'Fussy people die': how a trumpet player, a spy and a snake changed my life

I spent three nights in the wilderness with a cruise ship trumpet player, a former British spy, a raptor keeper, two snipers and a snake named Lucifer - and I survived to tell the story.

The red-hot Northern Territory sun has long set over the unforgiving tropical bushland somewhere south of Darwin, and mosquitoes are buzzing relentlessly around my face, when the entree for my dinner is served - wiggling, live mealworms. The light the campfire casts on my face is just a little too bright to allow myself to flinch. Now is not the time to show weakness. I am one of 10 participants of a three-night Bushcraft Survival Course.

The instructor, Gordon Dedman, is a professional trumpet player on cruise ships that sail the world, but also happens to be a former Commando, and the survival consultant for the TV show Alone - Australia, in which daredevils and outdoor enthusiasts get dropped off on their own in a remote part of wilderness and have to survive for as long as they possibly can.

Dedman's assistant is a former ringer-turned tour guide-turned raptor keeper - the birds-of-prey-kind, not Jurassic Park style.

The other participants - a French artificial intelligence specialist who goes by the name of X, two snipers, a former British spy, army and navy vets, a father with his teenage son, and an ecologist who knows every plant by its Latin name. To say I am the odd one out is an understatement. I am the only woman. The journalist whose survival skills are mostly limited to taking a spare pen to the next interview in case I lose the first one.

Dedman drops some wiggling worms in my hand. "Fussy people die," he says, matter-of-fact. He isn't wrong. In a survival situation the choice between eating worms and not eating at all isn't really a choice.

I turn away from the fire towards the darkness so nobody sees me cringe.

Anyone who has ever shared a meal with me knows that the dictionary definition of 'fussy' has my photo on it. For a moment, I consider 'accidentally' dropping the worms. But what would be the point of that? I am here to test my limits, to learn how to get myself out of a bush-misadventure and to challenge myself.

Turns out, live mealworms won't be my favourite meal of all time, but if they are cooked they are surprisingly tasty. I am not sure if I go for seconds (and thirds!) because I am hungry or because they really are that good.

For 74 hours, our little band of hopeful wannabe-survivors has swapped comfortable beds, hot showers and air-conditioned homes for the harsh Top End heat, in a bid to learn how to light fire without matches or lighters, set up an emergency shelter with nothing than a poncho, navigate using the sun, the moon and the stars, find and purify water, and generally avoid becoming the subject of a news story beginning with the words 'A major search and rescue operation is underway ...'.

My confidence in my survival skills is low. I struggle finding my vehicle in the supermarket car park. Chances are slim I will find my way back to civilisation if I ever got seriously lost.

About six hours into the course, I think of the Alone contestants who tap out and want to go home after 24 hours in the wilderness. I am not sure I will even last that long. The other participants have shared their bush experiences and military stories, and Dedman talks about his time as a Commando in the Australian Defence Force.

Everyone is better equipped for being here than me.

Max, ex-Military, who is sitting next to me, seems to sense my trepidation.

"Are you okay? Do you regret being here?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Sometimes I question my life choices," I admit.

"This isn't a wellness retreat," Dedman says and I can feel his eyes on me. "Some of it is a mental game. Some of it is resilience training. I call it purposeful discomfort.

"There will be really early mornings and really late nights. But when it gets tough, I want you to remember that bad times pass. Just as good times pass."

I pull myself together.

Dedman talks about wanting to get people out of their comfort zone. Well, finally a bill I fit. I am as far out of my comfort zone as I possibly can be.

"I will teach you the hard way of doing things, to set you up for success," Dedman says. "Everyone can light a fire with a lighter and some dry leaves. But knowledge and skills trump equipment, always. Yet, equipment is what many people fuss about the most. But batteries die, technology fails. In our quest for comfort, we've stopped ourselves from being able to do basic things. Most of us are spoiled beyond recognition."

His words hit home. I know I am fussy. I am spoiled. I like my aircon on a hot day.

And this is when the game changes. I want to be able to do basic things. I want to fill my head with knowledge and skills, instead of buying the latest technology and equipment. I want to learn from a place of 'purposeful discomfort'.

"How you train is how you fight," Dedman says, and I make a silent pact with myself to train as hard as I can.

One of the first lessons is how to tie knots to set up ropes which will hold up our shelter. I quickly work out that 'if you don't know knots, tie lots' doesn't work out here. But Dedman's sheer endless patience and the hands-on learning environment seem to be conducive to better learning outcomes. Soon I help one of the others tie one of the knots I didn't know myself only a short while ago.

Lighting fire without matches or a lighter is a different story. Dedman drums fire safety and respect for the land into us, before we collect dry grass and bark of a Paperbark tree to make tinder bundles. With a knife and a ferrocerium rod - a survival fire-starting tool that can throw sparks as hot as 3000 degrees - we light a fire. With 'we' I mean everyone else. I try. And try. And try some more. Dedman corrects me - how I hold the rod, how I hold the knife - yet, at the rate I am going, I will be eating tonight's dinner uncooked.

"Light your fire with three strikes (of the ferro rod) or less," Dedman says to the others. In a survival situation, with impending rain, every minute counts.

I count my own 27 attempts before Dedman steps in to go through the crucial steps again, this time holding my hand - literally - to light my tinder.

The others have lit and extinguished their fires and followed Dedman's 'leave no trace' rules and returned the ground to what it looked like earlier, long before I see my first flame.

"How you train is how you fight." Dedman's words echo in my head as everyone breaks for lunch. I grab some food and stare at my unlit tinder bundle as if I could set it on fire by glaring at it with enough anger and embarrassment at my own failure. As I can't say them out loud, I write swear words in my notebook. In capital letters. And then I do what I came here for - to challenge myself and light a fire without matches. I am just as surprised as everyone else when my ferro rod spark sets the dry grass alight. It has only taken five strikes this time.

Lessons continue in the tropical heat, shaded by a few trees and an ex-military parachute that unfolds above us like the dome of a cathedral.

Looking back at restless hours in school and university classrooms, I realise I have never enjoyed learning more than out here in the open, with a teacher who seems naturally gifted at instilling knowledge in his students. Dedman doesn't just talk about a topic - he integrates real-life stories, written information, images, relevant book recommendations and hands-on learning to make sure his lessons stick.

"Aim to be pedantic," he says. "The Aussie mentality of 'she'll be right' doesn't fly when push comes to shove."

We learn about protective clothing, how to set up an emergency shelter, and the importance of basic medical preparedness - crucial in remote areas where help might be hours away. In a bid to illustrate the importance of snake bite first aid skills, Dedman brings in a wildlife ranger and his trusty snake, Lucifer. While the chances of getting killed by a snake are statistically low, they are never zero. I think of the Katherine woman who died of a snake bite only last year and pay extra attention to the demonstration of bandaging a bitten limb.

"Anything a band-aid can fix is probably not worth worrying about," Dedman says at the end of the first aid session. For a moment, he sounds harsh.

But when the former Commando shares true accounts of people who have perished in the wilderness due to not knowing basic first aid and survival skills, there is nothing harsh about him. He shows genuine compassion and sadness at the avoidable tragedies - truly reminding us why first aid skills can be lifesavers. Band-aids, however, don't rank high on my survival equipment list anymore.

On the first night, we are allowed to sleep in outdoor accommodation of our choice. Some have brought nothing but a tarp, others a hammock or a mozzie dome. My bright orange tent couldn't stand out more if it tried. I haven't used it in years and can't actually remember the last time I camped somewhere that wasn't a caravan park surrounded by civilisation.

Sleep doesn't come easy that night. But not because of my unusual sleeping arrangement - somewhere in the middle of nowhere, with a bunch of snoring strangers nearby in the scrub - but because of a wave of excitement about really being here, learning so many new skills from the place that Dedman calls "purposeful discomfort". It works. I have already learned more in the past 12 hours than all last year. A lot of it is about myself. Resilience. Endurance. Mindset.

The second day starts as the first light touches our camp and early birds start their song somewhere in the trees above us.

We huddle under the classroom parachute, some more tired than others, brew in hand and toast on the fire.

Dedman recaps yesterday's lessons and talks about useful plants that would likely keep us alive if we were stranded in the bush for a longer period of time.

"Plants don't run very fast," Dedman jokes. "They're easy to catch."

But it is not food we need to worry about. Out in the oppressive Aussie heat, finding water would be our greatest, and most urgent, challenge.

Dedman takes us for a walk to move today's classroom to a new site. I can smell the water before I can see it. It smells murky and rank. When we gather around the tiny billabong that is not much bigger than a puddle, it looks just like it smells. I wonder if an animal has died in it recently. Gross!

"Your disgust level is equivalent to your survivability," Dedman says. Ugh, can he read my mind!?

Meticulously, Dedman shows us different ways of collecting and purifying water, after discussing the rough guidelines of the 'Rule of 3s': Humans can go three minutes without air, three hours without shelter, three days without water, three weeks without food and three months without companionship.

I take a sip from my bottle - three days without water aren't starting today. But then my mind wanders to chocolate and biscuits. Three weeks without food would be awfully long.

That afternoon, we put our knife skills to the test when we carve wooden tent pegs. I stare at the large outdoor knife Dedman hands me, and think of my (for personal safety reasons) tiny kitchen knife at home. I really don't want to add cuts to the rope burn and blisters on my hands. Ten minutes later, proudly waving my pointy tent pegs in the air, I probably look like I am about to go on a vampire hunt, but I don't care. I have never carved anything useful out of a piece of wood and here I am with three pegs (I cut the tip off the fourth by accident).

We use the pegs to set up a new shelter. Tents and last night's sleeping arrangements get packed up and out come the hoochies - military-style tarps, strung up between two trees and tied to our handmade pegs. Dedman talks about the importance of tension and angularity that will ensure our shelter withstands rain and wind. I am glad it won't rain tonight as I look at my - slightly crooked - set-up.

That night, long after the sun has set and just as everyone starts showing signs of fatigue, Dedman gets up. "Let's go for a walk."

In single file we march through the scrub, following each other's dim torch light. On a clearing we stop. "Look up," Dedman says. All necks bend backward - above us the Milky Way sits high in the sky. Any city slicker would be jealous at the amount of stars we can see. All tiredness is gone when Dedman points out constellations and stars and teaches us celestial navigation.

I feel like my chest is about to burst with awe and wonder. Under the wide open sky, the reality of the situation is sinking in: I have swapped my cosy home for a truly challenging adventure with a group of strangers. And I am still here. I am really doing it, and I actually can do it. A strange sense of unknown confidence fills me.

Later, when I crawl into my sleeping bag under my hoochie, I can still see the stars through the trees. I realise the bush no longer feels like something I need to endure. It feels like somewhere where I can belong. One of the Alone contestants once said surviving in the wilderness wasn't a fight against nature - it was the challenge of learning how to live with it and being a part of it. It makes sense to me now.

The next day commences with lessons under the parachute again. We learn how to use a stick to find north with the help of the sun, and how to - successfully - signal for help; a crucial step in the aim of being rescued.

During a cross-country walk we discuss the value of being able to differentiate nutritious plants from poisonous ones.

Under a star-filled Territory sky, we share kangaroo meat and vegetables. And in that moment, professions and formal qualifications suddenly don't matter anymore. What matters is something Dedman hopes to see in his students - a connection to nature, and being present in the moment.

The following day, after three nights in the bush, our final test awaits: Find north using a sun stick, build a shelter, light a fire and boil a litre of water - in 20 minutes.

The pressure is on - just like it could be in a real-life survival situation with fading light or onsetting rain.

I put my sun stick in the ground and, knowing that my fire lighting skills are still to be mastered, prepare my fireplace with sticks and tinder. One strike. Two. Three. Four. Nothing. I dart off to collect some more dry grass and some paperbark, and redo my tinder bundle. It catches fire with just one strike. I am so surprised that I forget to quickly put it on my stick pile and burn my hand. Dedman isn't wrong when he says nobody should think they have acquired skills until they actually have tested them under pressure.

With my fire lit, I turn my attention to my shelter and quickly tighten a rope between two trees. I have mastered my knots! But, of course, I have forgotten to feed rope through the grommets of my space blanket, which will be my shelter. Skills do go to crap under pressure!

As I untie my rope, I glance at my fire - and my heart drops. I've forgotten to put extra timber on to keep the flames fed. The fire has died to nothing but ash and a tiny piece of timber that is still glowing. I madly fan air to the stick and blow on it in the hope to reignite it. Ash whirls through the air and into my eyes. But the flames return and I quickly stash sticks on it to get my water to boil.

Ten minutes are up and I haven't achieved anything yet. I take a deep breath. I need to focus. I retie my rope, this time with my shelter attached, and hammer my tent pegs into the ground. Tension and angularity matter. My water starts boiling. I call for Dedman to check my set-up and use my pre-prepared sun stick to find north. "Are you sure you didn't use a lighter," he jokes as he sees my fire burning. The joy - and pride - of achieving the goal in less than 20 minutes is immense.

As I leave, some people stay on for an extra four nights to complete Module II of the full bushcraft survival course. One of them hugs me goodbye and says: "I'm a bit torn between wanting to stay and wanting to go home like you, to a hot shower, a comfortable bed and an ice cream."

As I start my car, the air conditioning automatically kicks in and blows cold air on my skin. The radio starts playing my favourite songs. Modern-day pleasures - for the first time in almost four days.

I have only made it a few kilometres down the road as the sun starts setting. As the landscapes are bathed in hues of orange and purple, I realise I am not torn. I don't actually miss my home with a hot shower, a comfortable bed and an ice cream. I pull up on the side of the road and watch the sun dip below the horizon. I turn off the aircon, and wind down my window. I miss the oppressive Aussie heat that was filled with so many new impressions and adventures.

I turn off the radio. I miss the birdsong and the crackling sound of the campfire.

And I am going to miss the friends I made in an experience that was unlike anything else I've ever tried.

I went into the wilderness with two pens, a bunch of strangers and no clue, and returned with lifelong friends, new confidence, and a soul filled with adventure and thirst for knowledge.

I lost both pens. But I survived. And somewhere along the way something in me changed. Out there in the bush, I didn't just learn to light a fire without matches. I realised that getting out of my comfort zone and doing hard things might be just the best way to grow, if not the only one.

And the experience ignited a spark that reminded me how much I love learning new things. Because, like Dedman says, skills and knowledge trump technology, always.

I have no plans to audition for Alone - Australia. But I am planning to foster what Dedman hopes his courses instill in people: a sense of connection to the Australian bush, less reliance on technology, stewardship for the environment, and an eagerness to learn more outdoors-focused skills. Course dates for the 2027 Bushcraft Survival Australia season - Dedman's 10^th year - will be released soon. And I will be signing up for at least one of them.