Are we all Supertramps at heart?
Continuing on my Krakauer binge, I recently read Into the Wild over the Thanksgiving holiday. I was hesitant to read the book since I had already seen the movie several times. Contrary to the dogmatic belief that books outrun movies in every competition, I doubted that the story of Chris McCandless really deserved extra attention beyond Sean Penn’s critically acclaimed film. But, given the facts (no iPod, short book, Jon Krakauer is awesome), I decided to give Into the Wild a try.
I was not disappointed. Surprisingly, the immediate story of Chris McCandless’ (last known photo of him above) adventures across the American West and Alaska captured the least of my attention. The real hook is provided by Krakauer, who is able to connect McCandless’ journey to a much larger picture of existential dilemmas facing individuals in modern times. We learn that Alaska has been a prime destination for many “Alexander Supertramps” (the name Chris McCandless assumed during his travels) over the years, each of whom viewed the barren tundra as a proving ground for their romanticized return to nature. We also discover that Krakauer himself spent much of his early adult years climbing dangerous peaks (and defying his father’s wishes in the process) in an autobiographical aside that culminates in an account of his harrowing Devil’s Thumb ascent in the Canadian Rockies. Krakauer draws these connections in order to make a compelling argument: that Chris McCandless was not suicidal, mentally deranged, arrogant, or uniquely selfish. His identity crisis was simply more extreme than the average bear.
I find Krakauer’s argument convincing. But if there is an Alexander Supertramp inside all of us, why is he only pacified by self-reflection in remote places? This could probably be debated soundly on philosophical and psychological grounds. The ability to reflect, to assess one’s position relative to others, and to act based on such insight, is probably as ancient as the existence of our species. We have the power to not only understand where we fit in the moment, but also reflect upon the past and envision new possibilities for the future. Also, personal experience tells us that nature is a good place to foster such thoughts. The desolation of a high peak, the sea of stars only visible far from city lights, the isolation of forest, and the silence of the open desert all help to reduce the noise of society enough to think, reflect, and ponder. In other words, who doesn’t like camping every once in a while?
The less defensible question is why the authentic Alexander Supertramp must live alone in the wild. I would imagine that a present-day Inuit would scoff at such a requirement. They might agree that life in harsh places demands a profound spiritual respect for nature. But such a perspective is not solely gained through prolonged solitude. Quite the contrary. Almost everyone (past or present) who has lived unshielded for long amounts of time in the remote wilderness has relied upon close social ties to survive. In fact, tribal groupings are far more cohesive than the large and superficial social groups that exist in the urban areas where Alexander Supertramps are born.
So, where did Chris McCandless get the idea that the answers to his questions could only be gained through a solo life off the beaten path? The answer is littered across Into the Wild, and I think it is equal parts London, Thoreau, Muir, and every other post-18th century nature writer. For two years McCandless was accompanied by these writers and their reflections upon nature, each of whom helped to pioneer a literature combining notions of personal freedom and liberty with a profound rejectionism of urbanization. (On a sidenote, I loved how Krakauer took some time to point out the hypocrisy of some of these authors, especially Jack London, who was apparently an obese womanizer who wrote most of his most famous work from the confines of comfortable hotel room.)
Unfortunately for McCandless, and all the more extreme Alexander Supertramps, staunch individualism and life in the wild combine to make a deadly cocktail. McCandless did not only fail to tell the difference between poisonous and non-poisonous roots. He failed to understand the difference between the appreciation of nature and the “return to nature”. Nature has always been, and always will be, central for the sustenance of mind and body. By contrast, the return to nature is a fantasy - a romantic notion created and perpetuated by writers and idealists whose very rejection of society demonstrates their privileged existence. Only in the most “advanced” societies have people been able to dislodge themselves from the social fabric by choice and embark upon selfish quests of personal discovery. Existential dilemmas are a favorite pastime of the rich, bored, and disaffected, not the salt of the earth.
This post is not intended to criticize Chris McCandless, or question the authenticity of his experiences. Rather, it is an exercise in reflection in the hopes of understanding “why” Chris McCandless and his fellow Supertramps have acted in this way, and what role our society has to play in the puzzle. Everyone probably sees this story a bit different. Angry Alaskans view McCandless as a crazy and suicidal enigma, with society playing no part. By contrast, Krakauer thinks we all have some Supertramp in our blood. But if there is a critique to his work, it is that he is never able to exit the case study mold. All the characters in his story are clearly motivated by personal factors, but the societal pushes and pulls remain obscured. Unfortunately, it is the common thread that I am interested in exploring further.
Why do we find Chris’ story appealing, even though his solo-return-to-nature-mentality was misguided, problematic, inconsistent, and ultimately fatal? Why does his story make me want to go for a run, take some time in the woods, miss climbing mountains, feel nostalgic about being young and stupid, and put me in the mood to write and reflect? Is this my way of placating my inner Supertramp?
