Incompetent Man vs. Wild: We sent our reporter on a Bear Grylls survival course. Did he make it back alive?

BEAR Grylls has opened an Aussie ‘survival academy’, which strands its students in the wild to teach them all sorts of crazy skills. That includes unusual bush cuisine.

Our intrepid reporter ... Oh wait, no, that’s Bear Grylls.

BEAR Grylls, the British adventurer most famous for skolling urine in the TV show Man vs. Wild, has opened an Australian version of his “Survival Academy” just north of Sydney.

The 24-hour course, located at Glenworth Valley, promises to teach people “the ultimate in self-rescue skills” by stranding them in the wilderness.

We sent young, reckless and horrendously unfit reporter Sam Clench on the course to see whether he could make it out alive. This is what happened.

We felt it was time to wipe that smug grin off his face.

DAY ONE

I prepare for my impending ordeal by sleeping in, eating a Tim Tam for breakfast and ordering a cappuccino. Obviously, I was born to live in the bush. A few hours later, I arrive at Glenworth Valley, along with four more victims ... sorry, I mean survivors.

The setting for our hellish test of character is actually quite picturesque. Other, more fortunate souls use the facilities for horse riding, abseiling and kayaking. They know nothing of the dangers lurking a kilometre or two away.

Doesn’t look so bad, does it?

We’re introduced to two instructors, a strapping young Aussie lad named Andy and an Englishman called Rob. The latter casually chews on a cricket — given his nation’s performance at the World Cup, I presume he prefers the insect to the sport — as we fill our rucksacks with only the most basic necessities. These include food, water, a sleeping bag, a head lamp and some “extra strength ultra-whitening” toothpaste. Regular toothpaste is for wimps. We also spray on several hundred layers of mosquito repellent, though we suspect it won’t be enough.

When everyone’s ready, Rob and Andy lead us away from civilisation and into the wilderness. That music from Lord of the Rings is blaring in my head. It’s all very epic.

A completely accurate reconstruction of the event.

Our first task is to cross a (very narrow) creek, using a fallen tree as a bridge. Sounds simple, right? Just stand on the trunk and stroll across like it’s the balance beam in a primary school gymnastics class. But apparently, Bear Grylls knows of a better way.

Rob tells us to sit down, straddling the trunk, before inching our way to the other side. This method invokes the elegant, understated image of a dog feverishly scratching its bum on the floor. The instructors insist it’s safer than potentially falling into the creek, but the future children getting squashed betwixt my loins disagree.

Sometimes it’s uncomfortable to have something big between your legs.

After briefly learning how to create a compass using sunlight — in short, with a couple of sticks and a lot of confusion — we move on to a better subject: food. Andy points out a pair of fat, juicy-looking ducks waddling across an open field. Normally, I would feed the ducks. Maybe, for once, they can feed me.

Just as I’m really coming around to the idea, Andy tells us we’d expend too much “precious energy” chasing the ducks, and instead directs us to a group of ... plants.

The plants are called bulrush, and apparently, they’re edible. You just need to wade into swamp water that rises to your knees, dig your hands into their roots and yank them out. As I discover, this results in horrendously squelchy socks, though the stench of the swamp arguably makes my feet smell better than usual.

This is bulrush. Some of it is edible. Nutritious even. But not delicious.

Only a small part of the bulrush, right down the bottom, is worth eating. It’s not what I’d call tasty either. So, in search of a more exciting alternative, we decide to ask about poo.

You see, above all his other exploits, Bear Grylls is infamous for ingesting excrement. He’s drunk his own urine, foraged for fruit in bear dung, and squeezed the appetising brown liquid out of elephant faeces, all for our viewing pleasure.

So the question is this: If you’re going to eat poo, and there are several different options on the table, should you choose human or animal poo for your dining experience?

“The first s**t you should eat is human s**t,” Andy says, going on to explain that human excrement is less likely to contain harmful bacteria. I’m glad we cleared that up.

Bush hats are undeniably stylish.

Thankfully, better options than plants or faeces are yet to come. Well, maybe not better. But other options are yet to come.

Our next stop is a termite mound at the edge of the woods. “Insects have more protein, pound for pound, than beef,” Andy says, taking a small stick and digging into the mound. Eventually, a termite pops out to investigate the disturbance, and climbs onto the stick. Moments later, he’s somewhere in Andy’s digestive system.

We all enjoy a termite or two, discovering they’re too small to taste like anything, let alone anything unpleasant, before Rob calls us over to look inside a plastic container. It’s full of squirming mealworms. How wonderful.

Ominously, Rob tells us we should chew the worms before swallowing them, “for our own comfort”, but I find they’re surprisingly easy to eat. You could even shovel them in by the handful. Given a few years and a fair go, bags of mealworms could conceivably replace popcorn as the snack of choice in cinemas.

Rob prepares to consume a meal worm. Such bravery. England’s cricketers could learn a thing or two from him.

Thankfully, there were plenty to go around.

I won’t lie though: A diet of termites, mealworms and bulrush does leave one feeling a little underfed. And it’s not easy to get your hands on anything more solid.

For instance, you can’t just eat any berries you find in the bush, because they might be poisonous. Andy walks us through the annoyingly long process of testing them:

1. Smell the berries. If they smell like freshly cut grass, almonds or peaches, don’t eat them, even though two of those three things are objectively delicious. Granted, almonds are not;

2. Rub one of the berries on the inside of your elbow, then wait for 45 minutes. If you experience a bad reaction, such as a rash, don’t eat them. Otherwise, move on to step three;

3. Rub a berry on your lips, and wait for another 45 minutes. If there’s no adverse reaction, move on to step four;

4. Rub a berry on your tongue. Wait for, yes, another 45 minutes. Clearly, if you’re going to eat berries, you need Malcolm Turnbull-esque patience.

5. If you’ve still had no bad reaction, eat a small handful of the berries. Andy suggests doing this just before sleeping. When you wake up, “if you haven’t vomited and you haven’t crapped your pants,” you can eat more. What a lovely turn of phrase.

Alternatively, you could try to catch an animal using a trap, but it’s illegal unless you’re in a genuine survival situation. Everyday hunger doesn’t count.

You bait this trap using something tasty, like peanut butter. When an animal investigates, the log falls on it.

This one is designed to catch fish. Generally works better if you hang it over water.

That’s presuming you even have the skills required to make traps, which are more complicated than the musings of an undergrad philosophy student.

First, Andy and Rob teach us how to tie a variety of knots, all of which are impossible. I choose to blame my podgy fingers. Too many Tim Tams, not enough termites.

Thankfully, the next part is far less fiddly, and also gives me an excuse to play with the fancy Bear Grylls Survival Knife in my rucksack. It’s much like an ordinary knife, but with extra survival. We carve notches and points into sticks, which we find on the ground using our incredible situational awareness.

Theoretically, the sticks and knots can be combined to form traps like the ones pictured above. Needless to say, I did not create those traps. Someone with a skerrick of competence did that.

This knife does pretty much everything except time travel.

Anyone who gets this Monty Python reference deserves to receive a free survival knife. And a hotplate! And anyone who gets that Simpsons reference deserves a solid pat on the back.

Later, we settle down in the clearing where we’ll be spending the night. Using some poles, a tarp and those knot-tying skills I still don’t possess, we pull together a couple of shelters. They are fine shelters. Strong and sturdy, but cosy and welcoming at the same time. They are constructed to stand the test of time, like the pyramids of Giza or the temples of the Yucatán.

Presenting the eighth wonder of the world.

OK, that might be pushing it, but we’re fairly sure they’ll be able to withstand a few (light) gusts of wind.

The last remaining task before bed is to start a campfire and cook dinner. Conveniently, the Bear Grylls knife comes with a flint. Inconveniently, I’m not very good at setting things on fire. Arson is not a viable future career path for me.

Even so, the theory is easy enough to grasp. First, you create a bed of flammable material, then in the middle of that, you place the tinder, which for us is a green, wispy substance called “old man’s beard”. I’m assured it was not actually stolen from the chin of an elderly person.

When everything’s ready, you scrape your knife against the flint, creating sparks and hopefully setting the whole bundle on fire.

I got to this stage ...

... but not to this stage.

Between the seven of us, we do manage to get a fire going. Dinner is cooked in a pot over the flames, and it’s perfectly edible, because the instructors helpfully thought to bring along some lamb, carrots, mushrooms and potatoes. I can’t think of a more authentic bush meal. Ahem.

After that, it’s time to sleep. Considering the situation — a bunch of stinking, snoring men in sleeping bags, lying centimetres away from each other — things go pretty well. I’m only awake for half the night, conscious of the fact that the moment I go to sleep, the mozzies will feast.

They did teach us how to navigate using the night sky — these candles represent stars — but it went in one ear and out the other. Which is a polite way of saying that I have a shoddy memory.

DAY TWO

We’re woken urgently at 6am, before the sun has risen, not because an army of crazed wombats is bearing down on us, but because Rob and Andy want to make us exercise. Urgh. There’s jogging, followed by squats and burpees. I’m puffed, and ravenously hungry too — until I see our packaged breakfast.

Apparently, it’s supposed to contain bacon, or at least a bacon-like substance. Now, I’m very well acquainted with bacon. You could call me a bacon aficionado. And I’m telling you, the brownish chunks inside my packet are not bacon. They are not bacon-like. They are to bacon what Kristen Stewart is to expressive acting: a poor and disconcerting imitation.

I never thought I’d eat anything that would make me yearn to put poo in my mouth instead, but this breakfast almost did the trick.

Bring back the mealworms.

Today is going to be more active, Andy warns. We’ll be scaling “Heart Attack Hill”, climbing rocks, abseiling, commando crawling and then “yomping” through a swamp to the end of the course. I wonder why I bothered to change into dry socks. And whether “yomping” is a real word. Apparently it is.

It takes half an hour to march up the hillside, but we all get there without any serious heart problems. The instructors have set up a simulated vine climb — a rope, hanging from the top of a rock face, which we must use to pull ourselves up. Luckily, I’m not really scared of heights, though on a tangential note, I’m becoming very concerned about the mozzie bites all over my body. And I really do mean ALL over my body. They’ve begun to look suspiciously like chickenpox.

Anyway, climbing up is the easy part. Abseiling back down requires much more technique. I almost flip over and kill myself, provoking a healthy burst of smartarsery from ground level.

“You almost turned upside down there. That would’ve been fun,” Rob says, chuckling. No, it bloody well wouldn’t have.

From the bottom, it looks dangerous. From the top, it looks ridiculously easy.

This is how it should be done: The right way up.

Back at the bottom of the hill, we find a long rope tied between two trees. Bad sign. Somehow, I sense that more genital discomfort is looming.

Sure enough, we have to “commando crawl” across the rope, pulling ourselves along on our stomachs. The friction that creates in a certain area is ... unpleasant.

Spare a thought for this man. He is suffering.

After conquering the rope (but at what cost?), we find ourselves back at the campsite. Only one challenge remains: a mad dash through swampland to the finish line.

Now, jogging is bad enough. It shortens your breath and makes you tired. Not nice at all. But imagine jogging through something that stinks like manure, and stretches for hundreds of metres in every direction. That’s our path.

The trek takes about an hour. We’re forced to wade through water up to our thighs, our boots sinking deeply into the mud. Everything’s drenched. My socks are squelchy again. We smell awful. And yet, it’s actually quite fun. I finally know how pigs feel when they’re rolling around in the dirt.

Eventually, we make it back to the tent from which we set out the previous day. My first act as a certified survivor is to change into a clean pair of jeans, stopping only to remove a few leeches that had managed to attach themselves without drawing my attention.

Unfortunately for everyone else, I’m still hours away from the nearest available shower.

Be thankful that photos don’t convey smell.

The course was informative and surprisingly fun. Importantly, I now know how to eat in the wild without having to feast on my own excrement, which will definitely be helpful when I get stranded for hours, alone, in Sydney’s Centennial Park. Speaking of which, Rob and Andy reckon more city slickers should learn survival skills, even if they don’t spend any time in the bush.

“Hopefully it’s being a little bit inspirational to people, to get them off their backsides,” Andy says. “If you can get out of your comfort zone and be successful now, you can take that later into your life.”

As someone who most certainly does spend far too much time on his backside, I couldn’t agree more.

Sam attended the Bear Grylls Survival Academy at the invitation of Destination NSW.