Free Tracks of the Tiger by Bear Grylls Page A

scuttle away as he laced up his shoes. He smiled, grateful for the advice his father had given him about always checking inside your shoes first thing in the morning.
    He bent over to touch his toes, then stood up straight and rotated his arms like a windmill for a few seconds. A stab of pain reminded him of his cut: he needed to change the bandage. Meanwhile he felt the blood and energy start to flow back into his sleepy muscles.
    Beck was pleased to see the water collectors were brimming with clear, fresh water.
    Peter twitched and stirred. ‘Ugh.’ His mouth was dry and sticky; he had to swallow a couple of times just to be able to speak. ‘Aching. And thirsty.’
    â€˜Better get up, then. There’s plenty of water.’
    While Peter got up, Beck filled the bottles from the collectors. As he carefully poured out the half-bamboos’ contents, he savoured the glug-glug sound.
    Beck passed a bottle to Peter, who drank almost half of it in a couple of swallows.
    â€˜I could just keep drinking and never stop.’
    â€˜You’re not wrong,’ Beck replied. ‘We need to drink whenever we can. The humidity means we’re going to sweat a lot. It’s like a steam bath already and it’s only going to get worse. You only need two and a half per cent less water in your body to make it twenty-five per cent less efficient, and we’re going to need all our strength today.’
    â€˜So . . .’ Peter quickly did the sums in his head. ‘Ten per cent less water and you just grind to a halt.’
    â€˜I think you’d be dead before then.’
    â€˜Yeah, but think of the advantages. If you had ten per cent less water – or even less than that – you could be sort of freeze-dried. Then someone else carries you through the jungle and they just add water at the end of the trip to restore you.’
    â€˜Keep having good ideas like that,’ Beck promised with a straight face, ‘and you’ll be a millionaire before you’re twenty.’
    â€˜I’ll cut you in on the deal,’ Peter assured him. ‘I’m also going to launch a new range of jungle survival food. Lizard tails, still in their own skin, available at your local supermarket. I’ll grow them in vats.’
    â€˜Yeah?’ Beck rummaged in his pack for the crowbar. ‘Don’t forget the new, healthy jungle breakfast range. More protein per ounce than beef.’
    Beck’s smile widened as his friend’s froze. Reality crowded in on Peter’s fantasy.
    â€˜And that would be . . . ?’ he asked reluctantly.
    Beck led the way over to a fallen log near their camp. The outer layers of bark were rotten and loose. He dug the crowbar in and levered them off. A few dozen insects and grubs scuttled and writhed around in protest.
    â€˜Insects. Of course.’
    â€˜You’ve eaten them before,’ Beck pointed out. In the Sahara they had eaten spiders, grubs, scorpions . . .
    â€˜Well, yeah, I’ve also fallen off my bike and broken my arm before. Doesn’t mean I want to make a habit of it,’ Peter replied, quick as a flash.
    He came over and looked down at the breakfast spread without enthusiasm. Then he sighed and picked up a large grub between thumb and forefinger. ‘What’s this one?’
    Beck studied it. It was as thick as a finger, a translucent blue-white, and curled like a prawn. ‘Beetle larva, I think. Don’t eat the head. Hold it there and bite the rest of it off.’
    â€˜OK, here goes . . .’ Peter screwed his eyes shut and bit into the larva. He chewed it and swallowed, eyes still closed.
    Beck remembered the very first time he had tried eating grubs. It had been in Australia – how could he ever forget the feeling in his mouth – the slight resistance of the flesh before it burst between his teeth, the explosion of goo, like rotting fish. And of course, Beck’s