The legacy I leave behind will have little to do with famous stories, books, or movies. It will have everything to do with the love I feel for two little girls. Except for Shannon, all my siblings have kids, and I know they feel about their own kids the same way I feel about mine. Most of us were apprehensive about becoming parents, and we all delight in seeing each other be so good at it. In the decades since Chris’s death, my siblings and I have come together to find our own truth and build our own beauty in his absence. In each other, we’ve found absolution, as I believe Chris found absolution in the wild before he died.
During my trip to the bus, I represented all of Chris’s brothers and sisters by leaving behind a journal. Chris’s siblings filled up the first few pages, but the rest remained for visitors to the remote location to leave their own stories about what brought them there.
“Follow your heart, follow your adventures,” wrote Sam.
“Chris,” wrote Stacy, “always the adventurer with a desire for knowledge. I know, I understand, and I love you!”
Shelly wrote, “Before my son was born I gave him a big McCandless-style party. Inside the invitation was this Hodding Carter quote: ‘There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots; the other, wings.’ I think in some strange way you played a part in sending me the greatest gift. I will always use you as a guide so I don’t clip his wings. Always in my heart and soul.”
I placed a picture in the journal of all of us together as young children. We’re all standing side by side. When I look at the picture, I don’t see our intermixed ages. I don’t see half brothers and sisters. I don’t see anyone missing. I see wholeness. I see a family. I see we are all smiling, and even Chris has a beaming grin from ear to ear.
That was a good day, and one that can never be taken from us. Beneath the picture I wrote, “The love of brothers and sisters never dies,” and beneath that, I wrote a few simple words Shawna had contributed to the journal. Always the one to lay down roots in a storm, she added,
Eight of us stand as one.
And she’s right.
{Photo © Dominic Peters}
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On September 30, 2012, I opened my front door to load some things into my Honda Pilot and saw my mom standing on my front porch. She hadn’t been in my home for several years, and this visit had come without invitation. Shocked to see her there, my first thought was one of relief that Robert had the girls for the day. Heather was thirteen years old and Christiana was six—my youngest would not have even recognized her grandmother.
When I asked Mom what she was doing there, she flashed a disingenuous smile, which was all too familiar, then showed me a small package tied with a satin ribbon and said it was for my anniversary. She had never gotten me an anniversary gift before, and I knew she was well aware, through common acquaintances, that Robert and I had separated two years prior. I accepted the package—I don’t know why—and she left. I waited for a while before examining the gift. It was an old novelty I remembered from its perch on a random shelf in the Annandale house; thick black backing in a cheap wood frame with a gold paper etching of two lovebirds cuddling in the center. I knew my mother’s tactics too well for her message to be anything but crystal clear.
Whenever discussion about her decision to stay with Dad became uncomfortable, she always pointed out my failed marriages. She saw them as evidence of my flaws, while I saw leaving any situation where I was treated with disrespect as evidence of my courage. I wanted my daughters to learn that lesson of worth from me. Despite our marital problems, Robert and I rarely fought, and never in front of the girls. However, we were always honest with them about our situation, even when those talks were difficult. Some people find it strange that although we are no longer a couple, Robert and I still spend a lot of time together with the girls, at community or school events, having dinners together, even the occasional camping trip. They say it’s just not normal. They’re right. And I’m very proud of that. I wanted my girls to learn that lesson of strength from me. And together, Robert and I have shown them that our love for them both is unconditional.
My mother’s condescending act that day, and the detrimental messages I occasionally receive from both my parents, only strengthened my resolve to complete this book. It is not my intention to portray them as monsters, because clearly they are not. They are simply human and make mistakes as we all do. But I am absolutely certain that my witness to their mistakes, as well as my own, can serve an important purpose. I want every reader to benefit from the evidence of my family’s dysfunction in the hopes that it can help them make wise decisions to lessen these burdens in their own lives.
I have made my best effort in every way possible to be honest, fair, and forthright. Some persons’ names and identifying characteristics were changed in order to protect their privacy or per their request. While most of the book is organized chronologically, there was a need to occasionally combine events to fit within the confines that come with writing for the page. While I have intended to represent Chris as I believe only I can, I was careful not to speak for him, because I think no one should. Anywhere I have quoted him in the book came from my direct memory of a discussion with him, from his letters written to me or to others, or from a recollection of several corroborating witnesses of a particular occurrence. I went by the same rule with respect to others in the book as well, and if I relayed an event that I clearly was not present to witness, I corroborated separately with several people who were in attendance in order for the retelling to be as accurate as possible.
There are places in the book, especially in the early chapters, where I was not yet born or just too young to recall the details of certain events on my own. For those instances, I relied on my interviews with family members and information found in old letters for accuracy. Where my powerful and emotional final break with my parents is concerned, I pulled from one specific email exchange, followed by letters and the spirit of discussions that happened over the phone or events in person and often witnessed by others, to summarize what ultimately severed our relationship.
I hope that my openness about these difficult circumstances can be of help to others; and perhaps with raw and selfish optimism, I am left to wonder if removing the final masks from my parents might also bring upon them some relief, and allow healing within my own family.
Carine McCandless
February 2014
AFTERWORD
Storms make oaks take root.
—Proverb
There’s a well-known version of the birth of the Greek goddess Athena, and each time I read it or hear it, I think about the story of my family.
According to my favorite retelling, the most powerful Greek god, Zeus, is intimate with the goddess Metis. He becomes fearful immediately afterward, because it had been prophesized that Metis would bear children more powerful than their sire. Feeling threatened, Zeus eats Metis, believing he can simply consume that which he can’t control.
It’s too late for Zeus, however, because Metis is already pregnant. In time, Zeus suffers a terrible headache, such that his head has to be cleaved in two. And Athena, goddess of wisdom and philosophy, savvy in warcraft, with a purpose for justice, comes out of his forehead, fully grown, fully armed.
Zeus easily recovers, but Athena does indeed prove to be stronger than her father. He is powerful, yes, but he is also a megalomaniac. Athena has no tolerance for such ego and relies on her insight as her greatest defense.
Like Athena, my brothers and sisters have proven to be stronger than our father. We are armored with our experiences, which have bestowed reason and compassion. We broke the cycle of violence—every single one of us. We collected all the broken pieces and put them back together to create something strong and beautiful. Each family event where Walt’s surviving kids gather, we revel in one another’s company regardless of our differences or any disagreements, and we always put the children first. We are all focused on the next gen
eration, as we should be.
Perhaps our loyalty to each other and our children is never more clear than when faced with crisis. On October 11, 2012, my little boy, who was five at the time, was diagnosed with a pediatric brain tumor. The surgery to remove his malignant tumor lasted fifteen hours, and none of my brothers and sisters left the waiting room. In the months since the surgery, it’s been my brothers and sisters as well as my mom who have supported me as I’ve taken my son to chemotherapy treatments, therapy appointments, and body scans. From cleaning my yard so we could relax outside and enjoy some fresh air, to attending a group information seminar about coping with cancer, to arranging a steady stream of hot meals and keeping our village of support informed through our internet lifeline, they have all been there for me unconditionally.
Each time I’m at the hospital with my son, I notice the signs posted about domestic violence. DON’T SUPPER IN SILENCE, they read. Too many people still do. The violence often remains locked up tightly behind closed doors along with those experiencing it. We need to open those doors. I choose to acknowledge my past experience in the hope that it can help others find their own voice.
A few days after we had finally arrived home from the hospital following several surgeries, my son was playing with Legos and stopped suddenly. “Does Uncle Chris have a spirit?” he asked me. I told him yes, and, in the way that children do, he went back to playing with his Legos. I love my brother Chris, and though all these years have passed, I still miss him beyond words. But although he is no longer here in body, I feel the strength of his spirit with me every day, just as I felt the presence of all of my siblings in the hospital during my son’s multiple procedures. Throughout any adversity, as on any given day, we stand together with unconditional love.
Sometimes in life we must endure specific challenges that are part of our journey to learn from and to teach by, and valuable lessons are gleaned from the effort. I know Chris would be so proud of Carine for bringing the truth to light, because in that spirit, some stories just need to be told.
Shelly McCandless
May 2014
PHOTOS
Chris and me in the front yard on Willet Drive. Aunt Jan snapped this picture as Chris was leaving to go to school. He loved that Redskins lunchbox.
My mother was pregnant with Chris and my dad was still married to Marcia when this announcement was published in Mom’s hometown newspaper.
Dad was a father two times in three months—Mom had just given birth to Chris. Dad’s wife, Marcia, had given birth to son Shannon three months prior.
Chris, me, Mom, and Dad on Mr. Pounder’s sailboat in California.
Chris was a cute baby. This was one of the pictures displayed at his wake. Even at such a young age, he looks like he has something important to say.
Chris in a school portrait at six years old.
A rare picture of me as a baby. Mom is helping me blow out the candle on my first birthday cake.
Me in a school portrait at three years old.
At Grandma and Grandpa Johnson’s. Every time I look through our childhood photos, I’m struck by how many of them show Chris hugging me.
I love this picture. Chris was always my protector. Aunt Jan captures a Christmas hug during our early years in Virginia.
This family portrait hung in our church during our younger years.
A break in the fighting to take more pictures before church. It was very rare for Mom to show her true emotions in photos.
(left to right) Mom, me, Shelly, Shawna, and Stacy in the notorious green dresses, at a summer party.
Quinn, Chris, Shannon, and me at the beach. Chris and Shannon were both older than Quinn, but Chris was small for his age, so he looks younger.
Chris, who thrived being in nature, on one of our hiking trips in the Shenandoah.
Chris making a sand mountain on vacation. Sand castles were much too pedestrian and formal for his taste.
One of my favorite pictures of Chris, taken at a time when he began to ask the hard questions about our family.
Chris and I both served as acolytes at Saint Matthew’s United Methodist Church. The image of being a devout Christian family was always very important to my parents.
Chris and best friend Andy on the track at Woodson High School. Chris was captain of the cross country team.
Shelly (in the back row) lived with us for almost three years. Here we all are with a visiting family friend.
Chris with his girlfriend, Julie, at prom. Chris adored Julie. He was never a big spender, but he saved up to treat her to a gourmet dinner and an expensive orchid corsage.
Our senior portraits from Woodson High School, circa 1986 and 1989.
Chris wore this favorite leather jacket throughout his teen and college years. It was part of the birthday present he gave me before he headed west after his college graduation. Whenever I wear it, it feels like one of his protective hugs.
My half siblings at Christmas with their mom, Marcia (left), around 1980. Back row: Shelly, Sam, Stacy. Front row: Shawna, Quinn, Shannon.
With the band my senior year as Drum Major. I thrived within the structure of marching band, while Chris found it constricting.
After Chris’s high school graduation—I dreaded him leaving home.
A family portrait taken during Chris’s senior year of high school. I remember he was not in a posing mood and wanted to leave. Notice how similar his expression is to the one in the photo on the cover of this book.
At dinner following Chris’s graduation from Emory College. Although noticeably aggravated, Chris was still playing his part, never indicating to our parents that he was planning to head west and cut off all contact with them. This is a powerful scene in the Into the Wild movie.
Taken during my first visit to Bus 142. The chair that Chris took his widely recognized self portrait in sits empty.
Fairbanks City Transit Bus 142 was taken out of service and towed out to the Stampede Trail in the early 1960s. Several buses had been outfitted as base camps to serve as galleys and house workers building a mining road. Yutan Construction heavy-duty mechanic Jess Mariner had brought along his young family for an adventure. They affectionately named the bus their "boudoir." When the project lost funding, all vehicles were towed back out except 142. It remained in the wilderness as a shelter for moose hunters.
{Photo © Mickey Mariner Hines}
My first visit to Bus 142, August of 2007. It took me fifteen years to gather the emotional strength to make the trip.
Sitting on the bed in Bus 142 where Chris died, Jon writes in the journal I left behind for visitors to the bus to leave their own messages.
The Sushana River, the waterway that ambles beside Bus 142.
{Photo © Dominic Peters}
The cave Chris dug in the riverbank near Bus 142 where he attempted, and failed, to preserve the meat from the moose he killed. He wrote in his journal that taking the life of the animal without purpose was one of his greatest tragedies.
{Photo © Dominic Peters}
The Stampede Trail winds through the Alaska wilderness with Denali off in the distance. Bus 142 waits downtrail.
{Photo © Dominic Peters}
A tame early spring view of the Teklanika, the river that stranded Chris in the wilderness. He tried to cross back over in late summer at a time when the raging waters were swollen above both banks.
{Photo © Dominic Peters}
{Photo © Dominic Peters}
Chris’s backpack was returned to me fifteen years after his death, with his wallet tucked inside. Examining these items gave me peace and insight into what he intended to do after his journey was complete.
{Photo © Dominic Peters}
Spending time with Chris’s beloved books, reading the notes he left in the margins, was a great source of strength for me after his death.
{Photo © Dominic Peters}
With Mom and Dad when we spread Chris’s ashes in the Chesapeake Bay, which was not the location I felt Chris wo
uld have wanted.
Jon sent me this photo in January 1993. He was researching Into the Wild and following Chris’s trail out west when he found his beloved Datsun, all cleaned up and recovered from where Chris had abandoned it in the Detrital Wash of the Mojave Desert in Arizona.
{Photo © Jon Krakauer}
On a hike in Alaska, the day after visiting Bus 142 for the first time.
Me in 2011 with the fully restored 1969 Chevy Corvette convertible, a project I began with Jimmy and Dad when I was just thirteen.
{Photo © Dominic Peters}
At Shelly’s wedding in Central Park, right before my twenty-first birthday. Fish and I had recently gotten engaged, but I didn’t want to set a date until Chris returned.
The Wild Truth Page 26
