Spirit of the Jungle

by Bear Grylls

  Blood oozed from a tender chunk of dark flesh that looked like a slab of uncooked liver he’d once seen in a butcher’s tray . . . And the aroma of fresh meat . . . he hadn’t smelt anything like it for what seemed like ages, though it was probably only a few days.

  He edged even closer, unable to pull his gaze away. As if sensing his reluctance, the wolf nudged the corpse towards Mak. Yip and Itch had had their fill, and were now licking the blood from their paws.

  With a shaking hand, Mak reached out and touched a glistening internal organ. It was still warm.

  Survival of the fittest: it was a term that he’d heard before – but outside the comforts of London, out here in the middle of nowhere, it made sense. If he didn’t eat, he would die. Taking a deep breath, he pulled at the organ. Blood oozed across his hands, making the meat difficult to grip. Whatever the organ was, it remained steadfastly attached to the rest of the deer, so all he succeeded in doing was dragging its body closer.

  With great reluctance, Mak moved on to his knees and leaned forward, shoving his head closer to the carcass. The smell was powerful, although still not as sickening as Mak had anticipated.

  Closing his eyes he slipped a small section of the flesh into his mouth and bit down. It was surprisingly tough to chew through and he was forced to tear at it. His body’s gag reflex kicked in – but with an empty stomach he had nothing to throw up.

  He forced the mouthful down.

  It didn’t taste too bad. He doubted it would be on the menu of any burger bar soon, but . . .

  He took another, bigger, mouthful, shaking his head this way and that to tear the meat. Before he knew it, his hunger had driven him to devour the entire lump of meat in his hand. He sat back on his haunches and stared at his bloodied fingers. Even the thick dirt under his nails was tinged red. He took stock of what he had just done and was impressed and repulsed in equal measure. Once more that nagging voice at the back of his mind: his dad wouldn’t call him wet now, would he?

  Mak let out a burp so loud a pair of birds watching from the branch above took flight in a blaze of blue and orange. Mak burst into laughter. Tears streamed down his face and he rolled on the ground, crying and laughing with mounting hysteria as the desperation of his circumstances became clear.

  When he eventually calmed down, he noticed that the mother wolf had finished off the remains of the deer and was now leading her pups off into the forest.

  ‘Hey! Wait for me!’

  Mak wiped his bloodied hands in the dirt and quickly followed. As he did so, he noticed a large mushroom, the same type he had found the night before. This one had several gnawed teeth marks in it, indicating something had found it edible. He tore a piece of fungus and sniffed it. It smelt like dirt. He put it into his mouth and chewed. He couldn’t identify the taste, but was surprised by the hint of nut. It absorbed the taste of blood in his mouth and, feeling refreshed, he bounded after the wolf pack.

  From afar, the boulder rock was like a scar in the lush jungle. Mak had mistaken the huge smooth brown boulders for enormous elephants when Mother Wolf had first led them here.

  The hill didn’t rise very high, enclosed as it was by trees, but the broad sandstone rocks kept the foliage at bay for several hundred metres, allowing a burbling stream to cut through in an almost straight line before it vanished into the forest.

  The wolves sat on the banks, tails in the air as they took it in turns to drink the water. Mak was unsure what to do, knowing that drinking contaminated water was a potential killer. Still, this looked as clear as glass and was fast running. He considered straining the water through his sock, but thought that would probably make it even worse. The thought at least made him smile.

  With no other choice he joined the wolves and gulped the cool liquid before splashing it across his face to cool him down. It was only then that he realized the rain had finally stopped and the sky above was now a deep azure blue.

  Slowly, the cubs lay down in the sunlight.

  Mak also found a broad boulder to lie on and spread himself out as wide as he could. Basking with his eyes closed, he could almost feel his clothes drying off, so didn’t move, save only to dry his back, for what seemed like hours.

  The wolves kept close, the mother keeping a watchful eye on both the pups and Mak. It was deceptively easy to feel safe in that moment, but Mak’s darker thoughts swiftly intruded.

  No search party . . .

  They think you’re dead . . .

  The voice in his head was his own, but it spoke with such conviction that Mak could easily believe he was being told cold hard facts.

  ‘NO!’ he bellowed to the sky – startling Itch and Yip who had been playfully squabbling on the bank. He had watched plenty of television shows about people being lost, even sometimes being forced to drink their own urine to survive. Well, he wasn’t that desperate, at least not yet, and he had no intention of giving up. Somehow he felt that was what would determine if he lived or died. Never give up.

  ‘Where am I?’ Mak said to himself. Speaking the words aloud seemed to fend off the nagging voice that wanted him to admit defeat.

  He looked around. The clearing he was in was wide, but from the air it probably still looked like a dot. If he could send smoke signals . . . but that would mean lighting a fire. He put that idea to the back of his mind.

  Instead, maybe he needed to assess the lie of the land.

  He stood up, wincing, the moment his feet took his weight. He sat back down on the warm rocks and examined his feet. They looked gruesome, resembling something that belonged buried in the pages of a medical textbook.

  He checked his trainer. Putting it back on wouldn’t work. One wasn’t enough, and hopping through the jungle would probably kill him. Besides, the thick sole had worn away so that it was almost smooth, which explained why he’d been slipping everywhere before.

  Then a thought struck him.

  He took out the plastic spoon and, with the help of a thin stone, carefully split it down the middle, creating a jagged knife-edge. He ran his finger along it; it wasn’t too sharp, but he hoped it would do the trick. Unlacing the trainer, he then set about sawing horizontally through its rubber sole. It was tricky, but once he’d prised the sole off the shoe, he managed to slice it vertically into two thinner halves. As he peeled them apart he noticed that his hack-job had also created an uneven surface on both parts and they now had a better grip than before.

  He used his new spoon-knife to slice through the shoelace, then used both lace halves to bind the new soles to his feet. They slipped around a little, but after some readjustment and feeding the lace between his toes, they at least offered some protection.

  The wolves didn’t seem at all interested in his exploits, so he clambered up the steepest boulder he could find, the rubber on his now-protected feet doing a grand job of stopping him from slipping off.

  Mak felt like a true adventurer as he scaled the top of the highest boulder, but even from this lofty perch all he could see were the tops of yet more trees.

  He needed to get higher.

  Behind him a huge tree grew from the top of Boulder Hill. Massive ancient roots had punctured through gaps in the stone and now resembled a gnarled claw at the base of the tree.

  Mak couldn’t help but give the tree a personality – and it wasn’t a nice one. In his imagination it was a cranky old man, the boughs angled over the boulders in an arthritic stoop. The lower twisting limbs occasionally moved in the gentle breeze, giving the impression it was waving thousands of tiny fists at him, warning Mak not to approach.

  It felt as though the tree was doing all it could to dissuade him from climbing, and Mak had no wish to argue with it.

  So it was that Mak fell into a routine. Each night he would retire to the wolves’ den and snuggle up to Mother Wolf, more for safety than warmth.

  Each morning a fresh new kill was presented to the cubs, and Mak waited his turn to eat. It became easier each time, although when the wolf mother presented them wi
th a porcupine, Mak had to be especially careful not to stab himself on the ferocious quills. He even removed two from the she-wolf’s side when it was clear she couldn’t reach them herself. Then they would head to Boulder Hill to drink and gambol in the sun. Mak found more fungi and even a few nuts that kept his stomach full.

  He made sure that he kept the mother, Yip and Itch amused with his spinning-coin trick, and even teased them by bouncing the light off the shiny surface, causing the pups to run in circles chasing the reflected dot on the floor. They would leap on to the beam like hunters, then look around in confusion when they discovered the spot of light had escaped from under their paws.

  It kept Mak amused.

  It was a form of contentment, but each day he would study the sky, waiting for the first sign of a rescue plane and listening intently for the distant dull tone of an aircraft.

  And each day they failed to arrive.

  By possibly the fourth day a black mood had descended on Mak and he refused to eat the unidentifiable critter presented to them. Help was not coming. That much was clear. The whispering voices, taunting him as to whether his parents were alive, had even changed tack, pointing out that this was the place Mak would die.

  He knew he couldn’t stay still any longer, which meant he would have to find his own way home. His attention increasingly turned to the crooked tree standing sentinel over the hill. As ever, the branches waved menacingly to put him off climbing, but Mak knew he must.

  The trunk itself was as broad as his bedroom back home, and the craggy bark offered many footholds. In addition the tree tilted at a gentle angle over the edge of the boulder, offering a relatively easy climb. Mak hadn’t climbed a tree for years – and even then he had a clear memory of falling out and his dad shouting at him. But it offered the best view around, and if from there he could see signs of the camp, or even the river, then he would have hope.

  A pep talk was in order. ‘You can do this, Mak!’

  Just don’t fall and break your neck, added the unwelcome voice of his father.

  The first section of the tree was surprisingly easy. The crooked roots, which at first had seemed so imposing, allowed Mak to make short work of scrambling up the trunk. The crooked slender branches that had previously warned him away, now proved to be useful anchor points to pull himself upwards.

  Mak was surprised how his positive attitude had transformed the seemingly hostile obstacle into a more manageable challenge. True to his name, Yip circled the bottom of the tree, giving gruff barks of encouragement.

  Mak reached the first broad branch with ease and sat straddled on it to catch his breath. Even from here he could see further, although the vista was not encouraging – just more trees to the horizon. But Mak refused to be discouraged.

  He needed to climb higher.

  A quick glance below to check on Yip proved to be a mistake. Even though Mak was only a quarter of the way up the tree, the drop yawned below him, threatening certain death if he took a misstep.

  He felt his legs quiver, as if the strength had leaked out of them like air from a balloon. He closed his eyes – another mistake that caused him to wobble on the branch.

  He opened them again and fixed his gaze on his destination above, hidden beyond the countless twisted lower limbs of the tree.

  ‘You can do this,’ he said in a low voice.

  The next stage of the climb was slower as the number of branches increased. Now he had to wend his way through them, hauling himself from one to another until his arms trembled from the exertion.

  One thing was certain, the branches were becoming thinner. As he shoved his way higher they whipped at his face, leaving stinging marks across any exposed skin. His hand reached for a stem paler than the others – and it snapped under his weight.

  Mak dropped a couple of feet on to a sturdier branch below. The impact was enough to wind him. One flailing hand caught another thin but strong branch, and he steadied himself.

  His heart pounded as he imagined dropping like a pinball against the branches before his body snapped on the rocks below. He lay there for several moments before he realized he was still clutching the fragment of broken wood in his hand. It was dead, and parched so badly that it almost crumbled in his hand. He noticed the bark had been stripped clean and black marks stained the wood itself.

  He twisted his head so he could see upwards. To his surprise he had almost reached the top of the tree. He climbed steadily up the last few metres.

  From the ground he hadn’t seen that the tip of the tree was scorched black, from a lightning strike he guessed. Being one of the tallest points in the jungle, it had suffered a direct hit, and relentless monsoon winds had probably forced the tree at the angle it now grew.

  Suddenly Mak felt almost sorry for the mighty tree. No longer did he see it as a grouchy bent old man, but as a resilient warrior determined to grow whatever Mother Nature threw at it. He was no longer afraid of it, or the drop below.

  Mak stood and took a deep breath as he balanced himself. The crown of the tree had long slender branches that offered views in every direction as he hopped from one to another, a hand resting against the damaged trunk for support.

  In one direction Mak could see the jungle steadily rising, and the peaks of jagged mountains beyond. He didn’t recall any mountains on the helicopter flight into the jungle, so reasoned that was not the way to go.

  He shifted position and peered across the rest of the jungle. All hope of seeing a sweeping river cutting through the landscape was dashed. He was certain there was one there – but the view of it was blocked by the jungle canopy stretching towards the shimmering haze of the horizon.

  ‘HELLO?’ he yelled as loudly as he could. ‘HEEELLLOOO!’

  Nothing stirred. Mak hadn’t expected an answer, but the lack of one still made his heart sink. If he was going to walk out of this in one piece he needed to take control. Logic told him that the jungle had to end eventually. He recalled the pilot saying they were travelling north-east into the jungle, which meant they had travelled from the south-west. Which way was that?

  The sun was overhead; then again it usually was. However, he could see from his position the direction in which it rose and sank. He drew an imaginary line between the two. It wasn’t accurate, but it was enough for him to turn and face south-west-ish.

  It looked just like every other patch of jungle, offering not a single landmark that would provide a useful navigation reference. Still, it was a direction, and even a vague destination offered the promise of hope.

  With this sliver of optimism in his back pocket, Mak began the climb down. The descent proved much easier, although different muscles from the ones he had used going up now began to ache. He stopped for a rest on a wide branch and allowed his legs to dangle off the edge as he took in the view.

  It was several moments before he realized that he wasn’t alone on the branch.

  Mak froze as the snake slowly uncoiled from the leaves.

  Already half its body was extended and Mak judged it was longer than he was. The serpent’s belly was white, its dark upper surface marked with white dots along the spine and white bands down the side. Its beady black eyes were fixed on Mak; its tongue flicking as it sensed the air.

  It was a krait, one of the deadliest snakes in India. Mak didn’t know the name, but he knew from the delta-shaped head that it was venomous. Mak couldn’t stop himself reflexively scrabbling backwards along the branch – which immediately gave way under his weight.

  The crack of wood was so loud it vibrated through his body. As Mak dropped, branches whipped his face so hard he tasted blood. The fall was short – his path blocked by a firm wooden bough that knocked the breath from his lungs. However, it was a brief respite as this branch gave way in turn – but not before Mak saw the broken spur from above lance towards his head, the writhing krait still attached to it.

  Mak’s shoulders struck another tree limb, sending him tumbling sideways – a move that probably saved his life
as another jagged bough whooshed past his head, nicking his ear. The sound of snapping branches was incredible. He closed his eyes to protect them as shorter twigs lashed him as he fell.

  He felt something warm and smooth slide across his leg – but it was gone in a moment.

  Mak threw his arms over his head as smaller branches cascaded over him, painfully rebounding. Then, as suddenly as it began, the nightmare tumble was over.

  All was still again.

  Mak opened his eyes and was surprised to discover he was still in the tree. Hurt, but still sitting upright, he expected he would be heavily bruised after this misadventure. The last branch of the tree had saved him from crashing on to the boulders below – and causing a serious injury. He checked his stinging arms, which were covered in a fine network of thin scratches, but thankfully nothing too deep.

  Then he remembered the snake.

  He tensed as he looked around, but could see no sign of it. He gingerly pulled the legs of his dirty jeans up. He had felt the snake move across him and dreaded seeing a puncture wound from its fangs – but there was nothing there.

  Mak expelled a long breath. He had escaped near-death twice in a single moment – he had to be more careful.

  With no desire to hang around in the tree, Mak carefully made his way back down to the boulders where Yip and Itch were playing tug-of-war with one of the many branches that had dropped, oblivious to his near-death experience.

  He bathed his cuts in the stream and thought about the journey ahead. Already it seemed impossible. His frustration grew.

  ‘Why is it so difficult to find a river?’ he bellowed, watching as the red taint of his blood was quickly swept downstream.