A Revisionist's History: Into The Wild

Years ago my father introduced me to Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer, a book that has since gained a lot of notoriety from an author I have since come to distrust. In the book, Krakauer recounts the demise of one Chris McClandess, a self-described “supertramp,” who jettisons gainful employment, family, and the conveniences of modern life to embrace the life of a recluse. As far as books go, Into the Wild was a good read insofar as the subject matter kept me completed riveted.



I remain undecided as to whether McClandess is deserving of our sympathies or not. And yet, on those days I can see past his hubris, I can relate to that romantic and insatiable lust for the wild, lonely places of this world. Having sampled the life of the recluse, I have found it delicious when taken in small doses. And on occasion, I have “struck out for the territories” myself without companionship. The most recent trip that comes to mind took place between my second and third years of law school.

JD candidates spend much of their first two academic years gearing up for summer clerkships where they test their legal mettle and actually learn something practical. During our second summer, one of the most memorable of our married life, I worked two different clerkships: one in Portland and the second in Spokane. At the time, we were living in Orem, Utah in what was very generously referred to as a townhome. (I loved that old building. And if we’d had a garage, I might have stayed.)

Anyway, because we didn’t want to run the risk of losing the apartment to other tenants, we decided to pay our rent for the summer, and then live with family in Portland and Spokane to avoid paying double rent. The problem was that we couldn’t afford to just pack up and head out of town. With two kids in tow and a full summer staring us in the face, we would need “provisions.” And not even the well-appointed cabin of our Ford Taurus, roomy as it was, could accommodate the vast store of diapers, chewy toys, bouncy seats, and water wings the summer would require.

Fortunately, due to the munificence of my father, we also owned a 1982 Isuzu P’UP of the diesel variety. To be fair, the P’UP deserves a post all its own. But anyone familiar with diesel P’UP’s knows two salient—at least for this post—points about the truck. First, even the DLX model only has capacity for two small-ish adults. Second, the P’UP tops out at about 50 mph.

In short, common sense clearly augered against undertaking a 2,000-mile-trip with the P’UP. Not only was it too small to be the only vehicle we used, but the mechanical integrity of the P’UP was questionable at best. The P’UP crested 230,000 miles earlier that year, and this after at least a year or two where the odometer didn’t work. Still, being the spontaneous, carefree sorts that we are, we decided to throw caution to the wind and take both vehicles.


Miraculously, with a little help, the P’UP went the distance. And—in the spirit of Neil Young’s Pontiac hearse— it is probably still gracing highways somewhere in the Intermountain West. Sadly, the number of P’UP’s I spot tooling along our byways diminishes every year. But I digress.

So, all asides aside, one of the most beloved adventures I’ve ever been privileged to make, I made in this truck. After a long, beautiful, and warm summer, I climbed into that truck on a Friday night after work, hung my arm on the window sill and, with a nod to Supertramp, Chris McClandess, waved good-bye to Rachael, the kids, and my parents. The P’UP coasted and rattled down Spokane’s cascading South Hill until reaching Interstate 90 and then headed east into the wilds of Northern Idaho.

By this point in the summer, the P’UP and I had grown older and wiser together. Earlier in the summer—perhaps in retribution for the forced march to Portland—the P’UP began oozing antifreeze on my slacks during the daily drive to the office. Upon closer inspection it became clear the heater core had shuffled off to that great, big “bone yard” in the sky leaving me with smelly pants and a green mess on the floor mats. So, to triage the situation, I took a length of hose and connected the antifreeze lines in and out of the core thereby bypassing the core altogether.

Knowing that the Utah winters would require a little heat, if for no other reason than to ensure that the windows didn’t fog over, knowing also that no self-respecting mechanic would spend time replacing a heater core in a vehicle so completely spent like the P’UP, I knew I either had to replace that core myself or abandon the P’UP to Russians out at Pick and Save out in the Spokane Valley.



So, once in Spokane with my father’s garage and tools, I spent a week of evenings ripping out the dash and replacing the heater core with a cannibalized core from an Isuzu Trooper. Now that I had committed myself and the truck to this final 800-mile leg of our summer odyssey, I experienced some anxiety—to put it mildly. This solo venture represented the true “acid test” of my handiwork. One way or the other, we’d see how well I’d done over the next two days.


I checked the mirrors before merging with east-bound traffic on I-90. The bed fairly bulged with freight. Wedged and strapped into the bed with a web of nylon rope were two bikes, three suitcases, a variety of child toys and an immaculately maintained 1950’s-era Maytag washer and dryer set we purchased for Tyson and Leah (Rachael’s brother and sister-in-law). On the seat next to me were another couple of boxes, a sleeping bag, water bottle, and some food. I couldn’t even see out of the passenger-side door window. Even in spite of the load, I don’t believe the springs compressed even a millimeter. Granted, the P’UP was struggling to do 55 that night, but it struggled to do 55 every night.


So we there we were, the P’UP and I, intermittently burbling and wheezing along I-90 East as it carved its way through the Northern Rocky Mountains. The freeway left just enough elbow room in those narrow canyons for the ghosts of former mining towns. Earlier that Friday, with my trip in mind, Dad had gone to the library and checked out a copy of the book Killing Pablo, a fantastic account of how the CIA helped take down Drug Lord Pablo Escobar. Now as the cool canyon air flowed through the open cab, the cassette deck droned out the tale of debauchery and extravagance. Behind me, the sun cast a bronze glow on the canyon walls high above.

I drove like this through twilight and into the inky black of night. Finally, a little before midnight, I pulled off the freeway into a campground just west of Missoula, Montana. The campground was completely dark. Not a soul stirred, at least, not until my headlights and the clatter of the P’UP’s diesel engine erupted like a thunder clap. I trolled through the sites, grimacing at the racket, and pulled into the first available site. Grabbing my sleeping bag from the passenger seat, I unfurled it just outside the P’UP’s driver-side door, and climbed inside.

The air was comfortable and I was fast asleep in seconds. At some point in the night I started from my dreamless sleep. A deafening horn shattered the silence of the camp and a bright light illuminated the P’UP completely blinding me at the same time. Even through the fog of sleep, I had enough presence to realize that a freight train was barreling down on me. I leapt out of my bag not knowing which direction to run. Then, when only a few hundred feet away, the train veered off to the South following the bend of the rails. My heart shook in my ribs. Those engineers must have had a good laugh at my expense. It took me a little longer to fall asleep the second time.

At 6:00 a.m. the next morning, I crawled out of my sleeping bag, stumbled over to the pit toilet, washed my face and hands in the spigot, paid my fee and motored the 10 to 15 miles into Missoula where I gassed up and continued pushing south. Having made the drive from Spokane to Provo many times, I knew it could be done in twelve hours flat without speeding.

Those were the days when Montana posted speed limits on the Interstate but only enforced what they deemed to be a “Reasonable and Prudent” speed during daylight hours. If you exceeded a Reasonable and Prudent velocity during the day, you might win a $5.00 ticket. Of course, all of this was moot. The P’UP wouldn’t reach the 75 mph posted speed limit even if I wanted. As such, the 12-hour trip stretched out to full 15-hour trip. Sadly, Killing Pablo only carried me to Dillon, Montana. From that point forward, I listened to a book about two teenage boys who flew a plane they built, with their father’s help, from Massachusetts to California on their own. I don’t remember the title. But it was engaging enough to keep me awake through the long, hot hours I spent in that tin cab.


Finally, around 8:00 p.m., I pulled off the freeway and onto University Parkway in Orem, Utah. The P’UP rumbled up the hill by the freeway and swayed into the gravel lot behind our “townhome.” The Euckers were there and in a few minutes we had the washer and dryer unloaded and installed in Tyson and Leah’s apartment.

Rachael and I still consider that summer one of the most idyllic of our marriage. We traveled, made a little bit of money, and enjoyed the relaxed summer schedule---all of which represented a dramatic departure from our law school routine. And of course, there was the promise of the future hanging tantalizingly before our eyes in waking and in sleep. Only one short year of law school separated us from stability and routine, or so we hoped.

All those factors certainly contributed to making this an unrivaled summer. But perhaps because I am, at heart, a “Solitary Man” who revels in isolation on occasion, I believe that one of the two or three crowning experiences of that summer was that long trip home. There was something romantic, utilitarian, practical, independent, and a little crazy about strapping our belongings into that ultimate of under-powered and over-worked tractors of a pickup. The P’UP made no pretenses at luxury or recreation like the leather-appointed, automatic, four-wheel-drive monstrosities we see on the roads today. It simply got the job done and all that after 230,000 miles.

Not even a year later, we passed that truck on to the next owner. And like the passing of the P’UP, we have also passed that phase of life on to the next generation of hopeful and reckless students. We have lost that capacity to adopt a nearly nomadic existence. Like landed gentry, today we find ourselves beset with a home, beautiful children and a mountain of possessions. Gone are the freewheeling days, where we could, with wild abandon, launch ourselves into the void relying on a broken-down pickup and the Grace of the Almighty. Maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing.