Grylls, an ex-British Special Forces soldier, has built a
successful franchise out of torturinghimself in the name of
human resilience. If you’ve ever turned on theTV to see a
square-jawedman swimmingamong icebergs,pickinga fire
antoutofhiseyeordiningonaratnose,itwasprobablyhim.
Meanwhile,moreandmorepeoplearesigningup forBG-
brandedgetaways,includingone in theCatskillMountains,
in upstateNewYork. “It may hurt a little,” the brochure
said, but this vague threat was trumped by the disclaimer
form, whose caveats included: “injuries receivedmay be
compounded or increased by negligent rescue operations.”
How could I resist?
Therewere,Iwastold, sixotheramateuradventurers join-
ingme.The itinerary involved three days learning survival
techniquesatacamp,followedby twodays ina remotearea,
left to our own devices. “You’re gonna be tired,”aBG rep
had toldme.“You’regonnabehungry.You’regonnabecold.”
But thereweremorepressingconcerns.The first of these
was bears, specificallyman-eating bears, orman-mauling
bears,oreven looking-at-man-in-a-funny-waybears.Ihave
a bad fear of these creatures. I think it has something todo
withthedissonancebetweencuddlytoyanddead-eyedkiller.
I’d feel a similar discomfort if I were headed into an area
infestedwithmen inBarney costumeswieldingmachetes.
My second worry was the “rugged cliffs” and “craggy
outcrops” I would be expected to “climb.”Recently,while
removing clothes from thedryer,I stumbledbackward into
awall,chippinganelbow.I amawobbler.My inner ears are
allmessedup.Imaginewhat a rugged cliff coulddo tome.
My adventure begins
inLiberty, a small town two
hours north ofManhattan,where I’m supposed tomeet
my ride into thehills (I’vebeenoffered apre-coursenight
inayurt).I’mearly,so Ipop intoagift shop,whoseelderly
proprietor turnsout tobeanexperton localwildlife.“Well,
that’s good bear country,”he says, adding, “What’s your
name, so I’ll knowwhen I read about you in thepaper?”
I leave the shopkeeper chuckling tohimself andhead
out to meet Jeff, a bulky, buzz-cut BG rep who com-
municates almost exclusively inquips.Oneperil outhere,
he tellsme,are“widowmakers,”unstable treesorbranches
that occasionally fall onpeople’s heads.“All I ask is that
you don’t die,”he says. “This is a survival course.”
After an hour or so, we bounce up a rutted path and
intoaclearing.“Ooo-eee!” Jeffhollers into the trees.“Out
here, that means ‘Where are you?’ In the city it means
‘Po-po! Run!’”We’re looking for Claire andWill, two
of the three instructorswhowill be aidingmy efforts to
I
can’t say I have much in common with Barack Obama, other
than the fact that we’ve both faced the prospect of eating
bugs. I refer, of course, to last month’s news that Obama
is to appear on a future episode of the NBC show “Running
Wild,” in which he will traipse around the Alaskan wilderness
alongside celebrity survivalist Bear Grylls. As for why the
U.S. president agreed to subject himself to such an ordeal,
I’ll leave that one to the historians.
