We Were Once Wilderness Men

The Algorithm Knew First

In the summer of 2022, YouTube looked into my soul and whispered:

“You belong in the woods now.”

I didn’t question it.
The algorithm knows.

My feed morphed into:

• 70% wild camping content
• 20% dads building cabins with their kids
• 10% suspiciously serene gear reviews

A curated wilderness fantasy:

• Dads catching trout with their bare hands
• Kids building log cabins with IKEA-level confidence
• Every second video titled something like “Primitive Shelter in the Rain (Father-Son Edition)”

One channel — Outdoor Boys — went straight into my bloodstream. Every episode was basically:

Dad + Son + Knife + Fire + Fish = Wholesome Masculinity

Josh and I binged them like they were survival-themed TED Talks. And eventually, we said the words:

“We could do that.”

Not “We should try that.”
That’s cautious.
That’s grown-up.

“We could do that” is raw, uncut male confidence. The kind of confidence that leads to wars, broken patio furniture, and very expensive sporks.

The Gear Spiral

Here’s the thing about modern masculinity:
If you’re going to pretend to be feral, you need equipment.

So I bought things.

We bought:

• Backpacks large enough to smuggle livestock
• Tactical water filters (in case a river ran through our campsite)
• A titanium spork that cost more than some people’s dignity
• Unused thermal base layers that made me feel like I was joining the Navy SEALs
• And of course… the collapsible tactical poo shovel

We had no clue what we were doing.
But we looked like we did.
Which is arguably worse.

Practice Makes Mildly Concerning

We tried a test run in the garden.
Almost set the decking on fire.

Googled “how to tell if animal poo is fox or badger” —
which was apparently relevant to our survival strategy.

Built the tent in the living room.
Broke a lampshade.
Scratched the ceiling.

We should have taken it as a sign.
Instead, we took it as progress.

The Expedition Begins

We picked a spot on the map that looked remote.
It wasn’t.

But wilderness, like confidence, is 90% illusion and 10% stubborn trespassing.

Josh was 17.
Trying to prove he could handle it.
I was late-thirties.
Trying to prove I still had it, whatever it was before my knees started clicking.

The bags were heavy.
The shoes were new.
The weather: wrong in all directions.

We stopped for tea.
The stove took 14 minutes to boil a cup that tasted like hot radiator water.

Josh tried a freeze-dried meal. His review:

“Like chewing insulation foam dipped in regret.”

Eventually, we found a “perfect spot.”
Flat-ish. Hidden-ish. Definitely-someone’s-field-ish.

The Night: A Descent Into Mild Madness

I didn’t sleep.
Not because of cold.
Not because of the freeze-dried lasagne that tasted like damp cardboard and salt.

I didn’t sleep because I was waiting for…

The Farmer.

Not a farmer.
The Farmer.
The mythical being who haunts all British men who accidentally wild camp on slightly-too-perfect land.

He had a torch.
He was furious.
He was coming to either kill us or sternly ask us to leave.

At 2:11am I considered writing an apology letter in advance — just in case we had to flee in the dark and he needed closure.

Meanwhile, Josh slept like a woodland monk.
Completely at peace.

I was in full cortisol opera mode.

The Hour of Fox-Based Doomspirals

At one point, a fox or badger screamed.

I Googled “UK trespassing law” under a sleeping bag, with 4% battery left.
All I learned was: if they don’t shoot you, they can technically ask you to leave.

Comforting.

Josh and I shared our first beer together in that field.
It was raining.
There were sheep.
It was like a sad indie film without the soundtrack.

We didn’t speak.
Just stared into the void, waiting for morning to save us.

The Escape

At 5:13am we packed up in silence, like men...

No one came.
We weren’t arrested.
We weren’t inspired either.

We walked back to the car blistered, damp, and slightly ashamed.

Then we laughed.
Because obviously it was a disaster.

Josh said:

“I’d do it again.”

I said:

“I need physiotherapy and possibly a new spine.”

The Gear, Revisited

Everything we bought now lives in a sad pile in the garage:

• The backpacks
• The tactical filter
• The titanium spork (still smug)
• The poo shovel, still unused and somehow judging me

It sits there like a £300 shrine to blind optimism.

And every time I see it, I think:

We really thought we were wilderness men.

And honestly, for one night… we were.

Not good ones.
Not brave ones.

But real.
Present.
Together.

And maybe that’s what matters.

Post-Credit Life Lessons (That I Will Ignore)

• Don’t trust men on YouTube with knives and cheerful sons
• If you can hear sheep, assume you’re trespassing
• Titanium sporks are not a personality
• Freeze-dried meals are lies
• Sometimes the point is to fail together and laugh about it later