King of the Wilderness

Yesterday, on another gloomy morning, the fire in the shelter had already gone out, leaving only a faint warmth, Vonia was also awakened by a sharp stomach cramp.

It wasn’t just simple hunger—this was a substantial protest from her internal organs due to lack of energy.

While Kelly was gambling against fate on the distant ice surface, Vonia endured her stomach cramps, planning to delve deeper into the vast coniferous forest to the east of the shelter for an all-in attempt.

”Alright, folks. It’s the twenty-eighth day, and this…” She stirred the contents of the pot with a wooden spoon, causing a sticky sound.

”This is my breakfast. Let me show you today’s offering dishes—some plant roots I dug up yesterday, and some bark that tastes exactly like cardboard.”

”And, to add a little more with a few miserably small mussels, wish me a good appetite.” She rolled her eyes at the camera, her face full of unabashed disdain.

Vonia prepared what barely qualified as breakfast, forcing down a bowl of muddled ”extending life soup” with small mussels.

The warm liquid could only temporarily soothe the burning sensation in her stomach lining, but couldn’t provide any real energy. She could clearly feel her muscular strength fading.

”Okay, I can’t keep eating this garbage.” Her voice sounded a bit hoarse from weakness.

”Complaining to God while sitting here won’t fill my stomach, it’s time to get to work.”

The icily sealed dining hall on the coastline she considered a ”gold mine” had declared bankruptcy. She knew that simply waiting meant only one path: death! She had to return to primitive survival—hunting.

”Alright, Becki.” She gently patted the bow, as if greeting an old partner.

”Today it’s just the two of us, eight arrows, eight chances not to starve to death. No pressure, right?” She squeezed out a reluctant smile to the camera, filled with optimism and self-mockery.

Vonia moved like a ghost through the forest blanketed by heavy snow. Perhaps she had eaten something wrong, for her spirits were exceptionally high, and she spoke more than usual.

Her movements were filled with intelligence and efficiency, far from aimless trudging. She instinctively chose routes with shallower or wind-blown snow, like the leeward side of boulders or underneath fallen trees.

Each step, she first probed with her toe, then slowly shifted her weight—a stealth technique known as ”Fox Step,” which maximized the avoidance of snapping dried branches under the snow and unnecessary noise, as well as conserving energy.

She lowered her voice, speaking to the action camera: ”When my dad taught me this ’Fox Step,’ he said, ’Sweetheart Vonia, you learn quickly, but your walking resembles an elephant from Africa.’”

”So there were years I practiced this daily. Thinking back now, I’m truly grateful he was so annoyingly sarcastic back then.”

Vonia’s eyes did not sweep sharply around like a hawk so as not to drain her spirits quickly.

Rather, she kept her gaze in a nearly relaxed unfocused state, using peripheral vision and intuition to perceive any hint of disharmony in the surroundings.

It could be a broken branch not belonging there, a patch of snow with abnormal color, or a faint noise that didn’t come from the wind.

She turned herself into a precision detector, carefully discerning every suspicious trace in the snow.

However, the forest seemed to play a cruel joke on her, remaining silent and persistently concealing all signs of life.

An hour passed, and she found some old rabbit footprints, almost covered by fresh snow. The edges blurred due to sublimation, clearly from a few days ago.

Yet she didn’t give up, continuing to track for half a day. Lying in the snow, she sniffed the air like a sniffer dog, using her fingers to feel the snow’s hardness changes.

”Alright, now we have a ghost rabbit.”

She stood up and brushed the snow off, speaking to the camera: ”Footprints from three days ago, by now it could be in another state. Great, what a splendid start.”

Eventually, the trail vanished on a wind-blown stone terrain, and all clues were lost.

Two hours had passed. Under a spruce tree, she found some bird feathers, a rock thunderbird’s white winter plumage, her heart skipped a beat! Immediately she crouched down for a careful check.

Near the feathers, the snow bore traces of blood, indicating a recent predation event, likely by a fox or an owl.

Looking up, she saw the dense spruce canopy empty, not even a bird chirping. Mimicking the thunderbird’s call, she uttered several low ”cluck cluck” sounds, hoping for a response.

But only the eternal whistle of wind through the treetops greeted her.

”Late again, the party’s over.” With a helpless gesture, she spoke to the camera, unable to hide the disappointment on her face.

”Feels like all the hunters in this forest got a gathering notice, except me. So, do you all have a chat group I’m unaware of?”

Time trickled through the tedious and hopeless search, from dawn to noon, and then as the sun began to tilt westward, she had wandered this vast forest snow wilderness for over six hours.