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"I didn't care whether the kids liked sailing or not.  I wanted them to like being a family."

--Emily Orton (from an uncorrected proof of Seven at Sea)

In an effort to downsize, minimize, simplify, and focus on the things that matter most in life, my family and I have decided to sell our houses, get rid of all our stuff, and buy a boat.  The six of us will be living on a 38-foot catamaran for a year while we sail around the Caribbean, the Bahamas, and anywhere else that takes our fancy.  We'll be leaving behind jobs, friends, school, and most of my books (gasp!) for this once-in-a-lifetime chance to experience real family togetherness while exploring new places and testing our gumption on the open sea.  Never fear—I will continue blogging from the "road".  At least when I have Wi-Fi.  And access to new books.  Or maybe I'll just write my own story.  Sound good?

Yeah, right!  April Fool's!  I'm not actually crazy enough to do something like this.  Not even a little bit.  You know who is bonkers enough, though?  Erik and Emily Orton, a couple from New York City.  Back in 2014, they felt like their lives were being overtaken by the inconsequential and mundane.  Despite the fact that they and their five children—aged six to sixteen—lived in a 900-square foot apartment, in which the children were homeschooled and Erik worked, they wanted more togetherness.  The family took sailing classes, bought a boat, and headed to the Caribbean.  Ten months later, they returned to New York sunburned and happy, a strengthened family who had gone through a difficult and unique learning experience which earned them confidence, experience, perspective, and unity.

If this were a movie, it would be rated:

for non-graphic references to sex and scenes of peril

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At one time or another, all of us have no doubt felt the desire to sell all our worldly goods and head for the hills.  The solitude and simplicity of an unencumbered vagabond life are undeniably appealing, especially when the pressures of life feel too heavy to bear.  Few of us actually take the plunge, though, beyond say, a weekend camping trip or a rejuvenating hike in the mountains.  That's what makes the story of Christopher Johnson McCandless so odd.  And so intriguing.  

McCandless—a bright, enterprising young fellow—grew up in a suburb of Washington, D.C.  The son of an aerospace engineer, he was used to a solid, upper middle class existence.  As a young man, however, he grew disdainful of "the good life."  After graduating from Emory University in 1990, McCandless renamed himself Alexander Supertramp and took to the road.  Impulsive and hopelessly idealistic, the college grad sold most of his possessions, donated all his money ($25, 000) to charity, and set off to explore the country.  Working odd jobs to take care of his scant personal needs, McCandless took pleasure in seeing new places, meeting interesting people, and finding enlightenment in his anti-materialism lifestyle.  

As he wandered, McCandless dreamed of walking into a true wilderness, of experiencing total freedom in a land relatively untouched by human feet.  He planned to disappear there, to live off the land, surviving by his own wit and instinct.  The place?  Alaska.  On April 28, 1992, the 24-year-old realized that dream.  He began hiking The Stampede Trail, near Denali National Park, toting along little more than his passion.  Ill-equipped to handle the harsh Alaskan backcountry, Christopher Johnson McCandless lasted only a few months.  On September 6, 1992, a hunter discovered his body—which weighed only 66 pounds—moldering inside an old, abandoned bus near the trail.  Ironically, the man who donated $25,000 to feed the hungry starved to death—and not all that far from civilization. 

McCandless' story fascinates travel writer Jon Krakauer, who made the young survivalist the subject of his first book, Into the Wild.  In it, Krakauer explores McCandless' life from childhood to his death in order to figure out what made the unusual man tick.  While doing so, the author ruminates on important topics like society's obligation to those who don't fit in; the foolhardiness of challenging nature unprepared; the dangers of romanticizing people like McCandless, whose tragic but preventable death inspires devotees to make their own pilgrimages to The Stampede Trail, often leading to stranded—even dead—hikers; and a person's right to live and die on their own terms, however odd they may be.  Krakauer even explores alternative scenarios that could have led to McCandless' death.  The fact that there are a lot of gaps and unknowns in the man's story doesn't make Into the Wild any less intriguing.  Although I didn't find the book nearly as awe-inspiring as Krakauer's bestseller Into Thin Air, it's still a gripping man vs. nature story, haunting and memorable.  It's a sad tale, but one I found very compelling.

(Readalikes:  Hm, I can't really think of anything.  Can you?)

Grade:

If this were a movie, it would be rated:

for strong language, depictions of illegal drug use, and scenes of peril

To the FTC, with love:  Another library fine find

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If someone else was footing the bill (which can run in excess of $70,000) and you were given a year to train, would you be willing to make a go at climbing to the summit of Mount Everest?  Keep in mind that topping Earth's tallest mountain (above sea level) takes around two months and requires great skill and strength.  Despite increasing safety measures, people still die every year while trying to reach Everest's top.  They expire because of altitude sickness, exposure, heart attacks, exhaustion, falling, and being caught in blizzards and storms (In 2015, Everest's deadliest year, 21 were killed because of an earthquake-triggered avalanche).  Many of the dead bodies are never found; even when they're located, the difficulty of removing corpses at such high elevation means that many remain on the mountain.  Considering all of this, would you do it?  Would you risk life and limb to try to achieve something only a few thousand people in the world have done?  Would all this be worth it to you, just to be able to say you've summited the highest mountain in the world?

For me, the answer is an unequivocal no way, nuh uh, never, ever, ever.  If your answer is more like, "Heck, yeah, I would," or even, "maybe," may I suggest that you're completely off your rocker you pick up a copy of Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer's unforgettable memoir about his experience on Everest?  In vivid, compelling prose, the Seattle journalist describes what happened before, during, and after his life-changing climb.  The elaborate preparation (financial, physical, and emotional) that goes into planning and executing a "normal" Everest summit is mind-boggling all on its own.  Just that would have made for fascinating reading, especially told in Krakauer's engaging style.  But, the writer's trip would turn out to be anything but ordinary.  Krakauer, who was 42 at the time, staggered to the top of Mount Everest on the afternoon of May 10, 1996.  Unbeknownst to him, that day would come to be known as the deadliest in the mountain's history.  On that momentous day, he would lose teammates and friends in a terrible tragedy that haunts him to this day.

While some might romanticize their triumphs over Everest, Krakauer does nothing of the sort.  His account is honest, harrowing, and heartbreaking.  He talks frankly about common Everest issues like overcrowding, trash accumulation, unsafe climbing, and man's ridiculous hubris in the face of nature's supremacy. Krakauer also admits that "...climbing Everest was primarily about enduring pain" (140).  In a 2015 interview with a Huffington Post reporter, he stated:

If this were a movie, it would be rated:

for language, violence, scenes of peril, and a few references to sex and illegal drug use

Note:  Everest the movie, which is based on Into Thin Air, is actually rated PG-13 for disturbing images and scenes of peril.  Surprisingly, it has little—if any—profanity (unlike the book).  

To the FTC, with love:  I bought a copy of Into Thin Air at Costco with a portion of the millions I make from my lucrative career as a book blogger.  Ha ha.

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I didn't make any reading resolutions this year, but if I had, one of them probably would have been to explore more non-fiction.  My fiction addiction is well documented; my (sort of) aversion to its opposite pretty obvious.  I wouldn't call myself a non-fiction hater—after all, I quite enjoy biographies, memoirs, pop psychology books, and interesting historical accounts.  Still, I have to push myself to read non-fiction.  And yet, when I first heard about The Oregon Trail, a travel memoir by Rinker Buck, I knew I had to read it.  Something about its premise just really appealed to me. Probably has something to do with growing up in the shadows of the famous trail and the fact that I'm a descendant of Mormon pioneers.  Even though the book's a long, sometimes plodding, ordeal, I found myself really enjoying the ride.

Buck, a journalist with a serious case of wanderlust, has always liked being on the move.  For a hypomaniac like him, it's a way to combat depression, to challenge himself, and to learn about new places.  Thus, trekking 2100 miles across the Oregon Trail in a covered wagon pulled by a team of mules appealed to Buck's sense of adventure.  With his foul-mouthed "Mainiac" of a brother beside him, along with Nick's smelly Jack Russell terrier, he spent several months traveling from St. Joseph's, Missouri, to Farewell Bend, Oregon, in a restored 19th Century Peter Schuller wagon. Although some 400,000 people traversed the Oregon Trail (which Buck points out was never a single trail, but a series of them) in the fifteen years before The Civil War, the last documented crossing was in 1909.  In the 102 years between then and 2011, when Buck made his journey, much of the original trail had disappeared, buried beneath modern freeways, farms, etc.  Retracing the pioneers' steps as closely as possible, then, was a daunting task.  Especially for a starry-eyed 60-year-old writer; his grizzled, cantankerous brother; and a pungent, high-maintenance canine. 

Although the Buck brothers occasionally took advantage of conveniences the pioneers never enjoyed (truck stop restrooms, icy fountain drinks, laundromats, etc.) and dealt with trials unknown to early travelers (like the "minivan morons" whose constant gawking caused all manner of problems), they encountered countless hardships early travelers knew all too well—inclement weather, broken wagon parts, bodily injury, spooked animals, boredom, exhaustion, rough trails, hunger, and more.  Through it all, though, Buck glories in the pleasant surprises they experienced on their journey, from the spectacular new vistas; to the strangers who became treasured friends; to the satisfying slumber that comes after a day of hard work; to a miraculous visit from Mormon angels.  Above all, Buck discovers a great truth about himself:

If this were a movie, it would be rated:

for strong language

To the FTC, with love:  I bought a copy of The Oregon Trail from Changing Hands Bookstore, my local indie.