Into The Wild - Erik Halfacre
Into The Wild Essay
A long time ago, when I first became aware of
the fact that someone had died alone in a bus only twenty miles from
a state maintained road, I, like many Alaskans, was inclined to
believe he must have been not all there. A lot of that had to do
with my limited understanding of the story, and the way it was told
to me.
When dless died I was only six years old. As a young boy growing up
in Alaska, I always had plenty of opportunity to get my fill of the
great outdoors. In fact, it was heavily encouraged by my family, my
friends, my schools etc. In school we were required to read books
like My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George and Hatchet by
Gary Paulsen.
My parents property backs up to a large track of mostly undeveloped
private land, beyond which is nothing but State land: some lakes,
swamps, and then an entire mountain range. By the time I was in
seventh grade, my parents were allowing me to go off into those
woods with some of my friends and camp on our own.
Those first trips were full of mistakes. We would forget important
things, and we would try and carry far too much in our packs. We had
no good gear, and we had no concept of lightweight backpacking. Only
one of us had ever been in the scouts, and (no offense Olin) but I
don’t think he learned much there. Everything we learned we were
either taught by our fathers, or we learned it the hard way.
By the time I was sixteen, I’d spent quite a bit of time out in the
woods, and I’d learned how to improvise when necessary. Once,
against the wishes of my parents, I took my Toyota pickup to the
Knik Glacier: an eighteen mile offroad adventure up the Knik River
from where the trail leaves the road. It was the middle of winter
and I was totally underprepared. I had a .22 rifle to shoot birds
with, but I hadn’t brought a knife, or even a lighter.
I managed to get the truck stuck and me and my friend Ben ended up
spending a night out by the glacier while our friend on a
four-wheeler went back for help. Help didn’t arrive until the next
day though. We shot some spruce hens and gutted them with a pair of
electrical dykes. We managed to get a fire going by pouring the
powder from some .22 shells into some cardboard and arcing the truck
battery across it with a wrench.
Learning from that mistake and countless others though, with the
help of my family and friends, I managed to make it to adulthood in
one piece. I learned by a gradual process of sticking my hand into
darn near each and every fire, to learn that it burned me. What I’m
sure must have been a full squadron of guardian angles kept me safe.
So by the time I heard about McCandless’ story when I worked for the
Alaska Natural History Association at the book store at Independence
Mine State Historical Park in 2004, I was pretty confident in my
abilities. I couldn’t help but compare myself to him, and think that
I could have done it better. Looking back now though, I realize
that’s not fair.
Maybe I could have done better than Chris, maybe I would have been
able to succeed where he failed. I had every advantage though. Chris
was not born and raised in Alaska. That wasn’t his fault though.
Maybe he wasn’t as prepared as he should have been. Maybe he didn’t
have the right gear, or the right skills. Those things are true to a
degree as well.
The realization I’ve come to though, in the last few years, is that
Chris is a lot more like me than I would have admitted back when I
first heard about him. He had a desire to explore, and experience
nature in it’s raw form. He didn’t have the opportunity to gradually
make his mistakes and learn his lessons over the course of a
lifetime when it came to the Alaskan wilderness, he had to learn on
the fly.
Any mistakes that Chris made, were understandable given his
inexperience. The difference between him and I (and for that matter
most Alaskan outdoorsmen) is that our stupid mistakes never caught
up with us. That’s not because we are better people than Chris, or
because we were smarter than him. It’s because we got lucky. Chris
unfortunately was not as lucky and that’s a tragedy.
Whether they’ll admit it or not, most of the Alaskans I know who
spend any time at all in the sticks have done something really
stupid at one point or another, and they’re lucky to be alive.
Instead of condemning those who aren’t as blessed as us, we should
be thanking God that we we’re still here with our families.
I knew a guy in high school that died when he was struck by hockey
puck during a game. It hit him square in the chest, stopped his
heart and he was dead. Hockey is a risky game. I never heard anyone
say “what an idiot that guy is, he should have known better than to
play hockey. It’s a risky sport.” Why not? Because under normal
circumstances people understand the idea that our lives involve
risk, and that if something happens we’re still suppose to be
compassionate and understanding.
When Claire Ackermann drowned trying to cross the Teklanika river in
2010 the news sites were filled with comments about how “she
deserved it” for trying to hike to the bus. There were comments
about the gene pool being cleansed. That’s terrible? Claire was
experienced in the outdoors. She made a mistake. It cost her, her
life. We should be saddened by that, and we should feel for her
family.
Maybe later we analyze what went wrong, and try to make sure it
doesn’t happen again but that doesn’t mean that Claire was an
‘idiot.’ I didn’t know her, but from what I’ve heard I would venture
to guess she was just like most of us out there running around in
the woods enjoying the Last Frontier except that she happened to be
on the notorious Stampede Trail. After Claire’s passing, her mother
emailed me. In the moment that I opened that email, the immediate
reality of the situation was laid on me. It was very emotional
thinking about the family and friends she had left behind.
In February of 2006, my good friend Andy Bouwens died of cancer.
Andy was one of the most adventurous people I’ve ever known, full of
life and always smiling. At a moment’s notice he was ready to head
off into the woods with rifles, or saws, or whatever to go hunting,
or fort building, or just play around. I always admired that about
him and losing him hurt to my very core.
In my mind, I imagine Chris to be someone like Andy was, always
yearning for the next discovery or adventure. Though Chris’ death
may have been entirely preventable if he had done any of several
things differently, I don’t feel that anyone should sit back in
their arm chair and drone on about what an idiot he was and how they
could do better. First off, most of us (even us ‘real Alaskans’)
never HAVE been in the situation he was: trapped by a river with
limited resources. So even if we might do better, we can’t know that
because we haven’t ever been tested in that way.
I respect Chris. I respect his ideals and principles, and his sense
of adventure. His story speaks to me, because it’s about feeding
that desire for adventure, something most of us don’t do often
enough. Chris was a man who knew that risk of failure shouldn’t stop
you from doing something. Beyond knowing it, he lived it. It’s a
shame he didn’t make it back to share what he learned out there, but
if he had, I would venture to guess he’d have been better for the
experience. As it is, we can all take something from his story and
apply it to our own lives though, and in that way, even in death,
his journey was a success by his own principles.
Sincerely, Erik Halfacre
www.www.stampedetrail.info
(907) 982-2221
