Page 13 of Wandering Wild

Prior to this moment, I knew I hated Zander Rune, but staring at the death chasm stretching out before us, I really hate him.

Worse, after everything he shared beside the fire last night—how his birth parents died when he was a child, how he was bullied in school, how he stood by Summer when the world turned on her—I hate that I’ve started to not hate him. I can’t afford to begin liking him, but he’s making that impossible the more I come to know him. And yet... I also have no way of knowing how much of what he said is genuinely true. He acts for a living, and the whole point of this survival trip is for him to make people love him again.

But even so, I can’t help thinking it’s not all an act. Because there are things he’s still keeping secret, like how he gave only the barest details about his birth parents and about his best friend Maddox before moving on—just enough to make it seem like he’s opening up, when really, he’s also withholding. I’m unsure why... and I’m unsure why I care.

What I’m not unsure about is how I feel looking at the ravine we’re stepping dangerously close to, since every survival instinct I have is blaring at me to back away, fast.

“Unfortunately for us,” Hawke says, “if we want to reach our extraction point on time, we have to cross this.”

He might have used the word “unfortunately,” but there’s nothing apologetic about his expression. He needs to take some acting lessons from Zander.

“Can’t we find a way around it?” I ask, looking to the right and left, my view limited by the trees on either side of us.

“There’s no way to tell how long that would take,” Hawke says, which I’m sure is a lie. His scouts undoubtedly gave him options, but this crossing offers the most entertainment value for viewers. No one wants to see us walking through the forest all day without some kind of death-defying task to contend with.

Then again...

A quick glance at Zander has me amending my thoughts. His silver hair is like a halo in the bright sunshine, his flawless physique better than any Michelangelo sculpture, noticeable even beneath his blue and navy outerwear. It’s not hard to believe his fans would actually be happy to watch him hike through the bush for hours on end. As long as his face and body were on the screen, they’d watch him do anything. He could sit and stare at drying paint and they would ogle him while he did so.

“Charlie?”

I blink back to myself at Zander’s confused, questioning tone, realizing I’m the one currently staring at him. I fight my embarrassment and swiftly return my attention to Hawke.

“As you can see, my safety team has secured a line over the ravine.” Hawke indicates the thick rope stretching from one side of the gap to the other. “So using this, we’re going to do something called a Tyrolean traverse—a popular mountaineering technique for traveling from one point to another across open air. Have either of you done anything like this before?”

I shake my head woodenly. Zander also responds in the negative, though his expression is eager and at odds with the dread I feel bubbling within me.

“This will be a fun new experience for you both, then,” Hawke says with an easy smile. “There are a few different methods you can use, but since you’re beginners, it’s probably best if you go upside down and backward, pulling your weight along that way.”

Upside down and backward? I feel the blood drain from my face, but I make myself take a deep, steadying breath, recalling everything I overcame yesterday—skydiving, cliff rappelling, canyon squeezing—and I try to shake off my trepidation.

Hawke goes on to explain in more detail how we’ll be crossing, and also shares the distance: one hundred and sixty feet. It’s less than the length of an Olympic swimming pool—or so he says—but that doesn’t make me feel much better about it.

“I’ll head over first so I can get a clearer view of everyone crossing,” Bentley says, packing away his larger camera and strapping his GoPro to his shoulder. To Zander and me, he adds, “I’ll also be able to help you off the rope once you reach the other side—it can be tricky if you’ve never done it before.”

Tricky is likely an understatement, but I’m grateful I won’t have to heave myself up onto the ledge without assistance.

It takes mere seconds before Bentley is clipped onto the rope and making his way across the ravine, his movements seemingly effortless. My tension eases a fraction as I watch him—at least until he reaches the far side and I realize the rest of us now have to follow.

“See? It’s as simple as that,” Hawke says once Bentley waves to indicate he’s clear. “Who wants to go next?”

“Not it,” I blurt out.

“Charlie, how good of you to volunteer.” Hawke’s dark eyes are dancing. “Let’s get you clipped in.”

I scowl at him, before turning my frown on Zander when he coughs to cover a laugh. But then I sigh, knowing I have to cross one way or another, and the longer I wait, the more time my anxiety will have to grow. Might as well get it over with.

I make the mistake of looking down into the jagged gorge as Hawke hooks my harness onto the rope, the view making my head spin. It’s not as high as the mountain descent yesterday, but falling would still mean instant death. My palms are sweating as I don my gloves and helmet, and I have to force myself to listen as Hawke starts to narrate information for the sake of the audience, with him relying on the impossible-to-spot nano drones now that Bentley and his cameras are out of range.

“They say the ‘Tyrolean’ part of the Tyrolean traverse is because this technique originated in the Austrian Alps—specifically in Tyrol—and was used by hikers to cross the numerous rivers and gorges between the mountains,” Hawke says as he double-checks my harness. “But interestingly, the longest Tyrolean traverse on record was actually in Bulgaria, not Austria, and it reached one thousand five hundred and fifty meters in length. That’s over five thousand feet, which means... How’s your math, Charlie?”

“Right now, it’s nonexistent,” I mutter, my sole focus on trying not to hyperventilate.

Hawke chuckles. “I’ll help you out, then. It means you’d be looking at this”—he taps the rope crossing the ravine—“and multiplying it by thirty, and you’d still be coming in short. Imagine that.”

I gulp. “I’d really rather not.”

Hawke continues sharing about other significant Tyrolean traverses in history, but I drown him out, concentrating on keeping as calm as I can. I’m unsure if I’m relieved or even more terrified when he finally declares I’m ready to go.

“The first step is always the hardest,” he says sagely. “In this case, that means getting you onto the rope and into position. You saw how Ben did it—once you’re over the edge, you’ll flip upside down and be able to move freely from there. Ready?”

My mouth is too dry for me to answer, so I just do a half nod, half head shake.

“See you on the other side, Charlie,” Zander says quietly, and my eyes flick to his, the reassurance in his blue gaze reminding me again of everything we conquered yesterday.

I can do this, I tell myself. I can .

“That’s it, nice and slow,” Hawke says as I repeat Bentley’s actions and stretch my body along the rope, trying to keep my trembling at bay. “Slide forward now. You’re nearly there.”

I have to loosen my grip since I’m only hindering myself, but finally I manage to inch out into open air.

“Good, Charlie, now drop upside down,” Hawke says. “Think of a sloth hanging from a branch. Trust your harness to hold you—you’re not going anywhere.”

That’s easy for him to say; it’s not his heart that wants to crash through his ribcage right now. But I grit my teeth and yield to gravity until I’m dangling upside down, my hands clasping the rope, my harness holding my lower body in place and keeping me relatively horizontal.

“Excellent,” Hawke praises. “Now hook one leg up over the rope for stabilization, and start pulling yourself across. The first half will be easier since your body weight will work in your favor, so give in to it and conserve your energy for the second half. Got it?”

“Got it,” I grunt out, eager to move now that I’m hanging like a monkey.

“Then off you go,” Hawke says. “Show Zander and me how it’s done.”

I don’t need that added pressure, thank you very much , so I ignore the challenge and begin a hand-over-hand method to pull myself backward, trying to mimic Bentley’s moves. I don’t look down—I’m not foolish enough to do that again, especially as I venture further across the gap, and therefore further away from safety.

I’m about a quarter of the way over when Hawke calls out, “How’re you doing, Charlie?”

“So far so good,” I call back, surprisingly telling the truth. Aside from some low-level discomfort where the rope is digging into my hooked leg, and the growing fatigue in my arms, it’s not as difficult as I feared. It’s certainly not as effortless as Bentley made it seem, but it’s also not the worst thing I’ve experienced on this trip.

But then I reach the middle, passing the center of gravity, and I have to fight my way back upward, all while battling the wind that’s slamming into me now that I’m far enough out to be unprotected by the forest’s barrier. My jaw is clenched tight as I drag myself along the rope, my chest, shoulders, and hands all burning fiercely.

“Stop and rest for a moment,” Hawke calls, his voice nearly stolen by the wind. “Shake some feeling back into your fingers.”

The exertion has me breathing so heavily that I can’t reply, but I follow his advice, hissing at the painful tingling of my nerves. My right leg is aching so much from the rope that I decide to swap it with my left, resulting in me having to adjust to a new coordination when I start to move again. Worse, in doing so, I accidentally cast my eyes downward, and a bout of dizziness hits me so strongly that nausea crawls up my throat.

“You’re nearly there, Charlie,” Zander calls, as if he can sense my distress. “Only a few more feet. You can make it.”

I wish his voice didn’t ground me so much. I wish his encouragement didn’t make me feel so reassured. I wish—I wish?—

I wish he wasn’t who he was.

Or rather, I wish he hadn’t done what he did.

Because then maybe?—

No.

I won’t let my mind go there, since there’s no point. I can’t wish any of that true—he is who he is, and he did what he did. I can’t forget that. I won’t forget that.

My arms are screaming when I finally reach the far edge of the ravine and find Bentley lowering his camera to help pull me up onto the rock. Every muscle in my body is on fire, but I’m safe now—and I did it.

“Well done,” Bentley says, giving my shoulder a squeeze, then reclaiming his camera to focus it back toward the other side of the crossing.

I can’t deny the pride I feel as I look properly into the gap, appreciating what I accomplished. As much as I’m hurting, there’s a larger part of me that recognizes how alive I feel right now. Like yesterday, I realize it’s something I haven’t felt in a long time—too long. But unlike yesterday, I don’t feel as guilty about it today. Just... sad. Like I’ve missed out on something vital, something I didn’t even know I needed in my life, because I stifled it.

I had my reasons—God knows I did. But now...

I’m not sure if those reasons hold true anymore.

Or if they even should.

But I also know it’s not the time to think about it, so I focus on massaging my fingers, arms, and legs as I watch Zander carry out his own Tyrolean traverse across the ravine. He makes it look almost as easy as Bentley did—damn him—and reaches us in record time, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright from the thrill.

“I’ll be feeling that tomorrow,” he says, shaking out his limbs.

“I’m feeling it now,” I return. Despite how proud I am, I’m still one big bruise all over.

Zander doesn’t reply other than to give a low, awed whistle as we watch Hawke begin to pull himself across the line, but not in the sloth-like hanging method we used. Instead, the survivalist’s torso remains draped over the top of the rope as he pulls himself along, his speed making it seem like the rest of us took months in comparison.

Before I know what’s happening, Hawke is safely on our side, telling us to enjoy a well-deserved water and berry break. We don’t linger—within minutes we’re up and hiking again, like we didn’t just drag ourselves over a massive crack in the earth.

I have to remind myself that this isn’t anything new to Hawke and Bentley—they do things like this every other week for Hawke’s Wild World , and Hawke did it for years before that during his park ranger and camp founder days. I wonder what that must be like, living so much of their lives among nature and experiencing such adventures. My heart soars at the idea, but I don’t understand why—or maybe I just don’t want to consider it. Fear has held me back for so long that it’s habit now to yield to it, to stay firmly in my comfort zone.

Or... that’s what I thought. But after what I’ve overcome in the last thirty-six hours... I’m not so sure anymore. All I know is that, once this trip is over, there are things I’ll need to reflect on, things I’ll need to face. My own personal Pandora’s box is waiting, the key already in the lock, urging me to turn it.

The problem is, I have no idea what will happen if I do—and I’m not yet convinced that I want to find out.

So for now, I ignore it, and concentrate only on putting one foot in front of the other as I trail after Hawke, telling myself that anything—and everything—else can wait.

* * *

Our hike continues through the forest, the trees denser here than they were earlier, with the earth covered in raised roots, innumerable plants, and bush scrub—all of which snag around our ankles and make the simple act of walking difficult. Finally, the ground clears again, but only because we reach a cluster of large boulders blocking our path.

“Let me guess, we can’t go around these, either?” I ask Hawke on a sigh.

“Up and over,” he confirms. “But watch your step—the moss will be slippery, and some of them may not be as stable as they look.”

He leads the way, moving easily from rock to rock, his footwork sure. I tread more carefully as I follow directly behind him, then Zander behind me, and Bentley at the rear. My legs are cramping by the time I step off the final boulder back onto the forest floor, and I’m so focused on shaking them out that I’m not paying attention to the path before me.

Or what just slithered across it.

The moment I see the massive brown snake—startling it as much as it startles me—it’s too late to do anything other than freeze, my fight-or-flight response nonexistent.

But then, just as it hisses and strikes out at me, Zander’s arms wrap around my waist like steel bands, hauling me backward, right as Hawke’s hunting knife flies through the air.

I’m still frozen as the survivalist unpins the now-dead snake from his blade and quickly drags it away. “That was close,” he says. “Nice reflexes, Zander.”

“You okay, Charlie?” Bentley asks, his brown eyes concerned behind his glasses, though his camera remains trained on me.

I am absolutely not okay, so much so that I don’t even care that I’m still held tight in Zander’s arms, trembling like a leaf.

I press back into him when Hawke picks the snake up by its tail, letting it dangle like a six-foot rope. My pulse is thundering so loudly that I can hardly hear him as he goes into narrator-mode, sharing, “This is one of the deadliest snakes in existence: the eastern brown snake. It’s said to have the quickest-killing venom in the world, and an untreated bite can cause death in as little as thirty minutes.”

A whimper leaves me without my permission, my legs so wobbly that I can barely hold myself up. Zander notices and pulls me closer, all while Hawke explains how snakes are more afraid of us than we are of them, and generally only attack when threatened or startled—which is unfortunately what just happened.

“It’s illegal to kill snakes in Australia, unless they pose a threat to human life,” he continues, lowering the snake back to the ground. “So while I can see this has shaken you, Charlie, and while it’s a shame to have ended the life of such a noble creature, this encounter is also fortuitous, since it means we’ve found our lunch.”

Before I can process his words, there’s another flash of his hunting knife, a quick, downward swipe, and then?—

I gag and shove my face to the side, unconsciously turning into Zander’s chest. His arms wrap even tighter around me, one hand cupping my head to keep my cheek pressed against him so I don’t have to see the grisly scene before us.

“Hawke,” he snaps, his voice sharper than I’ve ever heard it. “A little warning wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: survival is about opportunity,” Hawke states unapologetically.

“I get that,” Zander grinds out. “But you could have?—”

“It’s fine,” I rasp, finally pulling away from him. “I’m fine.” My words are shaky and I likely look as ill as I feel, but I inhale deeply and keep my eyes on Hawke and not the beheaded snake at his feet as I repeat, “Really, I’m fine.”

“Snake meat is an excellent source of lean protein,” Hawke says. “So as much as it might turn your stomach, this is one meal that’s just too good to pass up.”

I don’t need an explanation. I don’t even want an explanation. What I want is for us to leave the area in case the snake has friends or family nearby.

Thankfully, Hawke reads that in my eyes, and we move out again, but only until we find a flat, clear space where we can safely light a fire.

For the sake of self-preservation, I tune out everything Hawke says as he prepares the snake for cooking, keeping my focus entirely on Bentley as he replaces his camera battery with a fresh one. It’s only when the “meal” is roasted nearly to charcoal that both Zander and I are willing to move anywhere near it, and even then, that’s because Hawke threatens to force-feed it to us otherwise. I would rather attempt the world’s longest Tyrolean traverse than put the snake meat anywhere near my mouth, but I watch as Zander reluctantly does so, and somehow summon the courage to try it myself.

The first thing I notice is how bony it is. And the second?—

“I thought it would taste like chicken,” Zander says, stealing the words from me.

“It’s almost... fishy,” I add.

Hawke smiles at us. “See, it’s not so terrible, is it?”

It might not be terrible, but it’s absolutely not enjoyable—partly due to the taste, but mostly because of the psychological factor.

“Of all the things we’ve eaten on this trip, it’s right down there with the possum,” I say, the bony texture alone making it an unpleasant experience. But I make myself take a second bite, knowing I’ll need the energy, especially when Hawke tells us that it’s all uphill for the rest of the day.

What I don’t realize is that he means that literally, which I discover only after we finish our lunch and continue on our hike, soon reaching a sheer cliff—but this one stretches upward, not downward.

“Time for some mountain climbing,” Hawke declares, pulling a grappling hook from his pack. “Those extra snake calories are about to save your lives.”