Chapter 2: Caribou, Cards, and Cameras

I took a deep breath of that sharp, Alaskan air. Felt good.

The cold bit at my cheeks, the wind tugged at my hair. I felt more alive than I had in years. This was where I belonged. Home, finally.

I twitched my nose and caught the scent of prey on the wind—my blood instantly boiled. Oh yeah, this was it.

It was a wild, metallic tang—caribou. My heart leapt. The hunt was on.

Lucky me. Just arrived and already found a caribou.

I grinned, feeling the old hunger rise. The audience would get a show after all. Let’s see who’s laughing now.

Time to put my big pot to use. I couldn’t help a little internal snort. Who says you can’t cook in style?

I patted the cast iron with affection. Let them laugh—I’d be feasting tonight.

I wondered what Alaskan caribou tasted like. Probably amazing, but only one way to find out.

Probably gamey, maybe a little sweet. My mouth watered at the thought. I could almost taste it already.

No time to think. I grabbed my axe and followed the scent.

I moved quickly, keeping low. My senses were razor sharp—every crackle of leaves, every shift of the wind. I was in my element. This was living.

The drone cameras circled me closely, broadcasting my every move. No pressure.

I could hear the faint whirring above me, feel the eyes of the world on my back. It just made me move faster, more confidently.

“Came for the hype—heard Contestant 50, Harper Lane, has real skills, but this?”

“Probably just the show trying to make her look good. Switching to another contestant.”

“Number 50 clearly has no clue—just dumped her gear and ran off with an axe. Gonna wrestle a bear?”

“Don’t be so quick to judge. Maybe she’s just out to chop wood, waste some energy, get some attention, then head home.”

“Guys, Marcus is over there giving a fun, detailed lecture on edible plants—go watch him.”

“Who cares about plants? Beckett found a rabbit nest and is about to hunt—switch the camera!”

Most of the audience bailed after my card trick.

The numbers on my stream dipped. I didn’t mind. The real fans would stick around.

Only a few diehards stuck around, watching me intently.

I could feel their curiosity, their hope for something unexpected. I aimed to deliver. Let’s give ‘em a show.

Feeling the camera’s gaze, I resisted the urge to flick another card and focused on tracking the caribou.

I kept my steps light, my breathing steady. The wolf in me wanted to sprint, but I forced myself to move like a human—slow, deliberate.

Didn’t want to freak anyone out, so I kept my speed normal.

I didn’t want to spook the audience—or the producers. Sometimes it paid to look a little clumsy.

As I tracked, the caribou’s scent faded. Crap. Time to get creative.

I paused, tasting the air. There—a new note, sharp and salty. I followed it, heart pounding.

Then I caught a salty, damp smell on the wind. It hit me—the caribou was swimming across the river. Smart move.

Smart animal. I grinned, feeling the thrill of the chase. This was going to be fun.

I stopped holding back and sped up.

My muscles surged, the world blurring at the edges. I felt unstoppable. Bring it on.

With my fifty-pound axe in one hand, I dashed forward.

The weight barely registered. My legs ate up the ground, every step sure and silent.

The drone camera struggled to keep up, still filming my every move. Poor thing—try to keep up.

I glanced up once, smirking at the whirring machine. Good luck keeping up, I thought.

“Whoa, Harper really has skills—carrying all that weight and still running so fast.”

“Don’t call her Harper—she’s Huntress Lane now.”

“Director, get more drones on Huntress Lane—some can’t even keep up with her!”

Seconded times a thousand.

Meanwhile, in the control room, the staff were freaking out.

I pictured the producers scrambling, yelling into headsets. It made me smile. Maybe they’d stop underestimating me now.

Good thing they were fast with the cameras—or they’d have lost me.

I heard the buzz of more drones overhead, a small victory. The wolf in me preened. Showtime.

Suddenly, I had as many cameras on me as Marcus and Beckett.

I imagined the analytics dashboard lighting up, my name climbing the charts. The audience loved a surprise.

Everyone online was dying to see what Harper would do with her axe—until she stopped at the riverbank, eyes fixed on the caribou in the water, and smiled. Wait for it…

I crouched low, watching the animal’s ears flick back and forth. It was young, nervous. I licked my lips, anticipation thrumming through me.

“No way, is she really going to take on a caribou with just an axe in early autumn?”

“Am I crazy, or is Huntress Lane crazy?”

“Look, Huntress Lane’s in the water—she’s smiling and talking to us!”

“Haha, awesome, it’s a young caribou. The meat must be tender—I can’t wait.”

I set my axe on the bank, held my breath, and dove in.

The shock of cold water hit me like a slap, but I relished it. My body adapted instantly, muscles moving smoothly. I glided through the current, eyes locked on my prey.

The river in early autumn was freezing, maybe below 50°F, but it felt just right to me.

The cold sharpened my senses, cleared my mind. I felt alive in a way nothing else could match.

The chill calmed my boiling blood as I carefully swam toward the young caribou. Stay cool, Harper.

“Director, can we get an underwater camera? I can’t see Huntress Lane at all.”

“Just keep your eyes on the caribou.”

“Hold up, aren’t you all a bit too confident in her? She left her axe behind—even a young caribou weighs over 175 pounds.”

“She’s a 5'5", sub-100-pound woman, trying to take down a caribou in the water? Caribou are great swimmers—I’m worried she’ll make it out alive.”

“She’ll be the fastest to die in all three seasons—not even an hour in, and already feeding the wildlife. Even faster than the guy who got taken out by a bear on day one.”

“Exactly. Paid her way in just to die—what an idiot.”

“Are you blind? Didn’t you see how strong Huntress Lane is?”

“Strong or not, she’s still human—”

“Enough, just watch—Huntress Lane’s got the caribou underwater!”

I snuck up underwater and lunged, grabbing the caribou by the neck and shoving it under.

Its legs kicked frantically, water churning around us. I tightened my grip, muscles straining, heart thundering in my chest.

It thrashed wildly, but its strength was nothing to me. This was almost too easy.

I could feel the panic in its body, the desperate will to survive. But I was stronger. I held on.

I could’ve just held my breath and waited it out, but with cameras rolling, I balled my fist and punched its neck.

A quick, clean blow—no need for theatrics. The animal’s struggles weakened, then stopped.

A few blows and blood poured from its mouth—the fight was over. Sorry, buddy.

The water turned pink, the current swirling around us. I felt a pang of regret for the animal, but this was the way of the wild.

With the water turning red, I knew I had to drag it back to shore before anything else showed up. I just wanted to get back to my gear, grab my pot, and eat. Priorities.

Predators would be drawn to the scent. I hauled the carcass onto the bank, glancing over my shoulder for bears or wolves.

Surfacing, I saw the cameras circling me. I waved and dragged the caribou to shore.

I flashed a grin at the nearest drone, feeling a little like a superhero. My arms ached, but it was a good ache.

But fans who’d just watched me hunt shut that down quick.

The chat exploded—clips of my hunt were already making the rounds on social media. I tried not to let it go to my head.

My caribou chase blew up online. Suddenly, everyone was watching my stream.

My phone (if I’d had it) would’ve been blowing up with notifications. Instead, I focused on the task at hand—food, shelter, survival.

After wringing out my clothes, I eyed the caribou and got an idea.

I ran my fingers over its fur, thinking about all the ways I could use every part. Waste not, want not.

With the cameras swirling around me, I couldn’t help but start explaining. Old teacher habits die hard.

Old habits die hard. Back in the pack, I was always the teacher, the guide. I glanced at the camera, ready to share what I knew.

Even in this new world, I still got fired up about teaching—couldn’t help myself.

I pictured my old packmates, eager for knowledge. I let my voice carry, hoping some of the viewers would appreciate the lesson.

I ran my hand over the antlers, fur, and bones, sizing up the animal. Every little detail counted.

Every detail mattered—the texture of the hide, the heft of the bones. I explained what I was looking for, why it mattered.

“Drawn in by the hunting video, but this streamer’s just strong, acting like a fool, not even interacting—what’s she doing, petting the caribou?”

“Huntress Lane’s ruthless and keeps quiet—don’t like it, go watch someone else.”

“Yeah, even if she doesn’t talk much, I’m staying in her stream.”

“I’m not a fan, just a bystander—has Harper said anything since the stream started?”

Some new viewers complained I was just a mute hunter.

They didn’t get it—sometimes, actions speak louder than words. But I decided to throw them a bone.

They had no idea they were about to get called out.

I turned to the camera, locking eyes with the audience. Time for a lesson.

I adjusted myself and the caribou for the best camera angle, picked up my axe, and began to explain. Here we go.

I spoke clearly, breaking down each step. I wanted everyone watching to learn something, even if they thought I was just a novelty act.

“From the antler splits, bone growth, and body size, we can tell this caribou is about two years old—very tender meat. Since my gear isn’t all here yet, I’ll cut off a hind leg to clean and roast.”

I showed them how to find the best cut, why it mattered. The chat slowed, people actually paying attention.

“First, use the axe to skin the leg. Be careful to keep the pelt intact—it’ll be useful for warmth in winter.”

I worked methodically, explaining each move. The camera zoomed in, catching the details. I could feel the audience’s curiosity growing.

After cleaning the leg, I easily hoisted the rest of the caribou, grabbed my axe and the leg, and headed back to my gear.

I made it look a little harder than it was—no need to freak people out with my real strength. I let out a dramatic sigh when I reached my gear, for effect.

I wiped sweat from my brow, glancing at the camera with a sheepish grin. Let them think I was just tough—not superhuman.

With dusk approaching, I checked my surroundings—just loose rocks, not great for a camp. Not ideal.

I scouted the area, looking for shelter from the wind. I explained my thought process, hoping some viewers would take notes.

I found a sheltered spot for the night, hung the rest of the caribou meat on a tree, and started prepping dinner.

I tied the meat high, out of reach of scavengers. My stomach growled at the thought of fresh roast.

I set up the provided camera, gathered dry twigs, birch bark, and tinder fungus—perfect for fire-starting.

I explained the difference between good tinder and bad, showing off the birch bark and tinder fungus I’d found. The firestarter was still tucked away—I wanted to prove a point.

Facing the camera, I said, “If anyone’s still watching, guess how many minutes it’ll take me to get a spark.”

I grinned, feeling the old showmanship kick in. A little friendly competition never hurt.

“My bet: Huntress Lane lights a fire in 30 minutes.”

“As a survival enthusiast, I’d say it’ll take at least two hours.”

“You guys are too confident. Sure, she’s strong and fast, but don’t forget—last two seasons, even survival experts couldn’t get a fire going for a whole night. Some even stole batteries from the cameras. She’s going to fail.”

“Right, all the other contestants brought firestarters—only she brought a pot and cards. Can’t wait to see her freeze.”

While everyone debated, I lit a fire in just five minutes.

I struck the flint, sparks flying. The tinder caught, flames licking up the twigs. I leaned back, arms crossed, and shot the camera a smug smile.

Once the flames were going, I ringed the fire with rocks, salted the deer leg, and set it over the fire.

The smell was heavenly. I narrated each step, letting the audience in on my process. The sizzle of fat, the crackle of pine—it was pure comfort.

Burning Alaskan spruce gave off a unique fragrance, and the fat from the leg sizzled as it dripped onto the flames. I turned the now-golden leg. My stomach was already growling.

I described the scent, the way the meat crisped up. I could almost hear stomachs rumbling across the country.

High-quality ingredients only need the simplest cooking. A sprinkle of coarse salt, and the aroma was incredible. Mouthwatering.

I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. For a second, I almost forgot about the cameras.

I sliced off a piece with my axe—crispy on the outside, perfect texture.

I held it up to the camera, grinning. "Bon appétit," I said, and took a bite.

A deeper cut revealed juicy, chewy meat—nothing like the dry farmed stuff. Heaven.

I explained the difference, encouraging viewers to try wild game if they ever got the chance.

Though the Arctic night was freezing, I was fine, sitting by the fire, gnawing on the leg. Delicious. Couldn’t ask for more.

The warmth of the flames, the taste of fresh meat—it was all I needed. I leaned back, feeling utterly content.

I nearly finished the whole leg—after all, I’d burned a ton of calories and liked to store up energy.

I joked to the camera about needing my calories, flexing my arm for effect. The chat filled with laughing emojis.

Honestly, if I quit the wild, I could start a food stream and just eat on camera. Who knew?

I winked at the camera, imagining myself as the next big mukbang star. "Maybe next season," I teased.

I stacked stones near my sleeping spot for warmth, said goodnight to the camera, and crawled into my sleeping bag.

I waved goodnight, the firelight flickering on my face. The stars above were impossibly bright, the world peaceful for a moment.

The northern nights were getting longer, and I slept lightly outdoors. You never know what’ll come prowling.

I drifted off to the sound of crackling logs, my senses tuned to every rustle and whisper in the dark.

When I sensed an animal nearby, I woke instantly. Instincts never sleep.

My eyes snapped open, every muscle tensed. I listened, heart steady, breath slow.

Even in the dim dawn, my vision was clear—it was a rabbit. Easy pickings.

I smiled to myself, reaching for my cards. Breakfast was about to get interesting.

I pulled a card from my pocket, spun it in my hand, and aimed at the camera. Showtime.

I let the anticipation build, holding the card just long enough for the chat to catch on.

“Help, it’s morning and Huntress Lane’s pointing a killer card at me—what do I do?”

“Haha, it’s still night here, I was about to doze off but now I’m wide awake.”

“Not gonna lie, watching Huntress Lane eat deer leg last night made me order a midnight snack and give up dieting.”

“All the haters went quiet after she started a fire in five minutes.”

“Hey, we’re just being honest—I’m waiting to see how Harper survives the whole winter. She hasn’t even built a shelter, just got lucky with a young caribou, and you’re all worshipping her.”

“True, the other two already picked prime shelter spots.”

“Can you stop hating for no reason? Watch Huntress Lane take out a rabbit 200 yards away with a card!”

I controlled my strength and flicked the card, hitting the rabbit in the throat.

The animal dropped instantly. I jogged over, picked it up, and held it up for the camera. "Breakfast is served," I said with a grin.

Time for rabbit stew. Couldn’t ask for a better start.

I showed off the rabbit, explaining how to skin and clean it. The chat filled with requests for recipes.

I quickly packed my things, hid them safely, then went to the river to wash up and fill my pot with water for rabbit soup.

I described my process, sharing tips for keeping gear dry and safe from scavengers. The river water was icy, but I barely noticed.

The water boiled quickly. I chopped the rabbit, tossed it in with some salt, and soon had fresh rabbit soup.

The smell was rich and savory. I stirred the pot, humming a little tune. It felt like home.

Not many spices yet, but from my study of local plants, there should be some around. I’ll find more.

I promised the viewers I’d start foraging for more flavors soon. The chat buzzed with suggestions and encouragement.

I’d need to stock up before winter hit. No slacking.

I made a mental list—roots, berries, anything to keep meals interesting. Survival didn’t have to mean bland food.