Bartelblog

The idea

In the summer of 2021, I gave myself one year to prepare for a simple yet insane goal: to survive for a week in the Swedish wilderness with minimal equipment.
No fancy tent, no food, no phone. Just a knife, a saw, some fishing line, a hook, a float, a pot, a firesteel, a first aid kit, rope, and a poncho that could double as a tarp. That was it.

The idea came during a year-long coaching program. We had to set three goals: one business, one fitness, and one personal. This was my personal one.
Not because I wanted to “find myself” in nature, but because I wanted to do what I said I would do. There was something raw and primal about it. Something that felt honest.

The preparation

I practiced the essentials. Fire making, fishing, tying knots, building shelters, gutting fish, using a hatchet, a saw, and birch bark to start a fire.
I learned how to use birch fungus against mosquitoes.
But I never practiced in bad weather. I never practiced being alone. And I never practiced doing everything at once.

During the courses I took, the sun always shone. There was always someone around who knew what to do. And there was always a campfire waiting at the end of the day.

When I finally stood at the airport in July 2022, I thought I was ready.
I wasn’t.

The first day

I arrived in Stockholm and traveled to a small bed and breakfast near the forest. I barely slept that night, maybe two or three hours. Nerves.
The next morning, I left without my phone, only carrying a GPS and a compass.
I walked into the forest, far enough that I couldn’t hear anything human anymore. Only trees and the soft crack of branches under my boots.

It was serene.
Until it started raining.

I tried building a small A-frame shelter out of branches and rope. Halfway through, the sky opened up.
I got soaked.
No fire, no food, no water. And rain changes everything. Wet wood is not wood, it is frustration made solid.

I tried for hours, but nothing worked. By evening I was sitting on a rock, hungry, thirsty, and covered in mosquito bites.
And I cried.

It wasn’t a dramatic breakdown. It was more like my body was reacting to what my head still refused to admit.
I felt so completely alone. Not the kind of alone you feel at home, but the kind where you realize that no one would hear you if you screamed.

When darkness came, I had to decide: stay or leave.
I took the last bus back to the city.

The failure

I felt like I had failed, but not in a shameful way.
What I had tried was simply too big.
And that was okay.

Back in the city, I found a hostel that later turned out to have a rating of 2.5 out of 10.
Flickering lights, grumpy people, rubber mattresses, the smell of damp clothes.
But that night I slept like a king. I was just grateful to be inside.

It kept raining for days, so I stayed in the city. I didn’t do much, kept things simple.
When the sun finally returned, I decided to try again.

The second attempt

I went back. To the trees, to the water, to the place where I had failed.
And this time, everything worked.

I set up my tarp, made fire, caught fish, and brewed pine needle tea.
The smoke stung my eyes, but I felt rich. The sun hit my face, and I thought: now this feels right.

That night I slept on a bed of moss, seventy centimeters from the fire.
In the distance, I heard wild boars grunting in the dark.
It was intimidating but also comforting.
I had fire, I had light, I had myself.

I slept in short bursts, maybe fifteen or thirty minutes at a time, waking up to throw more wood on the fire.
But it didn’t feel heavy. It felt alive.

The return

The next morning I packed my things and walked back toward civilization.
When I got to the hostel, the people I shared the room with were sleeping off a hangover from a night out.
And I just felt grateful.

Grateful that I had chosen something uncomfortable, something raw and real, instead of a night of distraction.
It was supposed to be a week of survival, and it turned into one night.
But that one night felt like a victory.

What I learned

I learned how much I rely on other people’s opinions when making decisions.
In the forest, there was no one to ask. I had to decide, alone, and deal with whatever followed.

I learned how deeply addicted I was to my phone.
For a week I didn’t use it, and my brain finally switched back on. I had to navigate on my own, ask strangers for help, find my way, think again.
I had real conversations, spontaneous ones, human ones.

I went to Sweden to learn how to survive in nature,
but what I really learned was how to live without everything that usually fills my life.
And that was exactly what I needed.