[STORY] We trained for this, Survival mode ON

Last weekend was supposed to be just a chill hiking trip.

You know, fresh air, mountain views, maybe a couple of Instagram stories with “#OutdoorsLife” and “#TrailVibes.”

But survival doesn’t always send you a calendar invite—it just shows up unannounced.

I drove up with my friend Tunde. We had our camping gear, survival knives, water filters, first aid kits, and a couple of MREs (because prepping content on TikTok got to me—don’t judge).

The sun was blazing golden through the trees as we parked at the trailhead. Birds chirped like a Studio Ghibli opening scene, and I said,

“Bro, this is going to be the easiest hike of our lives.”

Tunde laughed, “That’s what every hiker says before National Geographic comes to film their documentary.”

We hiked for about two hours, snapping pictures, joking about starting a YouTube survival channel, and debating whether gold is a better investment than ETFs. Random, but that’s our vibe.

Then it happened.

The clouds rolled in fast—like, horror-movie fast. Rain poured, the trail turned into mud soup, and my phone signal died quicker than a meme stock crash. Suddenly, the forest didn’t look friendly—it looked like it was swallowing us.

“Relax,” I said, forcing a smile. “We trained for this. Survival mode ON.”

We found an old log cabin hidden behind some ferns. At first glance, it looked abandoned. Broken windows. Ivy crawling up the walls. That eerie, too-quiet vibe. But it was shelter, and in survival, shelter is priority #1.

Inside, the cabin smelled like wet wood and old memories. There was a dusty fireplace, a few rusty lanterns, and… a half-burnt journal on the floor.

Tunde picked it up. “This looks like something from a horror podcast.”

I read the scribbles aloud:

“If anyone finds this, don’t stay after dark. It comes when the fire goes out.”

I froze.

Tunde chuckled nervously. “Gen Z horror-core marketing, I swear. Probably some camper trying to go viral.”

Still, I wasn’t laughing. I stacked wood, struck my firestarter, and got the flames going. Survival 101: fire means warmth, safety, and hope.

We cooked ramen in our camping pot and pretended everything was fine. But deep down, I was scanning shadows.

Then—thud.

Something moved outside. Heavy footsteps, circling the cabin.

Tunde whispered, “Please tell me you packed a machete.”

I whispered back, “I packed two.”

We sat in silence, watching the fire like it was our last line of defense. The footsteps got closer. The doorknob rattled.

I gripped my survival knife tighter.

And then… the door creaked open.

But instead of some monster, it was… a soaked hiker, maybe mid-30s, shivering like a leaf.

“Please,” he said, voice cracking. “My camp washed away. I’ve been lost for two days.”

Relief crashed over us. We pulled him in, gave him a thermal blanket, and shared ramen.

But here’s the twist.

When the fire burned low and we added more wood, I saw the man’s eyes flicker—like he wasn’t just cold. Like he was hiding something. Then he leaned closer to the flames and whispered:

“You kept the fire alive. That’s the only reason I’m still… me.”

Before I could ask what he meant, he smiled—too wide—and the wind outside howled like it knew his secret.

I looked at Tunde, and Tunde looked at me. For the first time ever, I wished we’d invested in more than just stocks and gold. Because in that cabin, the real investment was fire—and keeping it alive.