She also tried digging.

Just yesterday, she put on a pair of thick leather gloves, took her survival axe, and went to a depression overgrown with spruce trees.

She didn't attempt to chop at the iron-hard frozen earth with the axe blade—it would only ruin the axe. Instead, she used the back of the axe, hammering it forcefully against the ground like a hammer.

"Clang! Clang! Clang!"

A dull thud echoed through the woods; each strike numbed her grip, and the result was despairing.

After half a day of effort, all she managed was a shallow pit less than twenty centimeters deep on the ice-and-snow-mixed surface.

She had to stop, looking at the ridiculous shallow pit and her slightly trembling hands, a profound sense of powerlessness and long-lost panic enveloped her.

Now, this coastline had locked all its resources in an ice-sealed vault, and she didn't have the right key—what she needed was a pickaxe, not an axe.

She recalled stories told by old hunters in her childhood in Siberia about the harshest "white disaster" years, when heavy snow blocked everything.

Even the most experienced hunter would exhaust all their strength in endless waiting and searching, becoming part of this white barren land, just like her situation now!

"No, I can't die here." Vonia suddenly stood up, wiping her face with the back of her gloved hand.

Vonia forced herself to suppress those negative emotions; panic and despair were enemies more terrifying than hunger.

Once again she faced the camera, her eyes regaining a hunter's calm and sharpness.

"I made a mistake." She was either self-reflecting or warning her future self.

"Relying too much on a single, unstable food source, and in times of abundance, forgetting to plan for the worst for the future."

"Now, I must pay for my mistakes by taking more risks and exerting more effort."

She carried the heavy axe and trudged back to her shelter.

As it got darker, she had to cautiously avoid the tide cracks covered by floating snow along the coastline, treading carefully with every step.

Her camp was a cleverly constructed semi-underground hut, built into a depression in a massive rock with moss, branches, and soil.

It was warm and hidden, once her proudest creation, a symbol of her intelligence. But now, it felt more like a cage imprisoning hunger and cold.

Back in the shelter, she used the axe to crack open a few mussels she had previously mined from the ice, taking out the pitifully small bits of meat, and tossed them into a pot blackened from smoke.

Then she retrieved some "food" of hers from a corner, collected over the past two days.

These were frozen black plant roots she had laboriously dug from beneath the snow, exuding a strong earthy scent.

There were also a few pieces of pale pink inner bark scraped from the spruce trees, providing a bit of carbohydrate but mainly tough and unbearably bitter fibers.

She tossed everything into the pot, added snow water, and then took some red embers from the fireplace to slowly ignite a small pile of wood.

With the flames rising, she stir-fried the inner bark, and a strange aroma began to permeate the compact space.

It wasn't the aroma of food, instead, a mix of earthy and bitter scents, tinged with a faint sea brine.

Once nearly fried, she added water, stirred it with a wooden spoon, and after simmering for a while, ladled the murky "life-sustaining soup" into a wooden bowl.

The soup was bland and tasteless, leaving a lingering earthy bitterness, while the mussel meat was so small it was almost undetectable in the murky liquid.

The roots and bark remained tough despite frying and boiling, as hard to chew as soaked wood.

Without any expression, Vonia drank this bowl of concoction or rather forced it down her throat.

The burning sensation of hunger in her stomach was temporarily suppressed by this warm liquid yet had not vanished.

It was like a dormant beast, ready to awaken anytime to devour her sanity with renewed intensity.

After drinking the soup, she leaned against the cold stone wall and closed her eyes. Hunger dulled her thoughts but sharpened certain memories intensely.

It was as if she returned to her childhood, in that little village in Siberia during the winter hunting festival, where the whole village was engulfed in merry celebration.

Bonfires blazed, the air filled with the scent of roasted venison, rich blood sausage soup, and the sweet aroma of berry wine brewed by the women.

Her father handed her a juicy piece of roasted venison leg, the tender, powerful red meat infused with grease and spice was the most delightful taste in her memory!

"Meat... I need meat..." This thought echoed in her mind like a magic spell.

Her eyes abruptly opened, a determinate gleam flashing in them. She could wait no longer; staying put meant only a road to death!

She knew if she found no new source of food tomorrow, her last hope would remain solely in the bow.

She had to go on the offensive! Vonia stepped out of the hut, fixing her gaze towards the far-off, increasingly ominous-looking forest under the sunset.

She planned to venture deeper into the woods to discover a new hunting ground. She didn't know what lay ahead; perhaps new hope, or perhaps deeper despair. But she had no other choice.

Facing the camera one last time, there was no trace of earlier dejection, replaced by determined calmness.

"In my homeland, there's a saying: When the forest is silent, the hunter must roar."

"Now, the forest has gone silent, concealing all its gifts. So, it's my turn to make it speak again with my footsteps and my arrows."

"The energy I stored up might sustain me for a long-distance tracking hunt—this is my final chance!"

She gently caressed the arrows in the quiver as if caressing her children.

"I will head west into the forest where I discovered bear dung once. The terrain is more complex there, meaning there could be more animals or more danger."

"If I can find prey before it gets dark, I can continue the challenge. If not..."

She paused and then forced a weak smile.

"Let the forest decide my fate! My ancestors survived this way—I won't let them down!"

She inspected all her gear, shouldering the heavy axe, the multi-function pliers at her waist, and her most precious ranged weapon, the recurved bow and quiver with only 8 carbon fiber arrows left.

At that moment, Vonia's eyes regained determination. She was a hunter, and the hunter's fate was to seek life in the wild until the very end.

She took a deep breath, adjusting the fur scarf around her neck, intending to enter that further forest tomorrow!

And on the southern edge of the coniferous forest, Kelly's situation was even worse than Vonia's.

If Vonia's plight was "resource depletion," then Kelly's despair was "betrayal of tools."

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(I read it several times carefully, it shouldn't be just filler—I dare to humbly request for monthly votes! I, "Cold Year in the Mountain Dwelling," am fighting for votes, got it?)