I had known Paul Ellis for some years before I leaned that he was a bushwalker. He is not built like a bushwalker, but I guess he's always looked pretty rugged. I forget how it came about. Perhaps we were limping home after a disastrous North Sydney match, and wondering what we might do in future for a pleasant weekend.

Anyway, once we discovered this common interest, it did not take Paul long to get the Wombats operational. You may say what you like about Paul, but this mild unassuming beer-gut-with-ears has the organising power of a five star general.

The Blue Mountains was the choice for this trip, which was my second with the Wombats, and, one cloudy Saturday morning, we found ourselves on the early train for Glenbrook.

At Glenbrook the weather was looking dicey as we ventured into the National Park. After crossing the causeway we found the Campfire Creek track and plunged into the dank scrub. It had been raining the previous night and the bush was dripping with water. We were oblivious to the sodden forest and the darkening sky - for a while. We were the Wombats, and we were pioneers, and we had the mountains at our feet.

After a while we discovered that it doesn't have to be raining for one's clothes to become soaked. Those of us with wet weather gear were glad of it, while others with modish street jackets gritted their teeth, and advanced with a slight stoop of the shoulders and a fixed from under stare.

The rain eased just as we entered a clearing beside a bend in the creek; and we welcomed the opportunity for lunch and a diversion from the weather. While we rested we had time to observe each other and Paul soon became an object of interest. With an enormous stomach, crew cut and bush knife strapped to his side, he resembled the Borstal Boy gone bush. The accent was Manchester but the flavour was definitely Australian. You would never know he was directly descended from the lithe chap who invented rugby.

Once more we stepped into the slippery forest and negotiated our way along the creek. The track was overgrown and the rain had washed away the familiar signs of a path. It was certainly not pleasant walking, especially for Mark who was having rucksack problems. I think it was on this trip that Gary earned the nickname "Rambo" - You've seen the film, now read on.

At the next stop we took on passengers - leeches. They had a fatal attraction for Paul, Gary and Mark, but left me alone for some reason. Perhaps I looked ugly to them.

As the day wore on and we stumbled farther up the creek, the rain grew worse. We were starting to fear the thought of spending a wet and uncomfortable night when, to our surprise, we came upon an expansive cave which was quite dry, and the decision to camp was made for us. The cave was quite a find as it had enough space for a fire and the creek was running conveniently at the doorstep.

After settling in and viewing our meagre rations, our eyes fell upon a family of inoffensive yabbies wandering along the creek bed. There was much ado while lines were prepared and Mark and Gary joined the chase. A melee of yelling, goading and abuse followed as these tasty morsels scampered in and out of view. They fought for their lives, but, being only bite sized, they were magnanimously granted their freedom - the yabbies, that is.

Nightfall found us round a roaring fire. The tales were tall and the laughter hearty. The elements were at bay, and no one had given the slightest thought to the yowie.

The weather was still filthy the next morning as we struck camp and started up the creek to find the track out of the valley. We ascended through dripping scrub to the fire trail on the ridge and ambled under relentless rain back to Glenbrook station.

This was not a wholly pleasant walk, but we were very lucky to have had a dry night's sleep and this saved the trip from disaster. We learned much about wet weather walking and how to live with leeches. Even in torrential rain, Campfire Creek lived up to its name.