I find myself dreaming of my days as a Neanderthal, waking up to a frost-covered skullcap and numb cheeks amidst the whispering leaves that blanketed Bear Canyon. Our goal during our three-day trip was simple: survive as our teachers had taught us. We had “luckily” received four zipper-less sleeping bags to share between the nine of us due to the recently issued freeze warning.
We hiked into the canyon, naïve, anticipating the worst. Our opinions formed around the whispers from previous Southwest Survival students:
“I shivered so violently that my muscles were sore—“
“You’ll probably starve. Your homemade beef jerky and granola will likely run out on the first day.“
“Good luck starting a fire with a bow drill. The Neanderthals didn’t achieve that overnight. You don’t stand a chance.“
With such a positive send-off from our peers, my eight companions and I questioned our abilities and cringed at the thought of a sleepless 72 hours. Despite the admonitions we’d heard, I tried to keep an open mind. I wouldn’t let others’ experiences debilitate or limit my own. We hiked in, some kids lamenting the fatty smell of fries and the juicy cheeseburgers they would miss. Notwithstanding their complaints, I felt a surge of calm hit me like the cold.
During our classes, we had learned the general steps necessary to survival in any situation: within the first three minutes, our only task was to stay levelheaded. The next three hours would be devoted to regulating our environments: we would find or create shelter and keep our body temperatures stable, focusing only on surviving through the night. The next three days would be dedicated to finding water.
As a group, we shared a common desire and a simple goal: warmth. Our first day’s success had left me hopeful, and, although we had only built pine needle-insulated log forts, I felt capable of pursuing larger tasks. We needed leadership and order in this seemingly dire situation. My calm became a necessary aspect to our survival.
All of our fire-starting tools were wooden, carved by hand from branches found in the Bosque. The next morning we focused on our fire, pumping our arms until lunchtime, creating friction between the cottonwood tools as the chilled air teased our bodies. Four hours passed. I gazed longingly into the black soot and noticed a small wriggling ember: a tiny patch of orange, sparking in the dark. We spoke to the tiny being, blowing gently, and soon we sat in front of a laughing fire. I couldn’t believe it – we’d created a source of heat.
Our optimism defined our clarity of mind as a team. I realized that the group needed to erase any possibility of failure in order to unveil its potential. Just as we coaxed the ember, we coaxed each other to develop the will to succeed. We created comfort with our bare hands, proving our capacity of facing the unknown with innovative minds, nimble fingers, and relentless Neanderthal spirits.
I urge you to find your own Neanderthal spirit – get outside, push yourself, understand your limits, and recognize that we are all utterly capable of surviving with very little. My Neanderthal journey helped me to see that my bed full of pillows, my phone, my multiple pairs of shoes, and my daily coffees are all assets of privilege; while I am unbelievably grateful for how they enhance comfortable life, they are nowhere close to necessities for my survival.
