Wilderness Survival Books Fiction Novels & Stories

Then there were his psychology books and books on wilderness craft. His gaze fell on a small cluster of volumes of English literature, some that Faith had convinced him to try. While he couldn't bring himself to read them, he hadn't been able to part with them, either. The top shelf held an extensive collection of contemporary bestsellers, and it was one of those he chose, a mystery thriller, as he heard the first roll of thunder. "Yep, Bear, it seems like a 'dark and stormy night' kind of night." He gave the dog a pat as he settled down in his chair.

I was walking through the Poison Mist forest at night with a torch and looking for the plants or animals that might have antidotes to the poison. By the light of the flickering fire, I quickly identified the plants I saw. The books World Geography and Medicine Encyclopedia were a big help. I was able to identify most of the plant names and confirm whether they had medicinal value. The book Warrior Combat Skills also helped me a lot. It taught me how to avoid dangerous creatures that hide in the dark. With a torch in my left hand and a dagger in my right, I kept my ears alert for any sounds around me and carefully avoided the nests of wild animals.

’ I asked hopefully and he shook his head and then groaned; I was startled. ‘Are you okay, Uncle?’ he raised his hand, motioned me to sit. ‘I am fine, it’s just that I forgot the book I was thinking of bringing.’ I looked at him confused. ‘Book?’ he nodded. ‘It is about white wolves. I don’t know how council found that book, but I had seen it once in the library, however, never opened it. I will send it to you after going back, just remind me okay.’ Although we don’t know what is written inside the book I still hope we can find any help from it and a little would be enough for us right now.’ Lilith excused herself, she had been busy with some work leaving me and uncle alone, I was grateful f

And every night, I heard howls in the distance: rogues, wild animals, or worse. But I kept moving north. Always north. The compass became my lifeline, and my mother’s journal my constant companion. Each night, new instructions appeared on its pages: how to start a fire without matches when mine ran out, which plants were safe to eat, how to hide my scent trail from pursuing wolves. You’re doing well, my brave girl,* the journal read on the third night. But your body is reaching its limits. Tomorrow, you’ll need to rest. There’s a safe place ahead: a clearing with a freshwater spring. Stop there.

The air felt heavier now, as if it carried more than moisture—something invisible and watching. His backpack lay half-buried in the sand, soaked but intact. He fished out the leather-bound notebook he’d carried everywhere since he was thirteen—the one with the stories, the nightmares, the dreams he could never fully explain. Inside were drawings of forests that bled, oceans that whispered, and a woman with hollow eyes and hands covered in roots. He had drawn her before he ever heard of WildWood. Before he heard the name Emily. Before he knew that she was family.

He's not Bell, there's no camera crew here, and he's watched wilderness survival programs that add up to no more than 10 hours, have no standard Swiss Army knife, no lighter, no antibiotics, don't recognize poisonous insects and herbs, don't know what can be eaten and what can be used, and don't know how many days he'll be able to live on his own if the rescue is too slow. But it's in those 10 hours of limited knowledge that Ethan Brooks remembers the saying that after dark, shelter is far more important than food and water.

I wandered through the compound until I found myself in the library, as usual. I browsed the shelves for a while before pulling out a thick book about the northern territories. The book was old, the pages yellowed and crinkled with age, but the hand-drawn illustrations were still beautiful. I got comfortable in one of the chairs near a window and began to read. Most of the content was about trade routes and pack histories, but one chapter caught my attention. It described the far northern mountains—the ones beyond the Thornwood, where no one ever set foot.

I missed my mate, my freedom, my friends, Kailin, and everyone at the vineyards. I watched a series about a group of delinquent kids born in space and dropped to Earth to see if the air was already breathable. I finished Episode twelve, and when a particular character pissed me off, I turned it off and went to read something in the study. There were some fiction books, but primarily old books from Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, and Herman Melville. There were self-help and meditation books and a book about mystical creatures. I walked out of the study. If she allowed me to read a book about witchcraft, it might interest me, but that would be as dangerous as walking into the darkness without

"Do you know any other stories about wolves that I might like?" "Oh, there are so many great ones!" she says, her eyes lighting up. "Have you ever read 'The Call of the Wild' or 'White Fang' by Jack London? They're both classics about the wilds of Alaska and the life of a wolf. Or 'Never Cry Wolf' by Farley Mowat - it's a nonfiction book about a biologist who studies wolves in the Canadian Arctic.” “Calm down!” I laughed. “You know a lot. What are you? A beta wolf?” I joked and Lauren laughed.

She raised her hand and with her index finger she brushed the books, reading their titles. There were some that said "satanic pacts" others like "the call of the devil" "the forest and its hidden side" "small town legends" "werewolves and the full moon" and the last one said "Wisconsin Cases". Camila took out that last one, the book was big, it had a red cover with the image of the town itself. But that image was in black and white, as if it was taken years ago.