Off to see McCandless

There's simply something imposing about this post. Writing about this man, this experience, this journey. McCandless is a polarizing figure, at least to all those that are familiar with him. For the longest time, I actually assumed that everyone was familiar with him and only recently made reference to him, to a trio of blank stares, much to my surprise. But, many are familiar with his story, made popular by John Krakaur's book "into the wild" and the subsequent movie brought it even further. The split between the two camps of people that typically arise when discussing McCandless is roughly 50/50. One half thinks his story is an inspiration. An example of living life to its fullest, societal expectations be dammed. The other group says he's just some dumb kid who went into the backcountry unprepared and died. There's quite a bit more nuance to both viewpoints, and ultimately both are true. To me, he's always been a figure larger than life. Today I get to visit his last home.

I camped at the trailhead for this hike to the "Magic Bus", which is not very far at all from the gates of Denali. Somewhat sadly, my phone's GPS took me all the way here. Where stampede road meets stampede trail. Remembering reading the book, Chis McCandless departed down this lane in wintery conditions. He stepped out of Jim Gallien's truck once it could no longer make progress down the snow choked road. With a pair of muck boots Jim insisted he take, he trudged off and waved his goodbye to his ride after telling him he was going to hike through the park. Evidently, Jim was worried for the kid but couldn't convince him not to go. He shook his head and turned his truck around. He was the last person to see Chris alive.

I wonder exactly what point on this road did that last exchange occur. Could it have been this exact spot? The road widened a bit here, which allowed me to pull off for the night still feeling ok about someone being able to pass me and keep going if they were so inclined. The road gets decidedly more rutted and washed out going forwards I've read, but it doesn't look too bad from here. Rolling the dice a bit, I decide to drive a bit further. The conditions do deteriorate pretty quickly and I only make it about three more miles before I encounter a large section of mud, where the path has been widened out over the years by people attempting to get around the mud pit. Having had a couple close calls already, between nearly bottoming out and feeling just the faintest slip of the tires losing traction in muddy spots, I decide to count myself lucky and stop. This quite wide portion allows me just enough room to park the van atop dry earth and not block the way if someone more equipped and braver than me comes along. Time to press forward on foot. Once again, I think of Chris stepping out of Jim's truck that fateful day. With a thoughtful smile on my face, I hoist my pack onto my shoulders and start the hike.

From what I've read about the walk ahead of me, it should be about 10 miles to the Teklanika river and another 10 to the bus McCandless called home during his stay "in the wild". I cant be sure where the official "trail" begins, because the path is to simply follow what has deteriorated from gravel road into an ATV route. Perhaps I haven't even reached the start yet... or I could be a few miles in already. Thankfully, the route is obvious and easy to follow. I hear that it gets much less so after the river. There's a smaller river crossing before reaching the Tek, but it doesn't seem nearly as intimidating. The Teklanika is what trapped Chris out here, ultimately killing him. He crossed it frozen and was stuck on the other side when it thawed. I'll end up hitting it at roughly mid day, the worst time to attempt to cross because the glacial melt will be strong with the heat. I've heard of people being swept downstream as well as people having to turn back and abandon their hike due to this crossing. Evidently, there are quite a few you tube videos of people making their attempt too, but i haven't checked those out.

With the advantage of a little more information than Chris had, at least partly because he didn't seek it, I'm prepared to cross the river 10ish miles ahead of me. I'm heeding the warnings and taking it seriously. I'm carrying my packraft ontop of my backpack. Its a significant extra weight to carry, but it bestows upon me a confidence that my pilgrimage out to the bus will be a success.

I knew I'd end up wading across one river and paddling another, but the hike is much wetter than I anticipated. To start with, it was large pools of collected rainwater that occupied the path. Then it was a section of a few miles of swampy grassland. Then back to an ATV route peppered with random beaver ponds. One of the beaver dammed pools I waded across was above my belt. Often enough the streams and creeks take over the trail and I find myself walking for a quarter mile in a calf deep stream. The running water is ICE cold, making me miss the considerable warmer waters of the beaver pools.

Aside from the wet feet (and a bit more) the hike has been pretty straightforward up to the first river crossing. Almost disappointingly so. I'm braced for a scarier crossing, despite reading about it being not so bad. Turns out to be only about knee deep, wide and not too pushy. Finding the trail again on the other side was a bit of a challenge. I made an educated guess and aimed my crossing a at one of two visible gaps in the trees. Turns out I guessed right and resume my travels. THAT rarely happens!

The path continue to be rather easy to follow and rather commonly a shallow creek instead of a trail. I must be in a low, drainage area. But, my feet cant get any wetter and not much colder either. Bring it on. The "Tek" shouldn't be too much further now. The images of the upcoming crossing have been swelling in my head much like the river is likely growing with the day's glacial meltwater. The excitement for the crossing and eventually the bus is reaching its peak.

I've made a point not to research this trek too much. The route itself and potential pitfalls, sure, but I haven't watched the numerous videos of others attempting their crossing nor have I looked into the search and rescue reports for the area to glean the level of danger. The thoughts that are floating in my mind as my feet bring me closer to the challenge are a mixture of images from the recent movie 'into the wild' and the feeling of nearly being swept off my feet crossing a small river while trying to leave the Kluane park in Canada. I've never had to swim in swift water with a pack on and I'm hoping I never do. Either way, this time I've got my packraft.

I check my map as the trail seems to swing dramatically north. If I'm reading my location correctly, this northward swing is technically across the Denali park boundary. Strange, but the path seems quite clear and I'm usually good about spotting offshoots... granted I was just daydreaming there a little bit. Deciding to stick with the trail to see if it will maintain this heading, I'm pleased to see it turn back to the west. Really, it swings rather southward, popping back out of the park and then west. either way I'm sure I'm back on track when the river jumps into view. The Teklanika.

Honestly, it isn't raging. It's nothing like the images from the movie, at least as I remember them. But i sure don't want to cross it on foot. It looks to be above my waist and pushing hard. The last rive that nearly took me down was just above my knees, which is why i even thought to try crossing it. Perhaps I'm less brave than some of the others who have made it this far, but it looks intimidating enough for me. I wonder how it looks first thing in the morning, at its lowest, instead of this midday view in front of me. I'll find out later that someone has strung a rope across the river about a mile upstream to assist with the ford. Luckily, I didn't need it.

I drop my pack and set to work unfurling my boat. Its a good a time as any to dig out my lunch as well. If the water really was a whitewater nightmare, the last thing I'd want to do is sit here and stare at it while eating, psyching myself out. It feels good to have the somewhat heavy pack off, but it always seems to unbalance my boat when I toss it on the deck. Granted, most of the weight that was on my shoulders was the boat itself, the pack still serves to make the craft a bit more awkward. Despite the less than perfectly balanced boat and rather quick water, I decide it isn't serious enough to warrant my spray skirt. I didn't even bring my helmet or perhaps more importantly, my PFD. I'm banking on not swimming.

The crossing is pushy, and even doing an "upstream ferry" I lose some ground before I reach the opposite bank. I remember Krakaur writing about there being some terrible, inescapable rapids downstream, but I'm thankful that they remain an abstract idea for me. I'm also quite thankful that I no longer need to carry that boat or paddle. I deflate, tightly roll all the components, and hide it under some nearby trees. Throwing a little gps tag onto the location of my stash, I set to find where the trail picks up on this side of the river.

Evidently, it doesn't. Huh?

It has to. But where? It has been wide enough for an ATV this whole damn time. The book even mentions someone driving an ARGO 8 wheeler across this very river. The path I'm looking to find shouldn't be small or subtle... but the terrain on this side is a bit more open, depriving me of a telltale gap in the treeline.

After a bit of searching I'm convinced I've either found the trail, or i'm just walking up a creek. Then it gets deeper. The map is little help. I push on. Finally, the trail leaves the water, but only after a very mentally long mile and a half. Well, its certainly some trail and its heading generally in the right direction. Devoid of any other options I decide to declare this the "right way" and keep going. At least until I've gone ten or more miles without seeing the bus or it swerves way north or south.

After a couple more wet miles, the trail gains some elevation and gets much drier. The are still occasional water crossings necessitating soaking the feet again, but no complaints here. Except for when I'm getting closer and closer to the 20 mile total with no signs of a bus. I'm not certain if the bus is close to trail or is found on a side spur. I keep vigilant eye out through all the gaps in the trees that come and survey the lands below me when I spy a little view from a rise. Nothing. Hmm, I really am going to need to decide how far or how long I'm going to go before calling this a bust. I may just be getting a bit tired and I know I'm thirsty, maybe hungry too. Don't let that change my mental resilience. Just a bit further.

I push again, letting my mind wander from the task at hand. Then there it is. Just right there. In a wide spot on the trail waiting for me. My pace slows as I approach and I realize I'm crying.

Its not exactly the reaction I expected, but you can't really predict these things I guess. Lowering my pack to the ground I come around to the door of the bus to find a plaque on the ground, I assume left by his family. Entering, it is much like I had imagined, although containing a bit more "stuff" than I would have guessed. Not that It was crowded by any means, but there were a few more mementos left behind by the various pilgrims making this trip than I had guessed.

Much like the mementos, it seems like nearly every single person has left behind a few words as well. Every flat surface has been written on. Somewhat remarkably, its all positive and inspiring, full of gratitude and humility. For those that either made their trip to the bus after it was fully graffitti'd or perhaps preferred paper there are a number of journals in a beat up suitcase next to the bed. I sit on that bed, that I am almost certain is the one he Chris died on and read every word of every journal.

That is, those that are in English. So many are in other languages. A significant portion of people who have found this story important or meaningful or just interesting enough to put in the effort of a visit have come from across the globe. I'm taken aback by the reach of McCandless's tale, but also how inspiring and positive it has been for so many. Also surprising to me is the number of entries detailing numerous attempts, sometime over the course of years, to finally make it here. I'm humbled by the tale, the environment around me and the effort so many have put in for this. I lay down and stare up at that word and rust covered ceiling, thoughts all over the place eventually settling on wondering what his last ones were when he had this view for the last time.

It was only about 5pm when I arrived, but it was a long slog to get here. Laying here, I realize I'm pretty beat. And definitely hungry. Time for camp chores. I gather water, cook up some dinner and decide to put up my tent. If those other two do make it here tonight, it'll be late. Despite all my time spent outside, I'm still no expert at reading the weather, but I've got a feeling it's going to rain too. They'll appreciate having a dry place if they do make it.

Of course, I've still got daylight left after dinner, so explore the bus a bit more to find quite a bit of stashed resources inside. Food, emergency shelters, sleeping bags, candles, a machete... various "survival gear" kindof stuff. Either people want to make sure what happened to Chris never happened to anyone else, or its just being stocked by the local hunters. It was initially a hunting camp after all. One other thing I found, that had to be there to make a statement- A magazine with a single bullet. No gun to fire it.

Plenty of locals take issue with the kid who made this place popular. The bus had a somewhat famous '143' painted above the driver's window, from when it was in service, that has since been removed via shotgun blast. It seems the place has equal parts reverent believers and irate protesters. To each their own I guess.

Among the journals in the old suitcase are also a few books. I didn't bring mine on this journey and I've had quite a few hours here with my thoughts already, so I grab a small one - The Bridges of Madison County - which takes place essentially where I was born. I've got a deep connection with those covered bridges in Iowa, so the selection seems appropriate. It is a quick read, and pulls me from delving too deep in the emotions of this place. Just as I finish it, the other two hikers arrive. Its just after midnight and has been raining for hours. They thank me for saving the bus for them, make me swear to wake them before I leave, and quickly retire. I lean back in the familiar cocoon of my sleeping bag, looking up into the well studied ceiling of my tent reminded of Chris in his bus looking up and drifting off. My eyes slowly close, as his did.