seems, there are more and more people across Australia who do. Global instability and the abrupt arrival of AI are among the factors that have pushed prepping towards the mainstream. But the biggest driver was the pandemic, when people experienced empty supermarket shelves and the pain of disrupted global supply chains – some for the first time in their lives. For preppers such as Andrei, who see how most urban Australians live, this move towards preparedness cannot come soon enough. 'Prepping is becoming super super super popular. I've got schools that want me to teach it,' he says. 'You'd be mad, anybody would be mad if they're not sitting there going, all right, what's going on? And what should we do?' Sam and Candice Johnson are not preppers, but they deal with preppers almost daily. 'We're just country-prepared, as we say,' Candice says. 'We've always got that little bit of extra in case you get flooded in or you have to leave home quickly in case of fires, but other than that I wouldn't consider ourselves preppers.' The couple run a camping store in Beaudesert, Queensland, an hour west of the Gold Coast. A little over a decade ago, they saw a gap in the market and began stocking emergency kits – containing items such as wind-up radios, torches, batteries and glowsticks – to have on hand in the event of natural disasters. Sign up for a weekly email featuring our best reads But over the years, customers began asking if they could stock more serious survival supplies. Now the store supplies most of the country with everything from freeze-dried foods to mylar bags, fire-starting kits, camouflage netting, snares and traps. 'The majority of our customers are those who want to be long-term prepared, so they're the people who've got, you know, a couple of months' worth of food stored away, or they've got emergency water filters,' Candice says. 'When we started … [prepping] was a really underground, quiet kind of thing. But that's increased 10-fold, twentyfold, thirtyfold.' Covid was a big factor, she says. 'People who didn't understand what the whole thing was about previously, now had some kind of context as to why other people were doing it.' That removed some of the stigma as well. 'People are seeming less quiet about it. Before we'd get lots of customers who wouldn't give us their name and they'd only pay cash and all this sort of stuff, but now, people are much more open and accepting of it and willing to admit that it's something that they do.' Bradley Garrett, a geographer who has researched preppers around the world, interviewing more than a hundred of them for his book, Bunker, says there is a distinct difference between Australian preppers and those in the US, that seems to stem from a different level of trust in the government. 'My experience talking to preppers in Australia is they're much more concerned with practical prepping, as we call it – prepping for a wildfire or a blackout for three days or a week, or the taps turning off, or whatever. It seems to me like there is an expectation that help is going to arrive at some point … whereas with American preppers, they're much more concerned that help is not going to arrive and you're on your own. And that's certainly become exacerbated under the second Trump administration.' Garrett says there is a lot more openness towards prepping in Australia than in the US, largely because of a culture 'of loading up your overland vehicle and going out to campsites and staying out for multiple days'. But there is also a huge split between the preparedness and resilience of people in cities and those in rural areas. 'In cities, God, there's so many fragile people that are totally dependent upon the next paycheque and systems being in working order … There are a lot of people who really would not fare well in a dire emergency.' Garrett says when he started researching prepper culture he was one of these typical, fragile, middle-class Sydneysiders. 'When I had my position at the University of Sydney and I had a steady paycheque and we went to the gym and we did all the things that you do as a middle-class Sydney person, it was fine, there was nothing wrong with it, but the more I talked to these people, the more I realised, if something went wrong with this, I couldn't deal with it. Like we had no reserves, we had no resiliency.' Garrett eventually adopted some prepper practices: he came up with a plan for what to do if he turned the taps on one day and no water came out. He had a Jeep packed with camping gear and a 'mental map' of his surroundings and a plan for where he could go if his city home became unsafe (drive his Jeep south into the national park) as well as a backup plan – a few kayaks tied up on a nearby beach, so he and his wife could 'take to the water' and get out of the city that way. 'I started thinking more about how much money do we have in the bank, and what resources do we have if suddenly the grocery stores weren't open, you know? 'People don't necessarily need to move, but creating a little elasticity in your existence so you can deal with crisis is a very healthy thing.' On one of Australia's most popular prepper Facebook pages the discussion bounces from the mundane ('Does anyone have any recommendations for good quality but affordable Mylar bags and oxygen absorbers?') to the portentous: 'When China spits the dummy with Australia, the sea lanes will be cut and our imported food will stop. Stock up on all you can.' Sign up to Five Great Reads Each week our editors select five of the most interesting, entertaining and thoughtful reads published by Guardian Australia and our international colleagues. Sign up to receive it in your inbox every Saturday morning after newsletter promotion In between posts offering advice on the best storage of rice (white apparently stores much better than brown – 'the lesser of two weevils,' a commenter quips) – and the discussion about the battery life of the Nokia 3210, there are questions about the best mode of transport. 'When the lights go out … do I need to purchase horses? Camels?' Others present detailed plans of how people would or should survive should the worst happen. One user posts an ominous checklist of what to do on 'day one … immediately after the collapse'. The list runs: secure your perimeter, fill bathtubs and bowls with water while it's still running, radio check your crew and decide whether to 'bug in or bug out', but make that decision early, as 'traffic jams and gunfire don't mix'. Whether to 'bug in' or 'bug out' is a key question for hardcore preppers. Bugging in means people plan to stay put in their home, which should be well stocked with supplies, well hidden and whose existence should not be disclosed to anyone, lest marauders come. Bugging out means leaving, with either a 'bug out bag' – a short-term emergency kit – or an Inch (I'm never coming home) bag with supplies to enable indefinite survival. Andrei plans to bug in, but thinks building a bespoke bunker full of supplies is quite stupid. That would make them a 'soft, high-yield target' for 'wolves' – his term for marauders who would seek out a bunker, smoke out the occupants and steal their supplies. Holly Robertson, who identifies as a 'bush survivalist' rather than a prepper, agrees. 'So, I don't identify with prepper culture, but I do see myself as someone who's prepared. When people know that you have a stockpile, that's where they're going to go first. But if you're someone who can literally take a knife or a machete and go into the bush and make your own fire friction kit and make your cordage and make your traps, that's powerful. Like, that's a skill set that people really value. They're not going to try and steal from you, they want to have you in their space. So for me, leading with skill set and knowledge is far more powerful than having a stockpile of things.' Robertson stands out from many in the bush survivalist community for a few reasons: she is 25, female and has an Instagram account with nearly 55,000 followers. She became interested in this world a few years ago when she was holidaying near Byron Bay. She went to a bush survival school run by a man known as Cockatoo Paul, who would eventually become both her life and business partner. Paul died a year ago, and Robertson now runs the Australian Bush Survival School as a mobile business, travelling all over Australia to run everything from children's workshops to corporate retreats, teaching skills such as trapping, tracking, spear throwing, knot-tying, skin tanning, friction fires, water purification and basic navigation. 'At the end of the day, the majority of the skills I teach people, they're probably never going to use again in their life. I hope they're never in a survival situation. But what I do see is a sense of empowerment and confidence through capability. When someone, for the first time in their life, creates a fire out of two sticks, the way their face lights up is phenomenal. 'A lot of people … in my generation … they don't know how to light a fire. And if the power went out, they would have literally no idea what to do whatsoever. A lot of our grandparents, they've lived in the bush and they're super capable … so what I really want to see for my generation is how we can really step up and become more self-reliant.' While many interviewees stress the importance of resilience, capability and community, some also warn there can be a dangerous element to prepper culture. 'Unfortunately some very vulnerable people fall into that demographic and they find a lot of serious consequences down the line,' says John Scarinci, the secretary general of the Australian Peoples Survival League (formerly the Australian Preppers Survival League). Scarinci says for some people, prepping can become a 'life-overtaking exercise'. 'They find themselves in trouble later in life because they've just spent their life savings [and] years roll on, decades … and they've amassed a huge amount of preparatory items and they've forgotten about their own health and wellbeing, and the world has not collapsed and they find themselves in a spot of bother.' Some find they have spent decades preparing for the end of the world, but not for retirement or aged care. For others, prepping comes at huge cost to relationships. 'Their partners may potentially leave them because they're so fixated with their preparations, where they're preparing for the doomsday occurrence and it just engulfs them. They're unable to work, because how are you going to fit in … a career whilst being fixated on preparing your jars of food and your freeze-dried items?' Garrett says he has also seen people who started prepping on a 'low level', dedicating more and more of their resources and mental energy to it. 'Eventually families start to get frustrated [and ask] 'What are we doing here? We're spending more time anxious about the future than we are worrying about the present, or enjoying the present.' 'It happens a lot, because prepping is a thought experiment, so once you start to think, 'How do we escape from a bushfire?' then you start thinking, well, what if there was a nuclear attack? What if all the cyber systems are down and we have to flee? What if AI turns on us? It can become a bridge to conspiracy theory and the guardrails you have to put in place are just understand that, yeah, it's fine to think about these things, but it's not fine to obsess over them.' But Garrett says becoming more prepared has made him far more peaceful, rather than anxious. He eventually moved away from his middle-class Sydney life, returning to his native US, where he lives on a five-acre property in rural California. He and his wife grow their own food, have horses and are gradually taking the property off-grid. 'Things can definitely go wrong in our lives and I'm totally capable of dealing with them … It's given me a sense of solace that not only do we have the resources we need to get through something, but I've spent years now upskilling in various things … I just learned how to lay pipes in the yard … or I learned how to put in an electrical socket or fix our breaker if it goes out. All those sort of DIY practical skills. Every time I learn something, then I think, 'Oh this is fantastic' because if something goes wrong, I don't have to call someone to deal with this – I can deal with it.'
Yahoo
13-07-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Eco-warriors needed to build new table at RSP Off-Grid Adventure Centre
THE RSP Off-Grid Adventure Centre is calling on eco-warriors to help build an eco-brick table. The centre needs enthusiastic locals to create and donate eco-bricks for its bushcraft area. An eco-brick is a plastic bottle packed with non-recyclable, non-biodegradable waste such as soft plastics, wrappers, and polystyrene. By packing these tightly, the waste is diverted from landfills. To make one, gather a clean, dry plastic bottle, and fill it with waste such as crisp packets, sweet wrappers, plastic film, and polystyrene pieces. Use a stick or spoon to compress the waste inside the bottle, ensuring it is as dense as possible. No food waste or wet items should be used. Once the eco-brick is solid and heavy, it can be donated to the RSP Off-Grid Adventure Centre during opening hours. The centre aims to use these eco-bricks to build a new table for the bushcraft area. This initiative provides a way to reduce waste, learn about sustainable building, and contribute to a community resource.
RNZ News
24-06-2025
- RNZ News
How a bushcraft programme helped turn a 13-year-old life around
Natural Leaders' lead facilitator Mandi Lynn (left) and Maverick Amanini (right) at a rite of passage. Photo: Supplied An Upper Hutt bushcraft programme has helped turn life around for a 13-year-old heading for a life of crime. Maverick Amanini was referred to Natural Leaders a year ago, and had gone through a "dramatic transformation" according to the programme's founder, Mandi Lynn. Amanini's mother, Courtney Kenny, said his bad behaviour started with getting in trouble at his intermediate school. "That then progressed into small crimes, from petty stealing to encounters of verbal and physical abuse... trying things that, you know, 12-year-olds shouldn't... running away from home, driving cars long distances... being expelled from school." The deputy principal of Amanini's school suggested he sign up to the Natural Leaders programme. Lynn said the programme, funded by Sport New Zealand's Tū Manawa Active Aotearoa, focussed on bushcraft and was intended for children who struggled in mainstream education. It also promoted ecotherapy - where the natural environment was used to promote mental and physical health. She said Amanini was indeed "a bit of a maverick" when he first joined the programme. "With Mav, nothing in the system was really working, and we've had that with a couple of other kids too. "You know, it's really simple in a lot of ways. It's just caring, and listening to them, and seeing their strengths, and supporting them in their strengths. I mean, that's not going to fix everything, but my God, it fixes a lot." Kenny said Amanini's bad behaviour had completely stopped in January after a rite of passage and a month-long trip to Great Barrier Island with Lynn. Maverick Amanini. Photo: Supplied Lynn said the rite of passage was a turning point for Amanini, who was using drugs at the time. "The rite of passage is eight days in the bush, and he had to go out and spend two days all on his own with no food. We're checking on him, but he doesn't see... and it's a really powerful thing. By the time he came out of it, he was clean, and he was just like, 'This feels so much better.'" She then took Amanini up to Great Barrier Island. "We took him fishing, and diving, and he got to see a bit of the country. By the time he was done with that, he was solid. Like there was no changing his mind that he wanted to be on the right path and that he could see that there were many ways to be a powerful man and without hurting others and without causing chaos in his wake." Maverick Amanini fishing near Great Barrier Island. Photo: Supplied Amanini had then re-engaged with education, and even become one of Natural Leaders' youth mentors. "Since [Mandi] has inspired me, I've started inspiring other people at Natural Leaders," he said. Kenny said he then got involved with Mangaroa Farms, a community food hub and education centre, which led to Amanini winning the first Youth Volunteer Award at Volunteer Wellington's Mahi Aroha Awards for delivering kai to the Upper Hutt community. "Before I went to go to the award ceremony, I was, like, confident I wasn't going to get it, because I didn't see why I should get it, because I didn't feel like I would deserve it. I didn't really look at what I have done, but that's what I thought. When I actually won it, I was just over the moon," he said. Courtney Kenny (left), Mandi Lynn, Maverick Amanini, and Sofia Amanini (right) at Volunteer Wellington's Mahi Aroha Awards. Photo: Supplied Kenny was also very proud. "He was totally shocked. It was a big surprise for me too. He's come a long way. Although there's probably people who have been in that volunteering space for a longer time, I think, Mav... his starting point was so much further back and to get to this place from that is a massive achievement in my opinion." As for his future, Amanini wanted to stay out of trouble... and hoped to be able to continue working with nature. "I don't have massive dreams. I do have this one dream, which is to get decently wealthy... I have goals of, like, starting a garden up in Nelson, and beehives, and fish tanks, aquariums, you know. Those are my three biggest goals right now." Sign up for Ngā Pitopito Kōrero , a daily newsletter curated by our editors and delivered straight to your inbox every weekday.
The Guardian
30-05-2025
- Health
- The Guardian
‘This is not a wellness retreat': four days on an Australian wilderness survival course
On our very first night in the bush, Gordon Dedman issued a warning: 'Fussy people die.' Dedman, a man with an apt name for a military survival instructor, is all muscle and green khaki. Sat by the fire, he addresses his students. 'This is not a wellness retreat. It is about getting out of your comfort zone.' I am in the Camden bush, on Dharawal and Gundungurra Country, for a four-day wilderness survival course taught by the consultant for TV's most gruelling show, Alone Australia. On the itinerary: knife work, knots, emergency shelters, fire lighting, water collection, plant identification, solar and celestial navigation, plus emergency signalling and rescue techniques. On my person: fresh hiking boots, gold hoops, perfectly low-rise cargo pants and a black tee. The last time I went camping was with school in year 9, in a tent set up about 50 steps from a cabin. Out of my comfort zone, indeed – this time I don't have a tent, or a toilet. After a short hike, we arrive at sunset to a large green tarp billowing gently. It's a military parachute, Dedman tells us. We gather at a semicircle of stools beneath the canopy. Dedman gets straight to it. The goal of 'survival' is to be found, he says. This is different to bushcraft, which has a direct relationship with nature and draws from the skills traditional cultures used to live in the wilderness. Sign up for the fun stuff with our rundown of must-reads, pop culture and tips for the weekend, every Saturday morning Dedman's philosophy about the land and people's role on it is clear just a few hours in: 'Our existence here is based on the caring capacity of the Earth. 'But we live in a system of expanding expenditure … at total odds with nature. Something is very broken with our system.' We go around the circle of 15 students, introducing ourselves. Most of us are novices, mainly Sydney and Canberra-based men with office jobs looking to reconnect with the outdoors (participant Julian Carrick says he is here to 'soothe the soul' and 'see the stars') plus two parents, their eager sons and myself. Some students have dabbled in survival and bushcraft for years – including Karla Pound, a National Geographic expedition leader and contestant on the current season of Alone. We're not equipped for when things go wrong, she tells me. She says even during common occurrences such as power outages and floods, 'people don't know the first thing to do'. 'It is really important to have these basic, fundamental skills under your belt.' The parachute tarp becomes our base for the next four days, with classes held early in the morning and late at night. These hours are by design, to simulate the exhaustion and distraction one might feel in a real survival situation. Meanwhile our days are structured around practical skills. First, knives (I'm limp-wristed and slow), then knots (I actually catch on). We use both to set up our first emergency shelters – pitched plastic sheets strung up between two trees and secured with pegs we carved ourselves, totally open to the surrounds. These structures are called hootchies. I am slow to find a spot – too picky, terrified of sleeping near thick shrubbery. It's a justified fear, I'd say, given we are in the habitat of funnel web spiders, king brown and red belly black snakes. By the time I choose a location, the sun is setting. I fumble in the dark, trying to hold all my ropes and pegs in place. It is only thanks to kind peers – a physio and a former-detective-turned-teacher – that I am able to set up in time for dinner. 'The western world has a problem with food aversion,' Dedman says at meal time. So true. I'm hungry for the potato cooking under the bonfire coals we are sitting around. We waste so much, he says, we're disconnected from our food's sources. I nod when he mentions more sustainable protein alternatives to beef. Then he brings out a container of live meal worms. We are going to eat them, he says. I laugh. Classic Dedman! My head torch lights up the plump, yellow bodies writhing in the container and visceral anxiety floods my stomach. 'Fussy people die.' After several failed attempts, I get the worms into my mouth. They wriggle around my fingers. They thrash against my lips. They burst between my teeth, and the group applauds. I actually enjoy the taste. This will forever be my greatest feat. I am overcome with relief! But Dedman has leftovers. I was too hesitant, he tells me. I can will myself to do anything, he says. Eat more. I manage to eat a second squirming helping and then Dedman lets me be. Our next course: crickets. Sign up to Saved for Later Catch up on the fun stuff with Guardian Australia's culture and lifestyle rundown of pop culture, trends and tips after newsletter promotion We are shown how to take one in our hands, efficiently break off its head, slide the body on to a stick and roast it over the fire. My throat is closing up at this point. The insects are jumping. My hands are shaking. A course instructor suggests I try breathing. 'It's twitching in the fire!' the 12-year-old observes. I realise if I'm actually caught out in the bush I'll likely perish because I can't catch, behead and eat a cricket. An instructor does it for me. Ever since being attacked by a swarm of seagulls on a beach, I've been a little jumpy around animals. I start overthinking my impending night's sleep – what if I wake up to a snake in my sleeping bag? But on a midnight walk to learn celestial navigation before bed, my thoughts are interrupted when we turn off our torches and look up. The air is crisp, the surrounds are silent and the sky glimmers. Fear is replaced by cool, calm peace. I have a great night's sleep. The next day we learn to make fire with our knife and a ferro rod, and purify creek water. While learning about local flora on a bush walk, Dedman throws impromptu challenges at us – five minutes to gather tinder and kindle and start a fire. All this skill-building has been working us up to the task of our third night – finding an ally or two, scoping out a safe spot and setting up an emergency base. I turn to my new friends Daniel and Damien and we set off, racing against our faux competition who have their sights set on the same campsite. We string up our reflective blankets at a tilt between two trees, light a fire, filter our creek water and prepare a hearty meal of kangaroo stew. We eat and chat beneath the night sky and I start to feel a little sad. This place is so beautiful and tomorrow I have to go home. 'I mean, just look around you,' Carrick, a peer on the course, said earlier in the day. 'This place is heaven right here. You don't need to look any further.' Dedman's lessons differ depending on the environment. Here are a few general takeaways for when you are lost or stranded. Mindset is important. Panic is dangerous and can affect those around you. You need to be able to plan, act and hold the will to live. Make sure you think through your survival priorities. The rule of threes is governed by what will harm you first: you can survive just three minutes without air, three days without water and three weeks without food. Follow the PLAN acronym: protection (first aid, clothing, shelter, fire), location (attracting, holding and directing attention), acquisition (of water, then food) and navigation (orientation, travel, direction). When going anywhere remote, ensure you can be found. Have a satellite communication device like an EPIRB (emergency position-indicating radiobeacon) on you. Also take stock of everything you have that can attract attention in the natural environment – shiny, bright and reflective materials. You can set these up between trees as a method of passive signalling, fly a bright flag at the end of a big stick, or make a ground-to-air sign with letters. 'V' is the international emergency distress symbol. A ground to air sign has to be 6m x 3m to be seen by a passing aerial vehicle or satellite. Search efforts are conducted in patterns. Aircraft will do a box search at the height they can see an animal move. A ground search will follow a track, a river, or man-made things such as telecommunication towers and windmills. Contour searches of mountains are conducted by circling. If you know these patterns, you can set your signalling to capitalise on where you will most likely be seen. Find more in depth advice on the Bushcraft Survival Australia blog. The three-day fundamentals module 1 course costs $855 for an adult, or $427.50 for a child (aged 12 and up). Bushcraft Survival runs courses around Australia, which can be booked online. The journalist attended as a guest of Bushcraft Survival Australia
