Page 11 of Wandering Wild

Even after Hawke and Bentley join us at the base of the mountain, I’m still trembling from what happened with Zander up on the cliff. I’ve been acting as nonchalant about it as possible, since I sense that’s what he needs, but inwardly, I’m baffled. He jumped out of a helicopter without blinking, for goodness’ sake. And he barely hesitated before backing out over the top of the ledge, so I doubt it was the four-hundred-foot drop that triggered his panic attack. All I know is, what happened could have had a very different ending if he’d lost control enough to release the rope. No matter how I feel toward him, the what-ifs of that are going to torment me for years.

On my end, I don’t know what I was thinking when Hawke was about to rush to Zander’s aid and I volunteered to go instead. I further don’t know why Hawke let me. But regardless of how it came about, the important thing is that our whole group is now off the mountain and safe on the forest floor.

Physically , I amend. We’re safe physically . I feel like I’ve fought my way through a mental warzone, and that’s without me being the one who had the anxiety attack. I can only imagine how shattered Zander must feel, my empathy growing as I realize he won’t have a proper chance to recover until we make camp tonight—and that’s still at least half a day’s journey away.

God, this is the never-ending trip, and we’ve barely even started.

“I think we could all use a break after that bit of excitement,” Hawke says, slinging an arm around Zander’s shoulders. “Let’s go find that stream and we’ll have some lunch and a rest.”

I’m not eager for Hawke’s version of “lunch,” but I could certainly use a rest—as I’m sure Zander could—so I lift my backpack and follow as he leads us from the cliff base into the forest. It’s denser and greener than what we hiked through earlier, the air almost humid despite the cool spring temperature, making me think we must now be in one of the rainforest areas of the national park. Hawke confirms as much, then begins to point out different plants as we continue, most of them inedible.

“If we can’t find anything else to eat, we’ll grab some of this,” he says, scraping moss from the side of a tree. “It’s pretty tasteless and won’t do much to restore our energy, but it’ll fill us up and keep any hunger pains away.”

I soon hear the trickling sound of gently flowing water, and a few steps later, the trees clear enough to reveal a shallow, bubbling stream.

For a moment, I just stand there and soak in its beauty, but then I glance up and see Zander’s pale face, his eyes haunted as he stares at the water. An image flicks across my mind, a photo that has surfaced in the media multiple times over the years showing Zander fishing in a creek like this one, beaming widely between two people—close relatives, I presume, given their features, though not his parents, who I’ve seen pictured with him at various events. All three fishing companions appeared happy and carefree, so I can’t understand the reason for the look on his face right now. But maybe that’s not where his mind is; I don’t know him well enough to make assumptions, and I try to convince myself that I don’t care enough to comfort him.

Thankfully, before I can acknowledge how much that is beginning to feel like a lie, he blinks, and his expression returns to normal once more.

“This looks nice and clear, doesn’t it?” Hawke says, opening his backpack and pulling out a stainless-steel water bottle.

“I’m guessing that’s a trick question,” I say, eyeing the stream distrustfully.

Zander nods his agreement. “Clear doesn’t mean clean.”

“Top marks to you both,” Hawke says. “You’re right—no matter how clear or clean water seems, there’s usually all kinds of bacteria and parasites living in it that can make you sick, or even kill you.” He balances on a boulder and crouches down to scoop water into his bottle. “There are different techniques we can use to filter out those nasties, but the most foolproof way is by applying heat.” He shakes his full bottle. “We’ll give this a good boil and it should be okay.”

“Should?” I repeat, wanting more assurance than that.

“Just be thankful that it’s not covered in algae and dead bugs,” Zander murmurs, causing me to shudder with revulsion.

Five minutes later, Zander, Bentley, and I have all finished slipping and sliding over the mossy rocks to fill our own bottles, and retreated to a clear spot a few feet away from the water’s edge, where Hawke has already gathered a small pile of kindling.

“There are plenty of ways to start a fire in the wild,” the survivalist says, “especially in an environment like this where it’s mostly dry and out of the wind. But since we still have some distance to cover before we make camp tonight, we’re going to cheat.” He pulls a fire steel from his pocket and holds it out to me. “Want to have a crack at it?”

I take it from him eagerly and follow his instructions to strike the flint.

Nothing happens, not even a spark.

“That was anticlimactic,” I say, frowning.

“Try again, but apply more pressure.” Hawke repositions my hands. “It’s not about speed, though that helps. It’s the pressure that’s most important.”

Concentrating, I strike again, pressing hard against the flint this time. Sparks instantly leap from the steel onto the kindling, causing me to raise my hands triumphantly and cry, “I’m the fire queen!”

“Hey, fire queen, you might want to make sure it doesn’t blow out before you get too excited,” Zander drawls.

I curse when I see he’s right, and I quickly fan the sparks until the kindling is covered in healthy flames.

“Well done,” Hawke praises, holding his palm up for a high-five, before he moves all of our water bottles into the center of the fire. “These are specially designed to withstand heat, so let’s leave them here to boil while we go find some lunch. Just stay in sight of the flames—the last thing we want is to accidentally start a forest fire.”

As hungry as I am after everything we’ve done in the last few hours, I’m still dreading what kind of food we might have to stomach, so I drag my feet as Hawke directs us to keep an eye out for worms and ants and other insects. I’m secretly grateful when we only manage to find snails and slugs, both of which are too dangerous to eat.

“Some people make the mistake of thinking wild snails are the same as escargot at a restaurant,” Hawke says, shaking his head. “They only make that mistake once.”

On that grim note, we continue our search, until Zander makes a pleased sound and says, “Look what I found,” while revealing a bunch of orange berries cupped in his hands.

I instinctively slap them to the ground. “Are you crazy ? Haven’t you read The Hunger Games ?” Remembering who I’m talking to, I amend, “Or seen the movies?”

He crosses his arms. “I did both.”

I ignore my surprise and point to the scattered berries. “Then you should know better.”

“Actually,” Hawke interjects, kneeling to retrieve the small fruits, “these are Eustrephus latifolius —wombat berries—and they’re safe to eat. Nice spotting, Zander.”

A blush rises to my cheeks, and I don’t dare look in Zander’s direction.

“These, however, are even better,” Hawke goes on, moving a few steps deeper into the forest and stopping before a lush green bush full of dark pink berries. “Lilly pillies—common Indigenous bush tucker food. They’re high in nutrients, and they also have antibacterial properties, which is helpful when you don’t have any salve handy.” He pops a few in his mouth. “Mmm. We’ll save these for dessert. But that ”—he indicates another bush, smaller and tucked away behind the lilly pilly shrub—“is something we’ll avoid all costs.”

I take a closer look, seeing green leaves, purple flowers, and a cluster of what appear to be blueberries.

“ Atropa belladonna —deadly nightshade,” Hawke says. “Also known as ‘devil’s berries’ or ‘death cherries.’ If you want to go the way of The Hunger Games , that’s how you do it.”

I move an automatic step away and keep my distance from the lethal bush as we gather a bunch of lilly pillies and a handful of wombat berries, using a large leaf Bentley finds as a collection plate. It’s looking like I might actually enjoy our lunch, until we start back toward the fire and Hawke sees something further along the bank of the river.

Something furry.

And very much dead.

“It’s our lucky day,” he says when we get close enough to see what it is.

Nausea crawls up my throat as I recognize the animal.

“What is that?” Zander asks, squinting down at the small gray creature.

“A brushtail possum,” Hawke answers. I have to turn away when he picks it up and gives it a whiff. “And it’s fresh.” He grins at us both. “I hope you’re not vegetarians.”

I look from the possum to him and back again, before rasping out, “I am today.”

He has the audacity to laugh. “Possums are protected, just like goannas, but since this one is already dead, it’s free game. Let’s clean it up and get cooking.”

My gag reflex won’t allow me to watch as Hawke skins and guts the possum, and I want to cover my ears like a child as he explains every part of the process for the sake of the audience. He even passes his hunting knife to Zander at one point, and while I can tell Zander is almost as disgusted as I am, he’s still able to follow Hawke’s instructions until the marsupial is roasting on the fire.

All too soon Hawke declares it’s done, and he slices a strip of meat off, holding it out to me. When I hesitate, he says, “Survival is about opportunity, Charlie. If you don’t want to starve to death, then you need to eat what you can find.”

I nearly tell him that I had a large dinner last night and, hungry or not, I’m hardly going to starve within a few hours. But then I see Bentley’s camera trained on me and remember that this is all part of the drama of the show, and for Zander’s sake, I agreed to be all in. I try to find comfort in thinking about some of the other animals I’ve seen Hawke feed his guests—maggots, scorpions, and spiders—and the various organs they’ve had to consume—brains, eyeballs, and testicles—and I know that in comparison, this really isn’t too awful. In some places, possum is even considered a delicacy.

Gritting my teeth, I pull the meat from his blade and slam my eyes shut before shoving it in my mouth.

“It’s very... gamey,” Zander says, sampling his own slice.

“I’ve definitely eaten worse,” Hawke says between bites. “More, Charlie?”

I reach pointedly for the berries. “I’m ready for dessert, thanks.”

We make quick work of the food, drinking from our now-cooled water bottles and then refilling and re-boiling them before smothering the fire and preparing to leave.

“If you need to relieve yourself, now’s the time,” Hawke says, ripping some leaves off a nearby tree. “These are great for wiping.” He then points to a smaller weed-like bush near his feet. “That, not so much. Stinging nettle.”

I cringe, then take off into the forest to see to my business. It’s unpleasant, not having access to toilet paper or a flush—or a door —but I make do with what I have, knowing it’s only for a few days.

When I return to the group, Hawke is in the middle of telling Zander about the “luxury” restrooms at some of his wilderness camps—none of which sound remotely luxurious—and sharing the various squatting techniques the attendees are taught. I clear my throat loudly to save my ears from bleeding, and Hawke thankfully wraps things up and moves closer to Bentley to ask him something.

Zander’s face is comically horrified as he whispers to me, “I’m going to need a brain transplant to get rid of all the images he just put in there. Note to self: never visit one of his survival camps.”

A snort leaves me, but I quickly turn it into a cough when Hawke finishes with Bentley and brings me my backpack.

“Which direction are we heading in, Charlie?” he asks.

“Um.” My brain blanks, until I remember that our extraction point is northwest. I check the compass on my watch, and pivot to the right. “This way.”

Hawke nods his approval, and we set out again through the forest, following the stream as it trickles slowly downward.

This time we hike for longer, taking regular breaks to sip our water and swallow more berries. It’s easy at first, but as the hours pass, the gradual descent makes the muscles in my legs scream their objection. The worst discomfort comes, however, when Hawke begins to grill us for personal information.

It starts out innocently, with him inquiring about my job, then asking about the town I live in and my favorite places to visit; if I love the beach—“I’d be kicked out of the country if I didn’t”—if I ever go on local bushwalks—“As long as there are snacks involved”—if I have any pets—“Does helping my best friend ‘borrow’ our neighbor’s dog count?”—and about my family.

At the last question, I clam up enough that he turns his attention to Zander. The actor gives token responses, all things I’ve heard in interviews from him over the years—that he was raised in Montana and moved to California when he was seven, that he’d love to have a dog but he would feel guilty being away from it for work, that his favorite indulgent treat is peanut M the temperature is dropping fast and I’m keen to avoid getting my clothes wet.

It’s only after I’ve collected enough firewood to last the night and used Hawke’s flint to get some impressive flames going that I finally glance up and see why Zander didn’t have the same concerns—that being because he and Hawke have both stripped down to their black boxer briefs. The two of them are standing in the knee-deep river like Greek gods on display, complete with a picturesque mountain sunset behind them. I can barely keep my mouth from falling open, and I certainly can’t keep my eyes off Zander, with his tanned skin and chiseled abs. I’m hardly even aware of Hawke at his side, though I have a vague appreciation for his dark, muscled physique.

But Zander...

I’ve seen him shirtless before—the whole world has. So for the life of me, I can’t figure out why this is any different. But regardless, it feels different. More personal. More... intimate .

My cheeks heat up and I try to tear my gaze away, but before I can manage that herculean task, Zander moves blindingly fast, his muscles rippling as he reaches into the water and rises again with a large fish squirming in his hands.

I can’t hear what he and Hawke are saying, the gurgling river and crackling fire drowning out their voices, but I can see the proud look on Hawke’s face, and the exultant grin Zander wears. Only—there’s something else in Zander’s expression. Something he’s trying to hide, just like when we arrived at the smaller stream earlier today. Something that becomes much clearer when he leaves the river and approaches the fire, dripping all the way.

There’s grief in his eyes.

And pain—so much pain.

It’s like staring into a mirror.

But then he notices my concern, and I can actually see his walls fall back into place. There’s a plea in his gaze now, begging me not to ask anything while the cameras are on us.

So I do the only thing I can think of: I arch one eyebrow and say, “I’m surprised it took you this long to take your shirt off, given how much your fans love seeing you without clothes on.”

Zander’s shoulders slump with relief, the only indication of his gratitude. Outwardly, his features turn mischievous, which is all the warning I have before he replies, “As my biggest fan, I guess you’d know.”

I walked right into that one.

But thankfully, I’m saved from replying when Hawke leaves the river to join us, a second large fish wriggling in his hands as he grins at Zander, Bentley, and me, and asks, “Who’s hungry?”