THE ALASKA INTERIOR
April 27th, 1992
Greetings from Fairbanks! This is the last you shall hear from me,
Wayne. Arrived here 2 days ago. It was very difficult to catch rides in
the Yukon Territory. But I finally got here.
Please return all mail I receive to the sender. It might be a very
long time before I return South. If this adventure proves fatal and you
don't ever hear from me again I want you to know you're a great man. I
now walk into the wild. Alex.
(Postcard received by Wayne Westerberg in Carthage, South Dakota.)
Jim Gallien had driven four miles out of Fairbanks when he spotted the
hitchhiker standing in the snow beside the road, thumb raised high,
shivering in the gray Alaska dawn. He didn't appear to be very old:
eighteen, maybe nineteen at most. A rifle protruded from the young man's
backpack, but he looked friendly enough; a hitchhiker with a Remington
semiautomatic isn't the sort of thing that gives motorists pause in the
forty-ninth state. Gallien steered his truck onto the shoulder and told
the kid to climb in.
The hitchhiker swung his pack into the bed of the Ford and introduced
himself as Alex. "Alex?" Gallien responded, fishing for a last name.
"Just Alex," the young man replied, pointedly rejecting the bait. Five
feet seven or eight with a wiry build, he claimed to be twenty-four
years old and said he was from South Dakota. He explained that he wanted
a ride as far as the edge of Denali National Park, where he intended to
walk deep into the bush and "live off the land for a few months."
Gallien, a union electrician, was on his way to Anchorage, 240 miles
beyond Denali on the George Parks Highway; he told Alex he'd drop him
off wherever he wanted. Alex's backpack looked as though it weighed only
twenty-five or thirty pounds, which struck Gallienan accomplished
hunter and woodsmanas an improbably light load for a stay of
several months in the backcountry, especially so early in the spring.
"He wasn't carrying anywhere near as much food and gear as you'd expect
a guy to be carrying for that kind of trip," Gallien recalls.
The sun came up. As they rolled down from the forested ridges above the
Tanana River, Alex gazed across the expanse of windswept muskeg
stretching to the south. Gallien wondered whether he'd picked up one of
those crackpots from the lower forty-eight who come north to live out
ill-considered Jack London fantasies. Alaska has long been a magnet for
dreamers and misfits, people who think the unsullied enormity of the
Last Frontier will patch all the holes in their lives. The bush is an
unforgiving place, however, that cares nothing for hope or longing.
"People from Outside," reports Gallien in a slow, sonorous drawl,
"they'll pick up a copy of Alaska magazine, thumb through it,
get to thinkin' 'Hey, I'm goin' to get on up there, live off the land,
go claim me a piece of the good life.' But when they get here and
actually head out into the bushwell, it isn't like the magazines
make it out to be. The rivers are big and fast. The mosquitoes eat you
alive. Most places, there aren't a lot of animals to hunt. Livin' in the
bush isn't no picnic."
It was a two-hour drive from Fairbanks to the edge of Denali Park. The
more they talked, the less Alex struck Gallien as a nutcase. He was
congenial and seemed well educated. He peppered Gallien with thoughtful
questions about the kind of small game that live in the country, the
kinds of berries he could eat"that kind of thing."
Still, Gallien was concerned. Alex admitted that the only food in his
pack was a ten-pound bag of rice. His gear seemed exceedingly minimal
for the harsh conditions of the interior, which in April still lay
buried under the winter snowpack. Alex's cheap leather hiking boots were
neither waterproof nor well insulated. His rifle was only .22 caliber, a
bore too small to rely on if he expected to kill large animals like
moose and caribou, which he would have to eat if he hoped to remain very
long in the country. He had no ax, no bug dope, no snowshoes, no
compass. The only navigational aid in his possession was a tattered
state road map he'd scrounged at a gas station.
A hundred miles out of Fairbanks the highway begins to climb into the
foothills of the Alaska Range. As the truck lurched over a bridge across
the Nenana River, Alex looked down at the swift current and remarked
that he was afraid of the water. "A year ago down in Mexico," he told
Gallien, "I was out on the ocean in a canoe, and I almost drowned when a
storm came up."
A little later Alex pulled out his crude map and pointed to a dashed red
line that intersected the road near the coal-mining town of Healy. It
represented a route called the Stampede Trail. Seldom traveled, it isn't
even marked on most road maps of Alaska. On Alex's map, nevertheless,
the broken line meandered west from the Parks Highway for forty miles or
so before petering out in the middle of trackless wilderness north of
Mt. McKinley. This, Alex announced to Gallien, was where he intended to
Gallien thought the hitchhiker's scheme was foolhardy and tried
repeatedly to dissuade him: "I said the hunting wasn't easy where he was
going, that he could go for days without killing any game. When that
didn't work, I tried to scare him with bear stories. I told him that a
twenty-two probably wouldn't do anything to a grizzly except make him
mad. Alex didn't seem too worried. 'I'll climb a tree' is all he said.
So I explained that trees don't grow real big in that part of the state,
that a bear could knock down one of them skinny little black spruce
without even trying. But he wouldn't give an inch. He had an answer for
everything I threw at him."
Gallien offered to drive Alex all the way to Anchorage, buy him some
decent gear, and then drive him back to wherever he wanted to go.
"No, thanks anyway,"Alex replied, "I'll be fine with what I've got."
Gallien asked whether he had a hunting license.
"Hell, no," Alex scoffed. "How I feed myself is none of the government's
business. Fuck their stupid rules."
When Gallien asked whether his parents or a friend knew what he was up
towhether there was anyone who would sound the alarm if he got
into trouble and was overdue Alex answered calmly that no, nobody knew
of his plans, that in fact he hadn't spoken to his family in nearly two
years. "I'm absolutely positive," he assured Gallien, "I won't run into
anything I can't deal with on my own."
"There was just no talking the guy out of it," Gallien remembers. "He
was determined. Real gung ho. The word that comes to mind is excited.
He couldn't wait to head out there and get started."
Three hours out of Fairbanks, Gallien turned off the highway and steered
his beat-up 4 x 4 down a snow-packed side road. For the first few miles
the Stampede Trail was well graded and led past cabins scattered among
weedy stands of spruce and aspen. Beyond the last of the log shacks,
however, the road rapidly deteriorated. Washed out and overgrown with
alders, it turned into a rough, unmaintained track.
In summer the road here would have been sketchy but passable; now it was
made unnavigable by a foot and a half of mushy spring snow. Ten miles
from the highway, worried that he'd get stuck if he drove farther,
Gallien stopped his rig on the crest of a low rise. The icy summits of
the highest mountain range in North America gleamed on the southwestern
Alex insisted on giving Gallien his watch, his comb, and what he said
was all his money: eighty-five cents in loose change. "I don't want your
money," Gallien protested, "and I already have a watch."
"If you don't take it, I'm going to throw it away," Alex cheerfully
retorted. "I don't want to know what time it is. I don't want to know
what day it is or where I am. None of that matters."
Before Alex left the pickup, Gallien reached behind the seat, pulled out
an old pair of rubber work boots, and persuaded the boy to take them.
"They were too big for him," Gallien recalls. "But I said, 'Wear two
pair of socks, and your feet ought to stay halfway warm and dry.'"
"How much do I owe you?"
"Don't worry about it," Gallien answered. Then he gave the kid a slip of
paper with his phone number on it, which Alex carefully tucked into a
"If you make it out alive, give me a call, and I'll tell you how to get
the boots back to me."
Gallien's wife had packed him two grilled-cheese-and-tuna sandwiches and
a bag of corn chips for lunch; he persuaded the young hitchhiker to
accept the food as well. Alex pulled a camera from his backpack and
asked Gallien to snap a picture of him shouldering his rifle at the
trailhead. Then, smiling broadly, he disappeared down the snow-covered
track. The date was Tuesday, April 28, 1992.
Gallien turned the truck around, made his way back to the Parks Highway,
and continued toward Anchorage. A few miles down the road he came to the
small community of Healy, where the Alaska State Troopers maintain a
post. Gallien briefly considered stopping and telling the authorities
about Alex, then thought better of it. "I figured he'd be OK," he
explains. "I thought he'd probably get hungry pretty quick and just walk
out to the highway. That's what any normal person would do."
Excerpted from "Into the Wild" by Jon Krakauer. Copyright © 1997 by Jon Krakauer. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.