On May 2,聽Jon Krakauer came out with his on the particulars of Chris McCandless鈥� death almost 24 years ago. McCandless was the young man who wandered into the Alaska wilds with a .22-caliber rifle and a 10-pound bag of rice and lived there for more than 100 days, hunting and foraging, before he died at age 24 inside an abandoned bus. His journey was made famous in Krakauer鈥檚 1996 book, Into the Wild, which Sean Penn adapted as a film in 2007.

How exactly McCandless died has been debated since his story first surfaced. Krakauer first wrote about McCandless in a 1993 article for 国产吃瓜黑料, and he has been trying to nail down the precise details of McCandless鈥� decline ever since鈥攁sserting himself in online comment threads, testing his hypotheses in science labs, and writing periodic feature-length revisions of his theories.

鈥淭he debate over what killed Chris McCandless, and the related question of whether he is worthy of admiration, has been smoldering and occasionally flaring for more than two decades now,鈥� Krakauer wrote in the lead to his , posted on Medium. (A version of the article is also included as an afterword in the newest edition of Into the Wild.) If you鈥檝e been following Krakauer鈥檚 work鈥攈e outlined his fifth theory in an 鈥攜ou鈥檒l see that the new piece is more an overview of his research from the past two decades than a new proposition.

Christopher McCandless’ Journal: Which Seeds Killed Him?

When Krakauer first tackled the question in his 1993 article, he wrote that McCandless had likely eaten poisonous seeds from a wild sweet pea, mistaking it for a wild potato seedpod he鈥檇 been safely eating for weeks. When Into the Wild came out a few years later, Krakauer changed his theory: McCandless had eaten seeds from the wild potato plant, and those seeds contained a toxic alkaloid called swainsonine. Additional testing later refuted that theory, and Krakauer continued trying to figure out what was wrong with those potato seeds. After all, one of McCandless鈥� terse journal entries indicated the role the seeds had in his own demise: 鈥淓XTREMELY WEAK. FAULT OF POT[ATO] SEED. MUCH TROUBLE JUST TO STAND UP. STARVING. GREAT JEOPARDY.鈥�

In 2007, Krakauer suggested that a toxic mold had grown on the seeds McCandless stored in a damp Ziploc. Then, in 2013, , which McCandless had been eating, contained ODAP, a neurotoxin that could cause paralysis in malnourished young men. Krakauer鈥檚 most recent revision replaced ODAP with a similar amino acid called L-canavanine, which was present in the seeds and apparently toxic enough to do McCandless in. Krakauer also , 鈥淧resence of L-canavanine in Hedysarum Alpinum Seeds and Its Potential Role in the Death of Chris McCandless,鈥� published in the peer-reviewed journal Wilderness and Environmental Medicine in March 2015.

Obsessed (or Over) McCandless

I鈥檝e sometimes puzzled at Krakauer鈥檚 desire to figure out what exactly happened in that bus so many years ago. It is, after all, his style to relentlessly pore over facts and straighten them out when necessary, as he did in a postscript to another of his books, Into Thin Air, in 1999. But with the seeds, I couldn鈥檛 help but wonder whether these are all just different ways of saying that McCandless starved.

Some 国产吃瓜黑料 readers have expressed bewilderment at the continued coverage of the subject, too. (One Facebook comment: 鈥淪eriously who gives a shit about this anymore? Move on.鈥�) In his latest New Yorker article, Krakauer justified his persistence, writing that 鈥渂ecause many people鈥攂oth admirers of McCandless and his detractors鈥攔egard Into the Wild as a cautionary tale, it鈥檚 important to know as much as possible about how McCandless actually may have died.鈥� The question remains: Does knowing the precise circumstances of the young man鈥檚 death fundamentally change the way we read and understand his story?

The botanical update does not fundamentally alter the story for those already convinced that McCandless was brave and adventurous rather than naive and dumb, unless they鈥檙e planning their own foraging foray in the Alaska bush. The theory does equip these fans with more factual ammunition in their fight to prove their hero鈥檚 worth in the ongoing debate about McCandless, which has unfolded largely online. Many of the most outspoken fans have various and Internet forums, where they post pictures of Bus 142 tattoos, pendants, and Lego models, among other tributes. Followers number in the millions.

On the other side of the debate are people who believe that McCandless was a foolhardy greenhorn who died because he was unprepared for the northern wilds. Many of these detractors are Alaskan. I met some of them while living in Healy, the town nearest to the bus where McCandless died, where I was working on a story for 国产吃瓜黑料 about the so-called pilgrims who hike out to that bus. Just mentioning McCandless鈥� name quickly reveals that the rage these detractors feel hasn鈥檛 faded. The famous 鈥�142鈥� on the bus is so shot up with bullet holes that it鈥檚 now illegible.

Perhaps no one is a more prolific voice for the anti-McCandless camp than Alaska Dispatch News columnist Craig Medred. He has arguing that McCandless was schizophrenic and an 鈥渋gnorant city kid.鈥� He has pointed out how richly ironic it is 鈥渢o think of some self-involved urban Americans, people more detached from nature than any society of humans in history, worshipping the noble, suicidal narcissist, the bum, thief, and poacher Chris McCandless.鈥�

Should Krakauer鈥檚 latest theory challenge these critics鈥� beliefs and rebuke their claim that McCandless was an idiot? Krakauer thinks so. In his 2013 article, he wrote that the neurotoxin theory 鈥渧alidates my conviction that McCandless wasn鈥檛 as clueless and incompetent as his detractors have made him out to be.鈥�

Backcountry Risks and Bad Luck

Regardless of the precise circumstances of his death, McCandless was undertaking a risky endeavor when he died. He did not attempt his 鈥淎laskan odyssey鈥� in the Boy Scout way. He wandered into the backcountry without a topographical map or enough food to keep himself alive for an extended stay. He left himself with no backup plan or safety net, and so, when things went wrong, he had no way out.

If people object to this kind of risk taking in the woods, there is no reason why any of Krakauer鈥檚 theories, new or old, about McCandless鈥� death should change their thinking. Under such a view, McCandless was doing wrong the moment he stepped onto the Stampede Trail. Whether he survived wouldn鈥檛 change the view that he was on a fool鈥檚 mission and that he had packed foolishly for it.

But lots of people, including McCandless鈥� detractors, take risks in the backcountry and have had close calls along the way without receiving the kind of scorn McCandless does. During one of Medred鈥檚 backcountry exploits, for instance, he had to survive for ten days in Alaska without any food. Most McCandless-hating Alaskans I鈥檝e spoken with reflexively respond to any mention of Into the Wild by listing people who are tougher and more skilled than McCandless鈥攑eople who took risks but lived to tell their tale. These critics bemoan the fact that McCandless鈥� death made him famous while others who survived haven鈥檛 received the same fanfare.

This subset of readers who approve of some level of danger in the backcountry but disapprove of McCandless鈥� journey is the subset whose interpretation of the story is due for revision if Krakauer鈥檚 theory holds. These readers don鈥檛 dismiss McCandless鈥� intention鈥攕pending time in the wilderness鈥攁s invalid or stupid. Rather, they reject his endeavor because of the consequence it led to: his death.

If we accept Krakauer鈥檚 theory, however, that means that McCandless鈥� death was a fluke. It means McCandless didn鈥檛 die because of some obvious mistake he made while in the woods or an overestimation of his skills. It means he may have simply run into serious bad luck. He would have had to know more than his field guide, Tanaina Plantlore, to know about the neurotoxin he had ingested. The seeds he ate came from a plant the guide describes as edible.

So, will the latest update quiet McCandless critics, or at least complicate their view of the story? It鈥檚 doubtful.

At the end of Into the Wild, Krakauer describes a trip he took to the bus with Roman Dial, Alaska鈥檚 backcountry guru, among others. As the group sat around the campfire one night talking about McCandless, Krakauer pointed out some of the dumb mistakes that could have easily been avoided and would have prevented the young man鈥檚 death. Dial responded by defending McCandless, saying how difficult it is to live completely off the land in interior Alaska in the way McCandless did for several months. From Dial:

I guess I can鈥檛 help identifying with the guy. I hate to admit it, but not so many years ago it could easily have been me in the same kind of predicament. When I first started coming to Alaska, I think I was probably a lot like McCandless: just as green, just as eager. And I鈥檓 sure there are plenty of other Alaskans who had a lot in common with McCandless when they first got here, too, including many of his critics. Which is maybe why they鈥檙e so hard on him. Maybe McCandless reminds them a little too much of their former selves.

Krakauer鈥檚 new theory may help people relate to聽McCandless鈥� story by showing that his fate was聽a fluke. It nullifies the argument that McCandless got what he deserved or had it coming all along. Instead, it suggests聽that if McCandless had just a bit more luck, he might have survived.

The post Should We Still Care About Chris McCandless? appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

On the isolated shore of the Savage River, in the backcountry of interior Alaska, there鈥檚 a small memorial to a deceased woman named Claire Ackermann. A pile of rocks sits on a metal plaque with an inscription that reads, in part: 鈥淭o stay put is to exist; to travel is to live.鈥�

Three years ago, Ackermann, 29, and her boyfriend, Etienne Gros, 27, tried to cross the Teklanika River, a couple of miles west from the Savage. They tied themselves to a rope that somebody had run from one bank to the other, to aid such attempts. The Teklanika is powerful in summertime, and about halfway across they lost their footing. The rope dipped into the water, and Ackermann and Gros, still tied on, were pulled under by its weight. Gros grabbed a knife, cut himself loose, and swam to shore. He waded back out to try and rescue Ackermann, but it was too late鈥攕he had already drowned. He cut her loose and swam with her body 300 yards downstream, where he dragged her to land on the river鈥檚 far shore. His attempts at CPR were useless.

Ackermann, who was from Switzerland, and Gros, a Frenchman, had been hiking the Stampede Trail, a route made famous by Christopher McCandless, who walked it in April 1992. Many people now know about McCandless and how the 24-year-old idealist bailed out of his middle-class suburban life, donated his $24,000 in savings to charity, and embarked on a two-year hitchhiking odyssey that led him to Alaska and the deserted Fairbanks City Transit bus number 142, which still sits, busted and rusting, 20 miles down the Stampede Trail. For 67 days, he ate mostly squirrel, ptarmigan, and porcupine, then he shaved his beard, packed his bag, and started walking back toward the highway. But a raging Teklanika prevented him from crossing, so he returned to the bus and hunkered down. More than a month later, a moose hunter found McCandless鈥檚 decomposed body in a sleeping bag inside the bus, where he had starved to death.

This tragic story was told by Jon Krakauer in the January 1993 issue of 国产吃瓜黑料 and later in his bestselling 1997 book, . The book, and , helped elevate the McCandless saga to the status of modern myth. And that, in turn, has given rise to a unique and curious phenomenon in Alaska: McCandless pilgrims, inspired by his story, who are determined to see the bus for themselves. Each year, scores of trekkers journey down the Stampede Trail to visit it. They camp at the bus for days, sometimes weeks, write essays in the various logbooks stowed inside, and ponder the impact that McCandless鈥檚 antimaterialist ethic, free-spirited travels, and time in the Alaskan wild has had on how they perceive the world.

UNFORTUNATELY, A LOT OF THESE people get into trouble, and almost always because of the Teklanika. In a recent story, writer that, in the summer of 2013 alone, a dozen people had been 鈥渓ost, hurt聽or stranded by the rising river鈥� on the Stampede Trail and had required rescue. When I was in the area in September, I heard similar numbers from the local authorities who run those operations. I also witnessed, and occasionally became involved in, some of the rescues.

In September, five employees of the Grand, a hotel near the entrance to , had been walking to the bus as a way to pass two days they had off. The cool weather often makes autumn a safer time for the hike, but a string of rainy days had swollen the Teklanika to flood stage. Two hikers, Matthew Grigg and Scott Wilkerson, crossed first, making it to the far shore. Then they watched as the other three slipped into the cold, gray water.

Elizabeth Kubik, the only woman in the group, swam to the far bank and reached for a willow branch, but it was dead and came out of the ground when she grabbed it. She reached for another branch and was able to secure a grip. Wilkerson lifted her and her pack out of the water before giving a hand to another of the swimmers, Jake Zyrek, who was also clutching a branch. When Zyrek made it to land, his lips were purple; he was shaking so violently he could hardly speak.

One last hiker, Rick Johnson, remained in the water, unable to get out. He was the farthest from either bank when he lost his footing and fell into the water, making his swim more arduous. Grigg chased him downstream, trying to keep one eye on his bobbing head, but because the bank rises into bluffs and cliffs, he sometimes couldn鈥檛 tell where Johnson was. A hunter riding an ATV on the far shore shouted over the rush of the river, directing Grigg to Johnson. Johnson stayed in the water, which lingers at temperatures just above freezing, for 15 minutes. Grigg was finally able to pull him out of the current just before he hit a stretch of Class V rapids.

I walked down the trail the next day, running into two bearded Texans who were heading back to the highway. They told me that five people were stuck on the other side of the river and that they were on their way to notify troopers. When I arrived at the river, I saw the stranded hikers, clad in rain jackets and beanies, napping on the ground. They shouted that they had been there for a day and a half and that help was on the way. I asked if it was worth it, and they shouted in unison, 鈥淣o!鈥�

I dropped my pack and walked along the river鈥檚 edge, meandering between gravel bars and yellowing willows as the low sun gilded the water. After a couple of miles, I turned back toward where the trail hits the river. On the bus side, I spotted two moose hunters driving Argos, six-wheeled amphibious vehicles. I ran down the rocky bank, waving my arms and shouting, until they stopped and got out. I yelled that people were stuck on their side of the river, unable to cross back. The group of five hikers eventually found the Argos drivers, crossed the river in the vehicles, and headed back to town that night.

Unaware of the impromptu rescue, two troopers and two firefighters arrived on ATVs the next morning, squinting across the bank, looking for hikers in need of help. When I told them what had happened, they rolled their eyes. They pulled out crackers and meat sticks as they talked about the trail, each giving his suggestion for what to do with the bus: lift it by helicopter, place it on the highway side of the river, or put it in the national park and make it 鈥渢heir problem.鈥�

The troopers told me that 75 percent of all of the rescues they perform in the area happen on the Stampede Trail. 鈥淥bviously, there鈥檚 something that draws these people out here,鈥� one of the troopers, who asked not to be named, told me. 鈥淚t鈥檚 some kind of internal thing within them that makes them go out to that bus. I don鈥檛 know what it is. I don鈥檛 understand. What would possess a person to follow in the tracks of someone who died because he was unprepared?鈥�

I WENT TO ALASKA FOR the first time in the summer of 2011, on a grant to report and write radio stories in a small town in southeast Alaska. At summer鈥檚 end, I went farther north, spending an extra month and a half with my traveling partner, Jonathan, both of us living out of a 1993 Jeep Cherokee we nicknamed Muskeg, which had dented armor, a cracked windshield, and a missing tailgate handle. Jonathan and I drove 3,500 miles along seven of interior Alaska鈥檚 highways, reporting stories for Alaska Public Radio along the way.

It was Jonathan who first suggested we do a story about the McCandless seekers. The phenomenon is well-known in Alaska鈥攁 source of enduring controversy. Every summer, newspapers in Anchorage and Fairbanks publish reports about search-and-rescue episodes on the trail, which invariably prompt online catcalls from Alaskans, who tend to dismiss McCandless as a greenhorn who had no business in the northern wilderness.

Jonathan and I put the idea on our story list, and as we traveled around the state, we read Into the Wild to each other over the clatter of Muskeg鈥檚 engine. We soon felt the story鈥檚 pull. I was 20, Jonathan was 22, and McCandless鈥檚 uninhibited adventures spoke to both of us.

One August afternoon that summer, we drove to Stampede Road, left Muskeg where the pavement turns to dirt, and started walking toward the bus. A few miles in, we arrived at the Savage River, the first major waterway between the trailhead and Bus 142, and searched its shore for a good place to cross. A lanky French hiker, who turned out to be Etienne Gros, came bounding out of the woods. His lethal incident on the Teklanika with Ackermann had happened the year before; this year, he said, he had hoped to lead her sister and mother down the trail to show them where Claire had died. But the Savage鈥檚 heaving water was too strong for them to cross, so they turned back. Gros escorted the Ackermanns to a motel in town and then returned with a friend to build the memorial.

As we stood next to the gushing gray water, Gros told us about the two months he and Ackermann had spent traveling in Alaska and Canada before their lethal encounter with the Teklanika. They鈥檇 met up in Vancouver鈥攖he beginning of what was supposed to be a two-year journey around the world. They hadn鈥檛 planned to hike to the bus originally, but they鈥檇 gone to Denali National Park the day before, where they met two French hikers who told them it was possible to hike to the bus. They changed their plans and decided to go. It was the end of summer, and they thought they might see the aurora borealis. Gros told us how beautiful the weather had been and how beautiful they found the trail. There鈥檚 a photograph of them on the trail, taken not long before the river crossing, in which they鈥檙e both laughing鈥攖he last picture taken of Ackermann before her death. As Gros recalled the incident on the river, he was quick to defend her, emphasizing how experienced she was as a scuba diver and mountaineer.

Jonathan and I said our goodbyes, and a couple of hours later we arrived at the Teklanika. We followed the bank upriver to a spot where the water splits into three braids. We unloaded a pack raft, and Jonathan practiced his paddling in an eddy. Gaining confidence, we piled in and ferried our bags and ourselves across the swift, silt-filled water, pausing on gravel bars along the way. On the other side, looking for a place to set up camp, we noticed two tents and a hammock nestled among black spruce. Three dazed backpackers emerged. One of them, Phil Shoup, an older man from Tennessee, started yelling, 鈥淕lory! Hallelujah! They鈥檙e heaven sent!鈥�

One of the others, Dan Sans Claras贸, a young backpacker from Spain, crawled out of his hammock. It had been Claras贸鈥檚 idea to hike to the bus. He鈥檇 convinced his two traveling friends, Shoup and Lleques Seques, another backpacker from Spain, to come with him. They made it to the bus, crossing the Teklanika when it was knee-deep. But they had returned to find it surging over its banks.

Crossing back seemed potentially fatal, so they鈥檇 waited for several days. They watched the river continue to swell with late-summer rains, sleeping much of the day to pass the time. Eventually, they started running out of food. No one knew they were out there. They鈥檇 been stuck for days by the time we arrived.

We attempted to ferry them back across the river, but Shoup, a large man, weighed 100 pounds more than the raft鈥檚 weight limit. When he and Jonathan got in, the raft鈥檚 edges sagged beneath the waterline, and it started filling up with water. Shoup walked back to his campsite that night in wet clothes, defeated. Jonathan and I ran back to town the next day with Claras贸鈥擫leques stayed behind with Shoup鈥攖o notify the authorities. Soon a helicopter was on its way to rescue them.

I RETURNED TO ALASKA LAST summer on a journalism grant to research the McCandless pilgrims more thoroughly. I lived in a one-room cabin without water or electricity, on an 80-acre homestead a couple of miles north of Stampede Road, bouncing between the neighboring worlds of pilgrims and locals.

The Magic Bus, as McCandless called it in a short note in the back of his field guide to plants, was dragged into the backcountry north of Denali National Park in the 1960s by a D-9 Caterpillar. Fitted with bunks and a barrel stove, Fairbanks 142 and two other buses housed workers who were building a road out to an antimony mine on Stampede Creek. That project was eventually halted, and the other buses were hauled back to town. But one of the axles on Bus 142 had broken, so it was left in the bush.

These days the trail is an overgrown dirt road, punctuated by beaver ponds, creeks, and two glacial rivers, the Savage and the Teklanika. There has been some push from Claire Ackermann鈥檚 family, along with Chris McCandless鈥檚 younger sister, Carine, and a few others, to build a footbridge across the Teklanika for safer crossings, but so far those plans haven鈥檛 gone anywhere, and the river remains a danger to those attempting to ford it.

Stories of trouble are in abundant supply. One hiker I met, from South Korea, told me he had been swept 500 feet downstream while trying to cross. He was alone and lost most of his gear, including the camera he used to document his yearlong journey around the world鈥攊nspired by Into the Wild. Another solo hiker, from Australia, capsized trying to paddle across the river in a pack raft. He dislocated his shoulder but managed to swim to the other side, where he used the swift current to push the bone back into its socket, clutching willow branches on the river鈥檚 bank to steady his body in the frigid water.

Ten miles past the Teklanika, the trail opens into a clearing where the bus sits at the edge of the woods, its old tires sinking into the ground. Some hikers hoot and holler at the sight of it when they arrive. Others pause, open-mouthed, and stare.

Once wild, the site now looks worn with use. Charred fire rings, bullet cartridges, and soda cans are scattered on the surrounding grass. Trash鈥攁n empty marshmallow bag here, half-burned toilet paper there鈥攊s littered about, though much is consolidated into old oil drums and garbage bags that overflow with wine bottles, ravioli cans, and spent bags of dehydrated backpacking meals.

Most windows on the bus are cracked or missing, covered by a few tarps that rattle in the breeze. Shards of broken glass are sprinkled on the ground. The bus鈥檚 green-and-white paint job is fading back to school-bus yellow in places where spidering webs of rust haven鈥檛 oxidized it to brown. Two parallel indentations in the frame mark a spot where a truck seems to have rammed the bus, perhaps in an attempt to knock it over. The 鈥�142鈥� is freckled with bullet holes.

The door inside remains stiffly ajar, creaking when budged. Hay covers the floor. At the far end is the bed where McCandless鈥檚 body was found. It鈥檚 now covered with a sheet and a brown quilt. Behind folds of tarp, there鈥檚 a plaque that Billie and Walt McCandless placed for their son in 1993, 鈥渃ommending his soul to the world.鈥� A pale blue suitcase they left rests atop a broken set of drawers across from the barrel stove.

Rope, bug spray, newspapers, blankets, Jack London and Leo Tolstoy paperback collections, emergency food, an inhaler, binoculars, a side-view mirror, candles, a handmade poster that reads 鈥淗appiness Road Only Real When Shared,鈥� and an Altoids tin are scattered in and around the drawers. The tin contains a message, written in Sharpie, addressed to Chris: 鈥淎ll I could think of to give you that would really be a part of me.鈥� Graffiti covers almost every square inch of the interior frame with names, dates, and a few quotes: 鈥淟ive the life you always imagined,鈥� 鈥淭wo roads diverged in the wood, and I chose the path less traveled,鈥� 鈥淕et busy living or get busy dying.鈥�

Most of the writing happens in the logbook, though. When Carine McCandless visited the bus in August 2007, she left a notebook with a quote on the cover: 鈥淭here is no way to happiness; happiness is the way.鈥� She wrote that she hoped her brother鈥檚 philosophy of simplicity and honesty would one day be more widespread.

The notebook now contains hundreds of entries. One begins, 鈥淒ear fellow dreamers.鈥� Another calls the bus 鈥渢he wildest hostel of all.鈥� One man wrote that he walked here from Minnesota. A woman wrote that she鈥檇 been 鈥渁 bitch鈥� to her boyfriend right before he fell into the Teklanika on their way to visit the bus. She signed off asking for good luck because it was raining.

Enamored with the spot, many write that they could see why McCandless stayed. One man described his plans to call his parents for the first time in eight years, and another said he would propose to his significant other when he returned from the trail. Many say that McCandless鈥檚 story is not about a man who died but about someone who truly lived. Some express gratitude to him, 鈥渇or guiding our hearts to find our own paths,鈥� 鈥渇or giving people hope,鈥� and for having the 鈥済uts and glory and faith to carry out his dreams.鈥�

MANY ALASKANS, OF COURSE, don鈥檛 feel any reverence for McCandless at all. The debate about his worth is often harsh; locals like to float theories about his death wish, his alleged schizophrenia, and his outright foolishness.

The intensity of the debate was rekindled this past September, when for The New Yorker鈥檚 website that revised his theory about how McCandless died. Krakauer argued that it happened because of a neurotoxin called ODAP, which is found in a plant that McCandless was eating and can cause lathyrism, a condition that leads to paralysis. Because the plant is widely considered edible, Krakauer declared that this finding confirms his long-held belief that McCandless wasn鈥檛 鈥渁s clueless and incompetent as his detractors have made him out to be.鈥�

Plenty of commentary ensued, and plenty of it charged with controversy. 鈥淩aised by a game guide in AK my family has 鈥榬espect鈥� for the land that is different than city kids from 鈥榦utside,鈥欌�� wrote 鈥渒valvik鈥� in a comment on Krakauer鈥檚 article. 鈥淩espect for the land comes to mean it will kill you as fast as a slow rabbit in front of a fast fox.鈥�

Few have been as scathingly critical of McCandless鈥檚 sympathizers as Craig Medred, an Alaskan who has written numerous pieces about him over the years. In the Alaska Dispatch this fall, , noted the irony of 鈥渟elf-involved urban Americans, people more detached from nature than any society of humans in history, worshipping the noble, suicidal narcissist, the bum, thief and poacher Chris McCandless.鈥�

The pilgrims often encounter similar disdain. I know of beer-toting locals on ATVs who falsely warned three hikers from Phoenix that a 鈥渇orest fire鈥� was burning between the Teklanika and the bus, urging them to turn back. A pair of hikers I met told me about their experience buying the film鈥檚 soundtrack at the Anchorage Barnes and Noble, where one man told them that the bus had been removed. When they went to the Backcountry Information Center at Denali National Park to ask questions about the hike, a ranger told them it wasn鈥檛 her job to tell them where the bus was, and that if they didn鈥檛 know, they had no business being out there. She said she would end up pulling their bodies out of the river.

Much of the polarization surrounding McCandless stems from a divide in people鈥檚 beliefs about what justifies risk-taking in the backcountry. In Alaska, it鈥檚 generally considered acceptable to invite risk while making a living on the land鈥攆ishing, hunting, logging, mushing, trapping. It is less acceptable to take chances in search of a more philosophical way of life.

The trooper I had spoken with about the rescue of the Grand Hotel employees complained to me that people heading into the wilderness for purposes of self-discovery can be driven in a way that makes them do stupid things, such as disregarding the weather.

鈥淚t鈥檚 different if you have a trapline and that鈥檚 how you make your living,鈥� he said. 鈥淭hose guys live out there. They have to go out when it鈥檚 40 or 50 below.鈥�

Part of what infuriates many about McCandless was the fact that he intentionally made his trip more dangerous than it had to be鈥攂ringing only rice for food, leaving behind a topographical map and compass. He sought a wilderness like the one Wallace Stegner described as 鈥渢he challenge against which our character as a people was formed.鈥� Most folks around Healy, the town four miles south of the Stampede Road turnoff, prefer to wander the woods by all-terrain vehicles. It鈥檚 faster.

The topic of McCandless and the pilgrims came up at a potluck I attended in September. When the name came up, the people in the room, who had so recently been jolly over the halibut and beer, became angry, their voices rising as many shouted and swore over each other.

鈥淲hy don鈥檛 they just read A Walk in the Woods?鈥� said Andrew Pace, a flannel-clad dog musher who lives on Stampede Road and works in Denali National Park.

The guests rattled off names of Alaskans who had homesteaded remote areas of the state. 鈥淭here are so many success stories,鈥� Pace said. 鈥淚t just makes me mad that one about a failure is so famous.鈥�

FOR A STORY ABOUT A young man who wanted to spend more time outside, many of its most obsessive fans spend a great deal of time inside and online. Numerous forums and Facebook pages contain thousands of posts and dozens of full-length essays about McCandless. There is the Christopher McCandless forum, the Stampede Trail information site and various Into the Wild Facebook pages. Followers number in the millions.

Fans have asked each other whether to stay put or travel, whether the scene in the movie in which Emile Hirsch looks at the camera is symbolic or not, whether the Internet would have made McCandless more prepared or more angry. One asked how to get the same glasses Hirsch wore in the movie. Some share pictures of their Bus 142 tattoos, their homemade pendants, and their Lego-and-duct-tape models.

Steve Salmon, a 40-year-old from New Jersey with a graying goatee and stocky gait, was so involved with the forums at one time that he said it was like having a full-time job. We walked to the bus together this August. Salmon had made the Lego-and-duct-tape models, and he鈥檇 purchased back issues of The New Yorker and People magazines on eBay with the original articles about McCandless鈥檚 death. Before we hit the trail and lost service, he texted from the side of Stampede Road, flashing his iPhone at me to show me a new text message.

鈥淭hat鈥檚 my friend Carine,鈥� he said, smiling.

Another fan, Mike Kramer, 41, has lived in Kentucky, mostly mowing lawns, for the past eight years. The most recent three of those years he spent living in a tent. He calls himself homeless by choice, and says that if he wrote a book, he would call it 365 Days on a Hill Next to Walmart.

A few years ago, Kramer rented the movie Into the Wild never having heard of it. The next day he read the book. The day after that, he bought a ticket to Alaska to go see the bus. Before leaving, he got in touch with Erik Halfacre, asking for advice about the trail. He had no experience in the backcountry, but like many others, he decided it required more determination than expertise.

Halfacre, who lives in Anchorage, created a website devoted to hiking the Stampede Trail. Pilgrims use it to coordinate group hikes to the bus and exchange advice about the trip. When Carine needed a hiker to bring another logbook to the bus, Halfacre put her in touch with Kramer. She called him one night and introduced herself, leaving Kramer stupefied. He describes her as the closest thing to a celebrity he knows.

To date, Kramer has been to the bus three times. His second trip was in March 2011. He spent 16 days on the trail. The temperature reached 30-below, and he suffered frostbite on his thumb. Instead of melting snow for water, he sprinkled Kool-Aid packets onto handfuls of snow and ate them frozen. He spent most of his time collecting wood to keep the fire in the bus鈥檚 barrel stove going. The troopers checked on him twice. When they asked if he had enough gear, he said he had an extra pair of blue jeans. During one of these visits, a trooper told Kramer he didn鈥檛 want to die carrying Kramer鈥檚 dead body out.

This fall, I met Carine McCandless in New York City, where she was visiting from her Virginia home to give a lecture at Riverdale Country School in the Bronx. She has long brown hair and a wide smile. She wore jeans and a red top, and spoke with a full and kind voice.

Carine, 42, estimates that she still receives 30 messages a day from people who鈥檝e been affected by her brother鈥檚 story. She answers each e-mail personally. She writes at the desk Chris used in high school and sometimes carries a rock she picked up on her visit to the bus in her jeans pocket. Many high schools have incorporated Into the Wild into their curricula, and she sometimes visits the schools to give talks.

A now iconic photo of Fairbanks 142 serves as , a picture of her standing between Jon Krakauer and Sean Penn at the Los Angeles film premiere is on the home page, and a note declaring her determination 鈥渢o continue to be his voice and carry on his message鈥� is also on the site.

鈥淚 think Chris would find it remarkable that people find him so remarkable,鈥� she told me, adding that Chris was genuinely mystified as to why more people didn鈥檛 simply take off like he did.

Since his death, McCandless鈥檚 family has been actively involved with the community of seekers. In 2011, his parents, Billie and Walt, published Back to the Wild: The Photographs and Writings of Christopher McCandless. The 241-page book contains photos he took during his travels, from Detrital Wash, Arizona, to South Dakota to Bus 142, with captions written by Walt.

Carine created a public Facebook page called 鈥淐arine McCandless Into the Wild.鈥� She wrote a letter on it, detailing her feeling of responsibility to speak for Chris, since he could no longer speak for himself. She described some of the domestic violence she and Chris experienced as children, writing about their father鈥檚 鈥済in-induced rages,鈥� in which he told them he was God. She criticized her parents鈥� publication of Back to the Wild, calling it an attempt to 鈥渢ake advantage of vague portrayals of our history with their efforts to create a new one.鈥� She described her intention with the page as offering an emphatically true connection to Chris.

And while she still lives in the same town as her parents, she said she sees them so little that one of her daughters wouldn鈥檛 be able to recognize them if she saw them in the street.

A link to this message was posted on the Facebook page 鈥淏ack to the Wild鈥搕he new book of Christopher McCandless.鈥� Joseph Moss, who was the photo editor and designer for the project, commented and accused Carine of airing her family鈥檚 dirty laundry to the public. He said the story is not just for the McCandless family; after Into the Wild, it became a story 鈥渇or all of us.鈥� Many responded, including Carine. She wrote that her parents 鈥渃ontinue to bully him in his death.鈥� She asked Moss to come to her house to see unpublished letters from her brother if he didn鈥檛 believe her accounts of the abuse they and their other siblings experienced.

Back to the Wild came up when Carine was fielding questions from starry-eyed students after her Riverdale lecture. Afterward, I asked what upset her about the new book.

鈥淭hey say that they鈥檙e not lying, but when you鈥檙e presenting our family as some perfect Christian family, it鈥檚 not the full picture,鈥� she said. 鈥淭he first sentence on the e-book is something about how we can only imagine why a young man would set off and sever ties with his family and friends. But they knew why he left.鈥�

, The Wild Truth, about her brother and family next year, in what she called an attempt to 鈥渢ell the whole story.鈥� In a description of the book, she wrote that she and her half-siblings have come together since Chris鈥檚 death and found absolution, as she believes Chris found in the wild before he died.

At the end of her Riverdale lecture, she showed a picture of the note that McCandless left when he died, writing in block letters that he had had a happy life and thanked the Lord. She then asked the students how they wanted to feel in their final days.

鈥淚t鈥檚 tragic my brother died young. But because of the trails he had chosen, he died at peace. Isn鈥檛 that the best that any of us can hope for?鈥�

Many of the students thought so. A few have started fantasizing about taking trips to Alaska to visit the bus. One senior asked me if there was any program that could take you. Another told me she was planning a trip for the first week of March.

DURING MY TIME ON the trail, I met a pair of French cyclists, three middle-aged engineers from Arizona, three Spanish travelers (on their way to work on marijuana farms in Washington), an Italian trekker, and a backpacker from Georgia who travels, train hops included, with a kitten perched on his shoulder. One fan from Minnesota flew out to Alaska, walked the 40 miles round-trip in one day, then drove straight back to the airport.

Jedidiah White, 25, from Missouri, read Into the Wild shortly after breaking up with a longtime girlfriend and deciding not to go to medical school. He wasn鈥檛 sure where to turn, and the story provided a direction. He began planning a 22-day trip floating the Teklanika from inside Denali National Park to visit the bus. He had little experience outdoors, and he set out for the bus schlepping 70 pounds of gear, including an iron skillet, a knife sharpener, and two rafts. On the second day of his trip, he flipped his boat in some rapids. His gear got wet, his raft tore, and he had to walk the rest of the way to the bus. But the experience 鈥渙pened the gate,鈥� he told me. Before the trip, he wanted to be a doctor and make a lot of money; now he wants to open a winery and spend more time outside. He鈥檚 been to the bus once more since, and he鈥檚 planning a six-week trip in the Stampede Corridor next summer.

Darren Storsley, 39, from Vancouver, assigns Into the Wild every year to his high school psychology class. He says it鈥檚 the best textbook he knows, and he confesses that he spent the better part of the time during his visit to the bus weeping.

A couple of weeks before walking the trail this past summer, Storsley picked up a hitchhiker at a gas station near Talkeetna. The tall and lanky backpacker, Mark McMillan, took up temporary residence in the passenger seat of Storsley鈥檚 Chevy Blazer as they road-tripped around Alaska. When I met them on the trail, they introduced themselves as 鈥渟oul brothers.鈥� They had driven all the way up to Prudhoe Bay, jumped in the Arctic Ocean, and discovered that McCandless was a shared hero.

鈥淗ere鈥檚 someone who heard the sermon of the world and didn鈥檛 like it,鈥� Storsley said of McCandless as he leaned against his backpack on the trail. 鈥淗ere鈥檚 someone who preached for himself instead. Just imagine if we all did that.

鈥淚鈥檓 jealous,鈥� Storsley went on. 鈥淗e was braver than I am. I think I live according to my own values, but I鈥檓 still in society. I still have a job, I still make money. I go to work ten months out of the year, and I play for the other two. I鈥檓 still in the box. I鈥檓 not strapped to it, but I鈥檓 still in it. And he had the courage to step away from it.鈥�

McMillan sat against his backpack, munching M&M鈥檚. He鈥檚 a McCandless look-alike鈥攃urly brown hair and a scruffy beard鈥攂ut about a foot taller. He used to keep the Into the Wild movie open on his laptop, watching ten-minute segments of it before doing homework. He鈥檚 always loved spending time outside. As a kid, he memorized the names of birds found in Southern California, paid for a membership to the National Wildlife Federation by selling homemade bread out of a wagon, and eventually headed into the woods to backpack, mountain-bike, and climb alone.

During his graduation ceremony at Walla Walla University, in southeastern Washington, he sat with his family at a Thai restaurant and told them that, while he loved them very much, they might not hear from him for the next five years. His plan at the time was to spend the rest of the summer pack-rafting down a 400-mile river in the Brooks Range with an edible-plant book, a fishing pole, and 40 servings of freeze-dried broccoli.

McCandless鈥檚 story, he explained to me, had helped him see the possibility of a life in which adventure was the norm, not the exception. His recent release from college meant he was free to pursue such a life.

鈥淭he bus is where McCandless鈥檚 journey ended,鈥� McMillan said, 鈥渁nd the rest of ours begins.鈥� O

Diana Saverin is the founder of the travel and adventure blog . This is her first story for 国产吃瓜黑料.

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