The Night Crazy Came to Town

For those who have never read/seen Into the Wild, here's the tiniest bit of background:
Christopher McCandless was a young man from Virginia who basically gave up all his worldly possessions, hitchhiked his way across the continent, and finally entered into the Alaskan wilderness with only the most meager supplies, surviving for about 100 days before succumbing to either poison or (more likely) starvation. He weighed less than 70 pounds when he died. The book and, especially the film of his story, in which McCandless refers to himself as Alexander Supertramp, make him out as a bit of a folk hero who turns his back on the materialism of the world to live simply in the wild. I am a fan of both bits of media, especially the book, as I think its author Jon Krakauer is a magnificent writer. I have learned that the good people of Alaska generally don't share my opinion of the book or movie, and they feel that McCandless himself died needlessly, and if he wasn't such an inept fool than he wouldn't have had to suffer his fate. They also tire of the endless pilgrimages taken by copycat wanderers and fringe dwellers who worship the guy.

This morning I was given a bit of a lesson as to why.

After spending my previous evening on the couch at my friends Natasha & Tyler's cabin due to my normal digs being completely booked (I didn't have to sleep in my car, yay!), I came back to the hostel last night. I spent most of the day out and about, enjoying what was some really nice weather for once, and I was looking forward to a quiet night in, as the place was almost empty. There were only two other people booked for the night, and I hadn't seen either of them since I got back. I watched a movie with some of the climbing guides and was feeling sleepy enough at around 1:00 that I thought I could turn in and get a solid six or seven hours before the normal bustle of the morning intruded on my dreams. Turns out this was not to be.

I was jarred out of my slumber by some very loud banging, as well as what sounded like a noisy conversation in French. After tossing and turning for a bit, thinking maybe that it was morning and I just had to deal with the noise, I checked my phone; it was about 4:40 am. This was odd because despite the constant back and forth of climbers, guides, and hostelers, everyone who came through pretty much adhered to the rule about quiet time from 11 pm to 7 am. I put on the least aggressive countenance I could muster and walked down the hall to the common area. The television was the source of the French, someone put on the movie Chocolat and it was turned up loud. The banging stopped, so the TV was the focus of my ire, but there was no one on any of the couches or chairs; there didn't seem to be anyone watching. I made my way to the television and noticed that someone was in the kitchen (directly adjacent to the common room). I didn't recognize him, he wasn't one of the guides and since I didn't know who was checked into the other rooms I just assumed that he was a climber and was getting his gear ready to go up to the mountain. That would account for all the banging around. I asked this stranger if I could turn down the TV and he told me I could turn it off if I wanted, which I did immediately. As I turned around to go back to my bunk he asked where I was from, which isn't an odd question in a hostel. "New Jersey," I replied. "No wonder you're angry," he said.

Now, those who know me also know very well that I will respond to an attack on my beloved Garden State with no less than the full measure of my considerable arsenal of mean-spirited rhetoric and sardonic wit, but it was 5 am and I was just too tired. All I wanted was to get some sleep, so I ignored this little remark and simply told this stranger that I wasn't angry, just tired. With that, I went back to my room, climbed into my bunk, and tried to fall back asleep.

Not twenty minutes later, the movie is back on, the French dialogue is just as loud, but is being drowned out by the even louder music pumping out of a laptop. Plus he's singing. At this point my patience is wearing thin, but I'm a guest here just like him so I don't want to come off like some maniac who thinks he owns the place. I make up my mind that I'm just gonna remind him that from 11 to 7 people are expected to be courteous and quiet for the sake of everyone sleeping. As soon as I walk out of the hall I'm met with him packing things into a large backpack and before I can get out a word he assures me that he'll "be out of my hair in five minutes." "I'm going to McKinley," he says. I stop in my tracks, turn around and mutter something like "sounds good" before going back to the bunk again to wait out his nonsensical behavior. I'm still exhausted, not a state that puts me in a good mood, and now I'm starting to just think his rudeness needs to be met with some of my own, but surely I can wait out five minutes of the sake of keeping the peace. I get under the blanket, wrap the pillow over my ear, and wonder why the other guests haven't come out to complain like me.

About fifteen more minutes passes (see how patient I was being) and the movie and music are just as loud, but I notice that the singing has stopped. Also, the same song has played at least twice in a row now: Revolution 9 by The Beatles. It's a long song, and I know I heard the beginning a couple of times. I get up again, this time prepared to have it out with this incomprehensibly rude person, but he's gone. In his stead is a room full of hazy, fragrant incense smoke. His pack isn't on the floor. There is something stuck into a map on the wall, which turns out to be a butcher knife wrapped from tip to handle in plastic wrap. Hung from the butt of the blade is a t-shirt with the logo of a military company on the front. All the books from a free book exchange in the common room have been removed from the shelves and are stacked on the floor next to the shelving unit. A few of the books, specific titles dealing with the Alaskan wilderness, are set standing on window sills, one book to each, throughout the room. I turn the corner and look into the kitchen to see every single cabinet door left open and every drawer pulled out, as if a poltergeist had its way with the place. Even the stove was left open. I turned the TV off again, leaving only the Beatles' song to sound out through the place. I step into the kitchen and notice that a book has been placed standing, open to a page scribbled with the line "Start a Revolution," on an unlit burner on the stove. At this point I'm starting to get a bit creeped out and visions of Tate-LaBianca start to fill my consciousness. I head back to my room and grab a pocketknife from my jeans and head back out to assess the rest of the damage. Little notes are left around with tiny missives scribbled on them about what is needed to head into the wild. One indicates that he took a water bottle belonging to one of the climbers, the note read: "I owe you 1 Nalgene bottle - Edward Supertramp."

I'm feeling a little less likely to be killed by some crazed Manson groupie after reading that, but still a bit unsettled. Looking around again I find more notes, food left out on the stove and counters, a wine bottle stacked on a coffee press, which is stacked on a coffee can, wine footprints on the kitchen floor, and a particularly rancid smell coming off a plastic wrapped plate with what appears to be a full shot glass in the middle of it. I made sure all the burners and the stove are turned off, shut off the music, and tried to piece together what was going on. The creeping feeling I had earlier gave me a little jolt of adrenaline, so I was starting to wake up. Then I started to get even more pissed. The hostel where I stay is a very open, accommodating place. They never lock the doors. It's a small business run by a young woman who does her best to make sure everyone who comes in feels welcome, and she really doesn't deserve to have her place trashed by some jackass McCandless wanna-be. I decide I'm going to find this person and, I don't know, bring him to justice. My myopic tendencies reared their ugly head and I just went out to my car and started driving around town. Talkeetna is not a big place and I figured he couldn't have gotten too far since I last saw him. I ran parallels of the neighborhood streets where I stay and then went to the downtown area. At this point it's some time around 5:30 in the morning. I didn't see him anywhere. Then I start to think that if he's going to Denali maybe he's taking a flight up, so I drive past all the Air Taxi companies to see if he's camped out waiting for one to open, to no avail. Now I'm wondering--if he thinks he's gonna walk the few hundred miles up, will he head back down the spur road to the main highway north or is he smart enough to just follow the train tracks? I decide to drive a little bit down the spur road, about as far as I figured he would have made it on foot with his pack, but he's not there either. I realize that if he's on the train tracks I cannot follow him in my Jeep. I turn around and head back towards town. After I come around the bend in the road where an observation turnoff is set up I notice for the first time this morning that the skies are perfectly clear and Denali is out in all her glory. I pulled into the turnoff and just sat for a bit looking at the mountains. Normally I'd post a picture here, but I left the hostel in the sweats I sleep in, without even grabbing my wallet and license let alone a camera. My notions of petty vengeance were starting to look awfully silly in the light of day. I drove back to the hostel to start cleaning up his mess. When I arrived, the only other guest who actually spent the night was just emerging from her room. Abigail was her name, a Brit on holiday who was wearing earplugs and had managed to sleep through the entire ordeal. I told her about the intruder, and together we assessed the rest of the damage and cleaned up the place as best we could. I was still stewing a bit and to be honest, she did most of the dirty work. After everything seemed to be back in its place I decided to get the sleep I had missed that night. It was now about 7 am.

I wake up again around eleven, and the house is buzzing. Holli showed up and Abigail told her the whole story as I related it to her. Holli decides that the best thing to do it alert the Rangers and the State Police so this stranger doesn't do anything that could get him hurt, or worse. Also, some of the guides are up and point out that he used one of their phones to call Modesto, California about seven times. He also drank an entire large bottle of wine that belonged to another guide. A bit later, the phone rings, and the puzzle pieces fall more firmly into place. A woman asks Holli if someone named Chris checked in the night before. He never did, officially, but they get to the truth of the matter when the woman says that her husband had gone AWOL from his Army post the night before, that he was a bit obsessed with Into The Wild and might be smoking something (not weed) that makes him a bit delusional, and that he's not supposed to be drinking (medicated perhaps?). He left behind a blue motorcycle helmet, which the wife identified, although he doesn't have a motorcycle. So he left on foot. She was calling from Fairbanks, over 250 miles north, and we speculated that he hopped a freight train to head south, but since they don't stop in Denali National Park, Talkeetna was the first place he could hop off. The Modesto number is his brother. The police, army, and a very annoyed/concerned wife are all looking for him. I'm still angry that he trashed the place and stole from its guests. My sympathy and compassion are non-existant.

The hostel and its guests are really no worse for the wear, though I still shudder to think what could have happened if someone interrupted his stabbing/trashing/stealing spree if he was truly delusional. I was half asleep both times I confronted him, but he seemed completely lucid, if a little "off." Holli has two small children, and I'm really glad they were not here when any of this was happening. I realize that I was not behaving all that well when I went out with violence in my heart to find him this morning, and that kind of reaction is just one more thing I have to look at as I while away the hours out here. At the same time, none of his behavior indicates to me that he wants to come back. His course and actions were all self-destructive. If he's on something maybe he'll think the better of it when he comes down, or maybe someone will find him and talk some sense into him. The last thing Alaska needs is another ill-equiped dilettante walking off to his death. But walk away he did, out into the wild, and part of me thinks that he wants to die out there. Faced with someone like that after less than two weeks here forces me to compare it to my own journey. I came here to examine my life, and what to make of it. If this morning has taught me anything, it's that I certainly don't think giving up is the answer, and that as much as I may chide myself for running away from my life by coming here, at least I know I plan to go home.