Memorable moments: The crown jewel crisis

Back in 2014, I joined a Meetup hike in Berowra—a rugged stretch of bushland just north of Sydney that looks peaceful until it isn’t.

In a moment of questionable judgment, I wore open shoes.

About halfway up a steep climb, I suddenly felt a hot, searing stab in the side of my foot—as if someone had driven a red-hot needle straight into it. I looked down and found the culprit: an enormous bull ant, radiating menace and what I can only assume was quiet satisfaction.

The pain was so intense that I briefly began planning my medical future.

Thinking practically (or so I believed), I killed the ant, wrapped it in a hanky, and put it in my pocket—just in case I needed to show a doctor what had nearly ended me.

Fifteen minutes later, now descending the hill and feeling rather pleased with my resilience, I experienced a second, even more alarming sensation.

A hot. Sharp. Stabbing pain.

This time… uncomfortably close to my groin.

There is a very particular kind of panic reserved for moments like this.

It turns out the bull ant had not, in fact, been as deceased as I had confidently assumed.

I learned two very important lessons about Australian bush survival that day.

Firstly, in a land of giant bull ants, open shoes are not so much footwear as an invitation.

Secondly—and this is critical—if you put a bull ant in your pocket near your crown jewels, you must be absolutely certain it is dead.

Memorable moments: The red face and the grin

For reasons that seemed logical at the time, Russell and I stood in the kitchen and decided to settle a debt of honor: a chili-eating competition. The rules were simple—one lethal-looking bird's eye chili each, consumed simultaneously on the count of three.

"One... two... three!" Russell barked, his face a mask of competitive intensity.

I didn't hesitate. I bit down hard, releasing a capsaicin explosion that felt like swallowing a lit blowtorch. Within seconds, the heat was formidable. My vision blurred, my throat constricted, and I felt my face turn a shade of crimson that probably matched the chili itself.

Gagging and desperate, I didn't even have to leave the room. I lunged for the fridge, ripped it open, and grabbed a liter of milk. I chugged it with the frantic energy of a man whose life depended on dairy, milk splashing down my chin as I tried to douse the five-alarm fire in my gullet.

Finally, as the internal blaze subsided into a smoldering ruin, I wiped the milk from my mouth and turned to see how my opponent had fared.

Russell was leaning casually against the counter, looking remarkably cool, calm, and—crucially—completely un-charred. I looked down at his hand. His chili remained perfectly intact, without so much as a tooth mark on it.

He looked at my tear-streaked, milk-mustachioed face and flashed a wide, shameless grin.

"You win!" he chirped.

They say a true friend shares your pain. Russell, apparently, prefers to just supervise it from a safe distance with a front-row seat.