Note: This is a fictional survival guide. For the non-fictional survival guide, see How to Survive in an Arctic Environment.

Synopsis

Brad is back—yep, the same Brad who survived the Sahara Desert, where he almost became a human raisin and somehow befriended a camel. But surviving a scorching desert wasn’t enough to satisfy his adventure-hungry friends, who, in a fit of jealousy (and probably boredom), dared him to take on something even more extreme. “You think sand’s bad? Try ice, buddy!” And because Brad’s decision-making process is highly influenced by peer pressure and the occasional double-dog dare, here he is: in the Arctic.

Imagine this: Brad, who normally battles code and system crashes, is now facing wind chills so brutal they make his Wi-Fi outages look like a walk in the park. The cargo shorts? Long gone, replaced by layers of thermal gear that make him look less like a daring explorer and more like a puffy marshmallow on legs. His trusty gadgets? Well, they froze solid faster than you can say, “North Pole.” But Brad, always the optimist (or maybe just too stubborn to turn back), is ready to face the Arctic tundra head-on—if he can figure out which way is “head-on” in this endless snow globe.

This time, there’s no camel waiting to save the day. Instead, Brad’s survival skills will be tested by frosty wilderness, polar bear paranoia, and the challenge of building a snow shelter without turning into an ice sculpture. Armed with armpit-warmed snacks and a general misunderstanding of how cold works, Brad’s mission is simple: don’t freeze, don’t die, and if possible, don’t embarrass himself too much. But hey, if he manages to make it out alive, it’ll be one heck of a story to tell back home—assuming his fingers don’t fall off from frostbite first.

Day 1: Arrival and Regrets

It turns out, peer pressure is a powerful thing. One minute, I’m back home in Silicon Valley, smugly recounting my desert adventure, feeling like a survival expert after narrowly avoiding dehydration and befriending a camel in the Sahara. The next, my so-called friends are calling me a coward for not taking on something even more extreme. “If you think the desert was hard, why not try the Arctic? Let’s see how you handle ice instead of sand,” they said. And like the overconfident idiot I apparently am, I thought, “Sure, why not? How bad could it be?”

Fast forward to today: I’ve just stepped off an icebreaker ship, and I’m already considering how many bad decisions it took to end up here, in the middle of the Arctic, freezing my face off. The moment I set foot on solid—well, icy—ground, the wind hits me like a slap across the face. And not a gentle slap. More like the kind that makes you question your life choices. Within seconds, my glasses fog up, my fingers start tingling in a not-so-fun way, and my breath? It freezes mid-air, forming tiny ice crystals that feel like I’m inhaling shards of glass. Awesome start.

But I’m here now. Too late to back out, and honestly, I wouldn’t even know which way to go if I did. Everything looks exactly the same: white, flat, and endless. My GPS, which I thought would be my lifeline, had other plans. It’s frozen solid. Apparently, cutting-edge technology doesn’t do well in -40°C. Should’ve read the manual.

I take a deep breath (which, again, feels like a thousand tiny needles in my lungs) and try to get my bearings. Not that there’s much to bear. It’s just ice and snow as far as the eye can see. Every direction looks the same, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m inside one of those snow globes, except the charming winter village is nowhere to be found. And the shaking? That’s just me, freezing.

Alright, Brad. Time to channel your inner Arctic survivalist. I’ve read some guides, watched a few YouTube videos—this should be easy enough, right? First things first: shelter. You can’t survive long out here without some kind of protection from the wind, which, I swear, is trying to freeze me from the inside out. I dig through my backpack, which is about as cold and unhelpful as the rest of this place, and find my emergency snow shovel. It’s time to build a snow cave. How hard could it be?

Apparently, very hard.

Shoveling snow is not like shoveling dirt. Snow, in the Arctic, is somehow both too soft and too frozen at the same time. It crumbles when you try to pile it up but is rock-solid when you try to dig into it. After what feels like an hour (but is probably only ten minutes), I’ve managed to create what can generously be described as a “snow pit.” It’s not exactly the warm, cozy igloo I had in mind, but it’ll have to do. I crawl inside, pulling my sleeping bag out of my pack and curling up in it like a caterpillar that never plans on becoming a butterfly.

It’s not warm. I mean, it’s supposed to be a top-of-the-line, Arctic-ready sleeping bag, but when you’re in a place where the air itself is trying to kill you, “warm” is a relative term. I can feel the cold seeping in from the ground, through the thin layer of snow I’m lying on. Note to self: snow makes a terrible mattress.

With my teeth chattering loud enough to scare off any nearby wildlife (not that I’ve seen any), I decide to dig through my bag for food. Energy bars. The kind that’s supposed to give you a quick boost when you’re out in the wilderness. Except these bars are frozen solid. They’re so cold, I could probably use them as building materials for my snow cave. I shove one under my arm, hoping to thaw it out enough to take a bite. Pro tip: defrosting snacks with body heat isn’t as gross as it sounds when you’re this desperate. After a few minutes, I manage to take a bite. It’s still cold, but at least it doesn’t feel like I’m chewing on a rock.

As I lie there, nibbling on my semi-thawed bar and wondering how long it’ll take for my toes to fall off, I can’t help but reflect on how wildly different this is from the Sahara. Back in the desert, it was all about avoiding heatstroke and not becoming a human raisin. Here? It’s the exact opposite. Now I’m trying not to turn into a human popsicle. I guess I should’ve expected as much, but somehow, I wasn’t prepared for the sheer brutality of this cold. It’s like the Arctic is a living thing, and it hates me.

Speaking of hate, the wind outside is howling like a banshee. It sounds like it’s trying to tear my snow cave apart, but so far, it’s holding up. I can hear the snow shifting around outside, which I guess could be a good or bad thing depending on whether it collapses on me during the night. But hey, at least I haven’t seen any polar bears. Yet.

In case you’re wondering, I’m not exactly keen on running into a polar bear. Unlike that friendly camel in the Sahara, polar bears aren’t known for their warm, fuzzy personalities. They’re known for, well, eating things. And I’d rather not become a Brad-flavored snack. So, no polar bear encounters, please. I’m just trying to survive here without adding “fend off hungry apex predators” to my to-do list.

As I settle into my frosty little cave, I start to wonder if I’ll ever feel warmth again. Not the kind you get from a nice campfire—because let’s face it, I’m not starting a fire out here unless I magically find some wood—but the kind of warmth you get when you step inside a cozy cabin after a day of skiing. You know, with hot cocoa and a fireplace. Instead, I’ve got a snow cave, a frozen energy bar, and the creeping sensation that I’m in way over my head.

But hey, I haven’t frozen to death yet, so I guess that’s something. I wrap myself tighter in the sleeping bag and try to ignore the icy draft sneaking through the entrance. Day one, and I’m still alive. Barely. Only three more days to go. Hopefully, I’ll figure out how to actually survive by tomorrow.

Day 2: Brad the Human Popsicle Learns to Layer

If I thought day one was rough, day two was ready to raise the stakes. You know that feeling when you wake up and every part of your body is screaming at you for making poor life decisions? Yeah, that was me, cocooned in my sleeping bag, which—fun fact—had somehow managed to develop frost on the outside overnight. I had never wanted a cup of hot coffee more in my life, but unless I could figure out how to magically conjure one from the snow around me, that wasn’t happening.

The wind outside was still howling, but I figured I couldn’t stay buried in my snow pit forever. I needed to get moving, maybe even figure out where I was going. First order of business: put on every single layer I own. I had read about the importance of layering to stay warm, but I was starting to think I might have misunderstood how much layering would be required.

I shuffled out of the sleeping bag and immediately regretted it. The cold hit me like a freight train. My face felt like it had been slapped by a glacier, and my hands—despite the gloves—were already starting to go numb. “Okay, Brad, you’ve got this,” I muttered to myself through chattering teeth. “It’s all about the layers.”

Let me tell you, the art of layering is not as simple as it sounds. First, there’s the base layer, which, according to the survival guide, is supposed to wick away moisture. Moisture? What moisture? I hadn’t sweated since I got here—probably because my body was too busy trying to not freeze solid—but whatever, I pulled on my trusty merino wool base layer. It felt like wrapping myself in an itchy, slightly uncomfortable hug, but at least it was warm-ish.

Next up: the insulating layer. This is where I was supposed to “trap body heat” and stay nice and toasty. I reached for the fleece jacket I had packed, praying it would do its job. Putting it on felt like adding a fluffy, slightly damp blanket to my already oversized marshmallow-like silhouette, but hey, if it keeps me from freezing, I’ll take it.

Finally, the outer layer. This one’s supposed to protect you from the elements—windproof, waterproof, basically the thing that stands between you and turning into an Arctic statue. I pulled on my Gore-Tex jacket, zipping it up all the way to my chin, and jammed my hat down over my ears. Gloves? Check. Scarf? Double check. I looked like I was about to waddle onto the set of Frozen: The Real-Life Survival Edition, but I didn’t care. If it kept the cold out, I was happy to look ridiculous.

Suitably layered, I crawled out of my snow cave, blinking against the blinding white landscape. The sun was just starting to rise, casting a pinkish glow over the snow. It would have been beautiful if I wasn’t so focused on staying alive. As I stood there, taking in the freezing cold desert around me, I realized something important: I had no idea where I was or where I was going.

I pulled out the GPS again, hoping that maybe, just maybe, it had decided to cooperate today. It hadn’t. It was still frozen solid, and I could practically hear it mocking me from inside my pocket. Fine. No GPS? No problem. I’d just rely on my survival instincts. The problem? I didn’t really have any.

The first thing I remembered from the survival guide was that I needed to keep moving. Staying in one place for too long would just make me colder. But where to go? The guide had mentioned that in the Arctic, navigation could be tricky, especially with the “flat light” conditions that make everything blend together. No kidding. The snow stretched out in every direction, featureless and endless, and I couldn’t tell where the ground ended and the sky began. It was like being stuck inside a giant snow globe, except there was no tiny village or Christmas tree in sight. Just me, some snow, and probably a polar bear lurking somewhere, waiting to eat me for lunch.

The guide had also mentioned the importance of staying hydrated, even if you don’t feel thirsty. Apparently, the cold can trick your body into thinking it doesn’t need water, which is the quickest way to end up dehydrated and even more miserable than I already was. So, I did the sensible thing and pulled out my water bottle. I took a sip, and it immediately turned into an icy slush. Nice. At this rate, I’d have to melt snow for water. Good thing I packed a portable stove.

Oh wait. The stove was also frozen. Of course.

I sighed, realizing that the Arctic wasn’t just trying to freeze me—it was actively sabotaging me at every turn. I couldn’t get a fire going, so I had to resort to plan B: keep moving and stay warm. I remembered reading that building snow walls could help block the wind and protect you from the worst of the cold. So, with nothing better to do and nowhere to go, I got to work.

Building a snow wall is a lot harder than it sounds. It’s basically like trying to build a sandcastle, except the sand is ice, and it hates you. But I’m nothing if not persistent (or maybe just stubborn), so I spent the next hour stacking snow into something that vaguely resembled a barrier. It wasn’t pretty, but it was better than nothing. As I huddled behind it, trying to stay out of the wind, I congratulated myself on my newfound Arctic survival skills. Sure, I hadn’t figured out how to start a fire or navigate the frozen wasteland, but I had a snow wall. Baby steps.

I sat there, huddled behind my wall, munching on another armpit-warmed energy bar, and thought about how much easier this would have been if I’d just said no to my friends. I could be at home right now, sitting in a warm office, coding away, with a hot coffee in my hand and zero chance of being eaten by a polar bear. But no, I had to prove I could handle the Arctic.

And here I was, cold, tired, and desperately hoping that I wouldn’t freeze to death or be mistaken for a penguin by some curious predator.

Bottom line: Day two, and I hadn’t befriended a polar bear, but I hadn’t frozen solid either. Small victories.

Day 3: Becoming a Human Snowball

Waking up on day three in the Arctic is like winning a prize you never wanted. My body feels like it’s been encased in ice overnight, and my brain is still trying to understand why I’m here, as if somehow I can blame this on a bad dream. I peek out of my sleeping bag—still frosted over, by the way—and immediately feel the sting of cold air on my face. The temperature hasn’t budged. It’s still at that special place between “frozen” and “why am I alive?”

I do my best to stretch, though my joints have apparently taken a vacation to Stiff-ville. The one upside? At least I’ve gotten used to the constant chill. Well, maybe not used to—more like, I’ve accepted that this is my life now. “It’s fine, Brad,” I mumble to myself. “You’ve survived worse.” Except, have I? At least in the Sahara, the sun was trying to kill me in a slow, predictable way. Here, it feels like the cold is actively plotting my demise, one frostbite at a time.

After some struggle, I wriggle out of my frozen cocoon and gear up for the day. I layer up, as always, and shuffle outside. My snow wall is still standing, which is probably the closest thing I’ve got to an accomplishment out here. The wind has died down a bit, and for the first time in days, I can hear… nothing. Absolute silence. It’s eerie, but kind of cool in a way. Not that I want to stick around and enjoy the quiet for too long—I’ve got things to do, like not freeze to death.

First on the list: navigation. I can’t stay here forever, and frankly, I have no idea where “here” is. The GPS? Still frozen. The sun? Barely there, just a dim glow in the overcast sky, not exactly helpful for figuring out which direction is which. The survival guide had warned about this—how in Arctic terrain, the lack of contrast and the ever-present snow can make it feel like you’re in some kind of icy twilight zone. Flat light, they call it. Basically, everything looks the same, and you can’t tell if you’re walking on flat ground or about to step into a hole.

I need a plan. I remember reading that in the Arctic, you should use natural landmarks to navigate. Problem is, there are no landmarks here. No trees, no rocks, no mountains—just snow, snow, and more snow. The survival guide also said something about using the wind to help guide you. Apparently, the wind usually blows in a consistent direction here, so if you keep track of it, you can use it as a kind of Arctic compass.

I look around, trying to figure out where the wind is coming from. Naturally, it’s the one thing that’s decided to change directions on me. Thanks, Arctic. You’re really making this easy.

But I’m not giving up. I’ve seen enough survival shows to know that the worst thing you can do is just sit around waiting for help. You’ve got to keep moving, keep your blood flowing, and hopefully stumble across something useful—like a research station or a helicopter full of hot cocoa. Or, you know, just anything that isn’t snow.

With no GPS, no landmarks, and no real sense of direction, I decide to do what any reasonable person would do in this situation: guess. I pick a direction that feels “right” (because clearly, that’s a reliable method) and start walking. At least the physical activity is keeping me warm. Sort of.

The walking is slow, and the snow isn’t exactly helping. Every step sinks into the snow up to my knees, turning what should be a normal walk into some kind of sad Arctic obstacle course. My legs are burning from the effort, but I push on. The survival guide mentioned that staying active is crucial, so I guess I’m doing something right.

After what feels like hours of trudging, I realize I’ve walked in a giant circle. I’m back at my snow wall. Great. I’ve officially become a human snowball, rolling aimlessly in circles. It’s like the Arctic is laughing at me.

But I’m not ready to give up. I need to keep moving, even if I’m just doing laps around my own snow cave. The guide said that dehydration is still a danger, even in freezing conditions, so I stop to take a sip of water. The water bottle, which I kept close to my body, is still semi-liquid, so at least that’s working. The guide also warned about hypothermia, which I’m now paranoid about. I do a quick check—fingers, toes, nose—all still attached and functioning, if a little cold. I’m not freezing to death just yet, but I’m close enough that it’s a legitimate concern.

As I trudge along, something catches my eye in the distance. Is it a polar bear? I squint, heart pounding for a moment, but no—it’s just a rock. A regular, old rock sticking out of the snow. I’ve never been so happy to see a rock in my life. Finally, something to use as a landmark. I practically sprint (okay, I shuffle faster) toward it, marking it in my mind as the starting point for whatever direction I decide to walk next.

The survival guide said that navigating icy terrain requires careful planning and constant awareness of your surroundings. Right now, I’m mostly aware of how cold my feet are and how much I miss being warm. Still, I take the guide’s advice and make mental notes of any other features—snowdrifts, shadows, whatever I can use to keep myself from walking in another circle.

As I walk, I think about the other tips I’ve read. Apparently, if I do see a polar bear, I’m supposed to make myself look big and intimidating. Ha! I’m about as intimidating as a snowman. But the guide did say that making noise could help scare off any curious bears, so I make a mental note to scream like a banshee if I need to. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.

After hours of walking (or what feels like hours), I spot something in the distance. It’s small, but it’s moving—could it be? A person? Rescue? I squint harder. Nope. It’s just a snowdrift, blowing in the wind. Classic Arctic.

I sigh and trudge back toward my snow wall, defeated but not broken. Day three, and I haven’t made any real progress, but I haven’t frozen to death, either. There’s still hope. Tomorrow, I’ll try again. Maybe the GPS will thaw out. Maybe I’ll find a research station. Or maybe I’ll just become the Arctic’s first human snowball champion. Either way, I’m not giving up yet.

Bottom line: Day three, and I’ve mastered the art of walking in circles. But hey, no polar bear encounters, so I’ll take it as a win.

Day 4: Brad vs. the Arctic Finale (And Still No Polar Bear)

Waking up on day four in the Arctic, I could barely feel my face. Or my fingers. Or my toes. I checked—yep, they were still there, but barely hanging on. It had been three days of battling the cold, and while I wasn’t dead yet (yay?), I was beginning to wonder if that was just the Arctic’s long-term plan: to freeze me so slowly I wouldn’t even realize it until I was a permanent snow sculpture.

I wiggled out of my sleeping bag, which at this point felt like an ice coffin, and did a quick inventory. My water bottle: frozen solid. My snacks: also frozen. My will to survive? Somehow still kicking, even though I was pretty sure I’d lost a few IQ points to hypothermia. Today was going to be the day. Either I’d find my way out, or I’d become one with the snow forever.

I geared up again, going through my now-routine of layering up like a human onion. Base layer, insulating layer, outer layer—check, check, check. My face was practically glued to my scarf, and I was starting to wonder if I’d ever feel my nose again. At least the wind had calmed down overnight, giving me some hope that today might not completely suck.

The survival guide had drilled into my head that if I was lost in the Arctic, the key was to keep moving. Sitting still equals freezing. So, I forced myself out of my little snow pit, which was looking more and more like my personal igloo of despair, and decided to head in a new direction.

I didn’t have high hopes, though. Yesterday’s little “let’s walk in circles” adventure was still fresh in my mind, but I couldn’t just sit around and wait to be rescued. So, I picked a new direction, eyeballed my surroundings, and hoped for the best. I was determined not to end up back at my snow wall again, which I had come to resent for its smug, immobile presence.

As I shuffled through the snow, I remembered something crucial from the guide: wildlife. Specifically, polar bears. I hadn’t seen one yet, but I wasn’t about to get cocky. The guide had made it clear that polar bears are apex predators and probably wouldn’t think twice about snacking on a lost computer programmer. In fact, I was sure I’d make an excellent hors d’oeuvre. My goal for the day was clear—find civilization and avoid becoming bear chow.

To avoid being surprised by a polar bear, I started doing what the guide had suggested: making noise. I stomped harder in the snow, hoping that any bear in the area would hear me coming and decide I wasn’t worth the trouble. I wasn’t sure how good polar bears were at recognizing “human stupidity,” but if they could hear me talking to myself, maybe they’d steer clear.

“Hey, polar bears,” I muttered under my breath, “I’m just passing through. I taste terrible. Probably all stringy from the cold.”

I kept walking, forcing myself to stay alert, even though I was mentally and physically drained. My legs felt like lead weights as I trudged through knee-deep snow. The guide had also mentioned pacing myself—slogging through snow burns a ton of calories, and I was pretty sure I was running on empty. Maybe polar bears had it right. Maybe I should just hibernate.

But before I could entertain the idea of curling up in the snow and taking a permanent nap, I saw something on the horizon. Not another rock, not a snowdrift—this was different. This… was moving. Fast. My heart leaped into my throat. Rescue? Could it be? A snowmobile, maybe? Or better yet, a helicopter?

I squinted, trying to make it out through the bright, endless white. It wasn’t a person, though. As it got closer, I realized it was a sled. A dog sled. And sitting behind the sled, bundled up like an Arctic pro, was a figure. Rescue had arrived. Or at least, I hoped they weren’t here to scold me for wandering around the tundra like an idiot.

I waved my arms like a madman, trying to catch their attention. “Hey! Over here! I’m not dead yet!” I shouted, my voice cracking from days of Arctic air abuse. To my immense relief, the sled veered in my direction.

As they got closer, I realized this was no rescue team—it was a local. An Arctic survivalist, judging by the way they effortlessly handled the sled and didn’t seem to be freezing to death like me. The sled dogs were barking, and the person—wrapped head to toe in furs—pulled up next to me with an amused look in their eyes. I could barely see their face behind the layers of scarves and goggles, but I could tell they were laughing at me, not with me.

“Well,” they said, their voice muffled but clearly full of humor, “looks like you’ve been having quite the adventure.”

I nodded weakly. “Yeah… you could say that. I haven’t befriended any polar bears, though. So, I’ve got that going for me.”

They chuckled and motioned for me to hop on the sled. “No need to befriend the wildlife out here, buddy. Let’s get you somewhere warm before you turn into one of them.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. With the last bit of energy I had, I scrambled onto the sled, feeling the immediate relief of not having to trudge through the snow anymore. The dogs barked and took off, their paws skimming over the snow like they were born for this. Which, I guess, they were.

As the sled sped across the Arctic tundra, I leaned back and let out a sigh of relief. I’d made it. I had survived four days in the Arctic without becoming a human popsicle or a polar bear’s dinner. Sure, I had been lost, frozen, and on the verge of total mental collapse, but I was still here. Still alive. And still no polar bear friends. Just the way I liked it.

As we rode off into the endless white, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Who knew a guy who could barely handle debugging code could survive in the Arctic? Maybe next time, I’d pick a vacation that involved a beach. Or at least something that didn’t involve survival guides and frozen water bottles.

Bottom line: Day four, and I finally got rescued. No polar bears, no frostbite, and no more cold deserts for me. Ever.

The End (Or Is It?)