Chapter 4: Huntress Lane vs. The Wild

Game was hiding, but their scent couldn’t escape me. Last month, I’d been busy building—now I’d focus on hunting. Time to switch gears.

I explained my strategy, showing how to track animals by scent and sign. The chat filled with questions about tracking and trapping.

With my cards and trusty axe, I set out. Let’s see what’s out there.

I strapped on my gear, feeling the familiar thrill of the hunt. The forest was alive with possibilities.

It was only frosty so far, so small animals were still active. Good for me.

I pointed out the signs—fresh tracks, nibbled leaves, the distant call of a grouse. I moved quietly, blending into the woods.

I casually took out a few squirrels with cards, strung them up, and followed signs of dug-up roots for another five miles. I picked up two different animal scents—one large, one a group of small creatures.

I showed off my squirrel catch, explaining how to clean and cook them. The chat was divided—some grossed out, others fascinated.

Of course, I went for the big game first. Tracking the scent, I found a herd of musk oxen—about six, all adults, with one massive bull weighing maybe 800 pounds. Jackpot.

I crouched low, pointing out the herd to the camera. I explained how to read their movements, how to pick the right target.

I planned to take just one—for the challenge. No need to be greedy.

I laid out my plan, talking about conservation and respect for the animals. Only what I needed, never more.

I flicked a few non-lethal cards to disrupt the herd’s formation, especially targeting the bull and letting out a bit of my presence. Time to see what he’s got.

I explained the technique, how to use pressure and movement to separate the strongest animal. The chat buzzed with excitement.

Sure enough, it charged at me. I kept flicking cards to provoke it and lured it toward my home. Come and get me.

I ran, dodged, and weaved, narrating my every move. The cameras struggled to keep up, but I made sure to stay in frame.

Bleeding from the cuts, the bull soon lost its nerve and tried to flee. I dodged nimbly and brought my axe down. End of the line.

One clean strike, and the bull dropped. I knelt beside it, offering a quiet word of thanks.

In minutes, the bull was dead, its huge body collapsing. Heavy, but manageable.

I explained how to process such a large animal, how to use every part. The chat was awestruck.

The cameras caught the whole hunt. Got it all on tape.

I made sure to give them the best angles, showing off my skills without giving away too much.

As usual, I hid my true strength, split the bull in half, and carried it home. Easy does it.

I pretended to struggle, making it look just plausible enough. The chat debated whether I was secretly a superhero.

I spent a day demonstrating my butchering skills on stream, then headed to the small animal den. As expected, it was a rabbit warren—over 30 rabbits. I set a trap and caught them all. Rabbit city.

I showed off my trapping techniques, explaining how to set and check snares. The chat took notes, eager to try it themselves.

I’d been craving spicy rabbit legs and fried rabbit for ages. Finally.

I described my favorite recipes, promising a cooking stream soon. The chat filled with drooling emojis.

While gathering firewood in the woods, I made another great find—there were grouse here, which meant eggs. Score.

I pointed out the signs—scratched earth, scattered feathers. I explained how to set live traps without hurting the birds.

I set live traps and caught over 20, mostly hens, and housed them in one of my cabins.

I built a little coop, showing how to care for the birds. Fresh eggs were a luxury I didn’t take for granted.

With land food sorted, I needed fish before the river froze—fish are full of fat, crucial for winter. Can’t forget the omega-3s.

I explained the importance of fat in cold climates, how it kept you warm and fueled your body. The chat debated their favorite fish dishes.

I shared my plan on camera, sparking more online debate. Let’s see who’s right.

I laid out my gear, showing off my homemade net. The chat buzzed with predictions and bets.

“Anything Huntress Lane says now, I believe.”

“Pretty sure she doesn’t have a net—I want to see how she fishes.”

“For net fishing, go to Marcus’s stream—he catches an 18-pound salmon every day. He’s called the Fish King.”

“Fish King? Wasn’t Marcus the Rabbit King before? Now that title belongs to Huntress Lane.”

“Harper’s fans are so aggressive. Only five contestants left—they’re all strong, no need for trash talk.”

Besides me, only four others remained, each with their own survival style. Competition was fierce.

I gave a rundown of the competition, praising their strengths. The chat picked their favorites, debates raging in the comments.

Marcus, the so-called Fish King, had over 50 fish and some plants. Not bad.

I described his setup, the neat rows of drying fish. He was methodical, precise.

Beckett, the former Rabbit King now Squirrel King, had over 20 rabbits and 40 squirrels, with steady daily catches. Squirrel stew, anyone?

I admired his persistence, even if his diet seemed a little monotonous. The chat joked about squirrel recipes.

Another was Nina, a female survival master—an all-rounder with 20+ fish, a dozen rabbits, and edible plants. Impressive.

I respected her balance—she was smart, resourceful, and tough as nails. The chat cheered her on, hoping for a showdown.

The last was Mike, a tough guy who killed a wolverine with a single blow—he’d also taken down a musk ox with an arrow to the gut, and had a net for occasional fish. Guy was a beast.

I described his skills, admitting he was my biggest rival. The chat buzzed with predictions about our inevitable clash.

He was the one to watch. No question.

I kept an eye on his stream, learning what I could. The competition pushed me to be better.

The next morning, viewers saw me working new fibers into a net—didn’t expect that, huh? Always got a trick up my sleeve.

I explained the process, showing how to twist and knot the fibers. The chat was full of questions and admiration.

I didn’t plan to just toss the net in and wait. From the river’s current and the fishy scent, I figured a school would pass soon, heading for warmer waters. Timing was everything.

I explained how to read the water, how to predict fish movements. The chat debated my chances.

I set my net at the river mouth, one end tied to a log on the bank, the other weighted with stones.

I demonstrated the setup, making sure the camera caught every detail. The anticipation was palpable.

Sitting by the river, I chewed on my homemade spicy beef jerky—super chewy, just the right heat. After a bite, I sipped cranberry juice from a wooden cup. Life was good. Could get used to this.

I shared my jerky recipe, showing off the rich color and texture. The chat begged for a taste.

Viewers saw my laid-back scene. Just me, the river, and a pile of snacks.

“I always have to order food when watching Huntress Lane—she’s always eating something new. Monday, beef stew with wild greens; Tuesday, beef pot roast; Wednesday, a whole rabbit feast—spicy legs, roast, fresh soup; Thursday, steak with her own sauce…”

“Stop, you’re making me hungry. While the other contestants ration food, Huntress Lane is living it up.”

“Harper’s great on land, but her fishing’s weak. Sitting there, does she think fish will just come to her?”

The fishy smell grew stronger—fish were coming. I popped the last of my jerky in my mouth and stood up. Showtime.

I sniffed the air, grinning. "Showtime," I whispered to the camera.

A huge school swam toward the net. I didn’t pull it up right away, but set a second net downstream. The fish panicked, trapped between the nets.

I explained the strategy, showing how to funnel the fish. The chat buzzed with excitement.

I slipped into the water, tied the bottoms of the nets together, swam through the school, and hauled the nets ashore.

It was hard work, but I made it look easy. Fish flopped everywhere, the chat erupting in disbelief.

Hundreds of fish flopped on the bank—must’ve been over 1,500 pounds. I tossed the small ones back, keeping about 1,100 pounds, and stored them in my other cabin.

I showed off the haul, explaining how to clean and store fish for the winter. The chat was full of fish puns and congratulations.

With outdoor temps dropping, storage wasn’t an issue. Nature’s fridge.

I explained how the cold acted as a natural freezer, how to layer ice and snow for preservation. The chat debated the best ways to cure and smoke fish.

With food and firewood stocked, I kept busy. I’d spotted northern falcons and was using rabbits to lure and try to tame one—needed a hobby. Why not?

I explained the process, showing how to set bait and build a simple blind. The chat was skeptical but intrigued.

Killing a falcon was easy, but catching one alive wasn’t. Challenge accepted.

I admitted the challenge, talking about patience and respect for wild creatures. The chat cheered me on.

I hid for days, studying their patterns, set a trap with my rabbit bait, and finally caught one. Training it was deeply satisfying—even though I’d missed out on gourmet meals for five days, seeing the falcon perched on my shoulder was worth it. Totally worth it.

I introduced the falcon to the camera, naming her Sky. The chat fell in love instantly.

Two months later.

The world had changed—snow blanketed everything, the days were short, the nights endless. I kept the fire burning, my spirits high.