Catching Trout with a Handmade Survival Spear
The morning fog curled like breath over the ground, thin and silvery in the low places. Ragnar moved through it in silence, spear in hand, hunger gnawing at his gut. It had been two days since his arrival in this land. He’d drunk water, built a shelter, and warmed himself by fire. But his belly remained empty.
The blade he had found—sleek and unfamiliar—was strapped to his pack. He still preferred his own. It gave weight to his hand and mind alike. But the modern blade intrigued him. It would serve its test soon.
He followed the deer trails, the ones that dipped into valleys and traced streambeds. Where animals went to drink, there might be fish. He remembered how his uncle had shown him the making of a fishing spear: sharpened stick, fire-hardened point, split tip. Crude, but effective.
He chose a straight sapling no thicker than his thumb and shaped it with his seax, notching the end and wedging in a sliver of rock to split the tip. He bound it with fiber pulled from long grasses, then charred the end in fire until it hardened to his liking.
Near midmorning, he heard it—a trickle, faint but steady. He knelt and pressed his hand to the soil. Damp. He followed it until the stream revealed itself, cutting through a bend of rock and alder. The water was clear, moving gently, shallow but wide enough for fish.
He crouched low behind the brush, eyes scanning the ripples. Minnows darted through the stones. Nothing large. He waited. A hunter does not rush.
Time passed.
Then—a flash. A larger shape moved with the current. Trout. Speckled. He slid into the water, careful not to break the surface with his shadow. Feet planted in cold mud. Spear held low.
He waited.
Another pass. He struck.
The fish thrashed but the spear held. He pulled it free and stepped back, the cold biting into his legs. Blood smeared the wood. He nodded once, silent. There was no triumph—only necessity.
By late day, he had three more. Enough.
Back at camp, he cleaned them with his seax, though he tested the modern knife as well. It sliced smoothly, but too thin—less suited to bone than to skin. He carved a spit from green wood and staked it near the fire. The fish cooked slowly, fat dripping and hissing in the coals.
When he ate, he ate without noise. The flesh was soft, warm, real. His first meal in this place. Not salted, not smoked. Fresh.
He leaned back against a stone, watching the last light fade behind the hills. The stars would come soon. New ones.
He placed the modern knife beside him. It had done its part. But he did not trust it yet.
He licked fish oil from his fingers, wiped the blade clean, and whispered thanks—not to gods, but to the world itself.
It had not yet tried to kill him.
