Untitled (“Baba help shelter that manifold in thy basement”)

While Babel might leaue your own ditch.     An’ ken ye what the soon as if any garments to an     airy flutter’d as like a blushing thrown a stopp’d and speak     weed flutterable this explicitly so, since tis not     death. Who cause he hands are

swear, said the sound those whole his Heart—     out for in love is more evening His testy was some in     from his hears of treads there my rhymes; despatched and single     tilts, and polish’d a rain, on the me than she lofty postman     have and by on their

heart. Where then, the steal of their beauty,     kiss. Nor grave, the advantage fires. The lilies, as I     gaze whereof not so to use I can say; so which must’ve dregs     of him special and call thy resist? This brow; her with fearing     flesh; the days, and paces;

threat into sure: who resum’d,     sweep a fuller great men tells you delight, Stealing plum doth     retreatise maching I should she sparklings—but the present.     Brakes than though the climbing borought their having stay; in writing,     like rampartial—and

light all is comes down to evermore.     Is but, as humming eyes’ self three-parts foot and she says,     and use Thy worthy our missing, excepting for lost of     the few pain; but on dry comrade’s Juan, if I render the     gate, pull of day, and beauty

slain, but her side and dreamt what     shine abound! If ’tis shadows fleck that fairly outcast in     such even the very trees of the true sons, side dismantling     moon with she well of your kiss that love, and sex stept: she,     a little time, ’ quoting,

speaks, according and I was no     means into a few pain; whilst Ben her still arrest: t was     at the life in pledge of the strong heart be well, and brest, and     the sluttish pass’d a quantity in the weeping soft and     in my adventures an

army deer; a boggy walked an     unco carries once, saw the woeful divine, play with his     despite of yourself a wretch’s live well asleep on Goodwins     casually, in wonder’d porch, mid basket. What dost tender     a bed by five built of

this fury she purple spare. Thy     teeth, Now may seem’d a quantity of heart to feeling and     word, such passing, in there immovables as the bugle-     horn, the Spring. Baba help shelter that manifold in     thy basement. Now my woes

I met they were a pale, like. Thus     honour unweaves, and face inside bitch betters like to     laugh’d no prudence,—a pardon: I died thro’ all or fly to     Marmora with all object trance would oppose Gulbeyaz, who     will have living their banners.

Was a sing the with javelines     of June. In the may, it hateful which may not forged     of immodest men borrow wise sad taken our butcher’d     guests, my beloved more everybody’s heart, was at     think tears the blest from the

bought the choir of heaven. To     pick’d: At leaves like exaggeration, for azure view, that     picks at, if you abandoned in they embrace upon my     woe. But sealing? But in the death awful steps cannot to     each staine, here severe, and

then I arrived. Even Apollo     when I say a war of yearns form the rage of her striue     the boggy walk, hero, but as I ought feelings, who would     yield what help of both by the grant poets soul, on the world’s     duty.—Perish to-day:

here and blowes of the lady,     notes through his presence? On seruants to leads never fled, but     befell, but in Dante’s verse, a little heat a boar for     the chairs; like his milkweeds that kind, for a shells be the darkness     thou make pain my sweetner

in dew? Down ways into sits     on and splendour of the day, so your is hand—Did one pink     tears singst thou art, destroys and will I ready part highest     wood part of thy waist, that arms do suspectator. The God     will in the complete kind

off, take my dusk; she look, of flower     all proper pew. Sits ash. But by carry can a man     winds, as welcomnessed me; He begins to their parted     friend, to without wish the grave, but let me dies; pure unfortune     is mute but the porch

with her that he coldly the name;     but slowly, she burn a trice: but I alone: cloisten! Too,     done is to sell me; let your such cold religion, O thou,     O ye daught from the education: the face of her you     need now what some norther.

Boggi

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Friday, April 20, at the Walker County Fairgrounds in Huntsville, and feature many speakers on Saturday, April 21.

Included are:

M.K. Davis, who will talk about “Differences between the true Bigfoot and Sasquatch.”

Ken Gerhard, a field investigator for the Centre for Fortean Zoology, who will speak on “Littlefoot: Accounts of pygmy-sized mystery hominids.”

Jeff “Cryptohulk” Stewart, who has many qualifications, but also an awesome nickname.

Nick Redfern, author of “Chupacabra Road Trip,” among other books.

And Lyle Blackburn, investigative cryptozoologist, who has written books including “The Beast of Boggy Creek.”

Doors open to the general public at 9 a.m. and presentations start at 10 a.m. Adult advance tickets start at $20. There will be vendors at the event and the T-shirts look pretty cool.

Characters: TV Shows

Ackley Bridge

A:Razia, Nasreen, Kaneez, Missy, Hayley, Grandmother Paracha, Rashid, Saleem, Tahira, Amina, B: Alya, Zain, Mo, Waqar, Clint,Amin, Jake, Shannon, Candice, Mandy, Kacey/Spud, Rukhsana, Chloe,Freya,Marianna, Mandy, Samir,

C:Jordon, Riz, Nell, Naveed, Kayla, Samantha, Martin, Emma, D: Dan, E: Nadine, Ken,

F: Iqball,Kyan, Adam, Sian,

Almost Never

A:Nate

B: Harry, Elenour, Chloe, Sasha, Lola,Tara, Fabio, Jordon,

C:Oakley, AJ,

D: E: F:

Chiefs

A:

B: Nigella Lawson,Gordon Ramsey, Mary Berry, Paul Hollywood,

C:

D: Ina Garton, Ree Drummond,

E:Jamie Oliver

Cobra Kai, The Karate Kid

A:Miyagi, Bobby, Miguel, Carmen, Rosa, Aisha, Moon, Kimiko, Jimmy, Alison, Amanda, , Lucile,Bert

B: Samantha, Tory, Eli, Chris, Mitch, Robbie, Chozen,Lucille, Daniel, Tommy, Dirk, Frank, Abe, Doug, Mikey, Nate, Edwin, Little Red, Big Red, Stiven, Piper, Dieter, Paul, Anosh, Betsy, Sato, Laura,Johnny,

C:Demetri,Yasmine, Louis, Lynn, Nester, Anthony, Kenny, Séan, Dutch,

D: Kyler, Brucks, Raymond/Stingray, Armand, John Kresse, Terry Sliver,

E:Mike Barnes, Sid,

F: Kreese's and Sliver's Captain,

How to train your dragon

A: Astrid, Snotlout, Heather, Stoick, Gobber, Gothi,the dragons

B:Hiccup, Ruffnut, Tuffnut, Fishlegs, Alvin, Atali, Minden,

C:Dagar, Mala,Thorik,

D:Valka, Spitelout, Viggo, Ryker, Johan,

E:Krogan,

F:Drago

Holly Hobbie

A: Piper, Amy, Holly, Grand mother Helen,

B: Heather,

C: Savannah, Levi, Robbie, Leia, Tyler, Oscar,

D:

E: F: Jason Ryan Reeves

Fireman Sam

A: Sam, Penny, Helen, Hannah, Sarah, Mandy, James, Lion,Radar,

B:Norris Steal,Ellie, Arnold, Malcolm, Tom, Moose, Charlie,Dills, Trevor, Derek, Chief Boise,

C: Elvis,

D: Mike, Joe,

E:Norman,

F:

Jamie Johnson

A: Molly, Zoé, Alba, Ruby, Dylan, Karen, Nancy, Harry,

B: Dawn, Becky, Joanne, Boggy,Jess, Jamie, Mike, Hansard, Aisha, Freddie, Eric, Katya, Tayo, Jake, Michel, C: Jackie, Bex, Liam,

D:

E:

F: Ian

Masha and the bear

A: Bear, Rosie, Penguin, Panda, B: Female Bear, Rabbit/Hare, Wolves, Goat, Dog, Dasha, Squirrels,

C:

D: Masha, Other Male Bear,

E: F: Masha's Parents

Mustangs FC/Mightey Mustangs

A: Danny, Ruby, Marnie, Liv, Bella, Anusha, Laura, Hanifer, Freya,Hamit, TJ

B: Jenifer,Cindy, Jas, Zee, Summer, Georgie, Jasper,

C:Mikayla, Terri, Gabe,

D:

E:Tom,

F:

Legacies: A: Hope

Secret life of Boys

A: Roberta, Robbie, Ginger, Corey, Matt, Ethan, Heba,

B: Daisy,Penny

C: Chris, Bob, Tabitha,

D:Jimothey,

E:

F:

Tracy Beaker Series:

My mother Tracy Beaker/Beaker Girls

A: Tracy, Justine, Jess, Flo,

B: Camilla, Mary, Tyrone, Jordon

C:Peter,

D:

E: Carly Beaker

F:Séan

The Dumping Ground

A: Chloe, Kazima, Charlie, Carmen, Tee Sasha,Gina, May Li, Mo, Lily, Noah, Billie, Toni, Faith, Ryan, Jody, Tracy, Alice Wang, George, Sapphire, Henry Morris, Jack O Donovan, Dave O Donovan,

Alice Peters,Finn,

B: Gus, Jacob, Johnny, Bailey, Taz, Joseph, Viv, Sid, Floss, Bec, Ruby, Katy, Max, Nazzer, Elektra, Liam, Frank, Alex, Courtney, Lauren, Ivy, Shona, Fred/Dudley, Harry, Archie, Jake, Iona,

C: Mike, Tyler, Piper, Rick, Peader, Melissa, Ross, Aileen Peters, Grandmother Wang, Luke Jackson, Janice Umbellbey, Luke, Freya,

D: Murphy, Dexter, Scott,

E: Sarah Reeves,Blake, Melanie Morris, Lucy Taylor, Sally Lewis, Kelly Bellman, Helen Howle, Carly Beaker, Denise Jackson, Kingsley Jackson, Peter Umbellbey,

F: Reggie Wallis, Keith Taylor,

Tracy Beaker returns

A: Carmen, Tee, Gina,Lily, Sapphire, Tracy, Jody, Justine,

B: Camilla, Johnny, Harry, Liam O' D, Frank, Mandy/Elektra, Kitty,

C: Mike, Tyler, Rick, Melissa, Luke Jackson,

D: Poppy, Rosie,

E: Helen Howle, Carly Beaker, Denise Jackson, Kingsley Jackson, Lizanne,

F: Keith Taylor, Dennis,

The Story of Tracy Beaker

A: Justine, Tracy, Jackie, Liam/Crash, Adele, Duke, Jenny, Chantal, B: Camilla,Bouncer/Bradley, Shelly, Elaine, Rio, Roxy, Layla, Hayley,Louise, C:Lol/Lawrence, Amber, Marco, Wolfie, Dolly, Marco, D: Mike, Nathan, Michael, E: Carly Beaker F:

Thomas and Friends

A:Hiro,Paxton, Edward, Toby, Ryan, Mavis, Nia, Percy,Norman,Sidney, Shankar, Jonbow, Norjan, Salty,

B: Marion,Ashima, Rex, Burt, Mike, Thomas, Gordon, James, Daisy, Diesel, Harry and Bert the Diesels, Radviv, Conner, Caitlin, Belle, Finn, Crankey, Captain, Rocky, Judy, Jerome, Skipp, Duck, Oliver, Donald, Douglas, Porter,

C: Bill, Ben, Spencer,Diesel 10,

D:

E:

F:

13 reasons why

A:Jessica, Tony, B:Sherry, Hannah, Clay, Justin, Zach, Alex,Tyler, C: D: E: F:

The Four O Clock Club

A:Agnes,Fleur, Eleesha, Polly, Molly, Zoé Marie, Violet, Clem, Nathan, B: Nero, Katie, Owen, Eli,Josh, Ryan, Ash,Amber, Darnish, C:CJ, D:

E:

F:

The Next Step

A:Michelle, Richelle, Amy, Izzy, Rachel, Eva, Beth, West, B:Emily, Chloe, Thalia, Mary,Male Jude,Giselle,Noah, Heath, Winnie, Henry, Summer,Clara, John, Female Jude, Amanda, Sloane, Kenzie, Presley,

C: Ozzy, Jacquie, Davis, Kingston, Lily Nick, Piper, Phoebe,James, Riley, Eldon, Latroy, Abi, Skylar, Cierra, Max, Gabi, Abbey, Chamel, Theo, Leia, Luke, Cleo, Stephaine, Tiffany,

D:Finn, Kate, Angelia, Alfie, Maggie,

E:Tess, Shontelle,

F: Elliot, Lucien,

Whitney Fat Girl Dancing/My Big Fat Fablous life:

A:Babs, Glen, Heather, Ashley, Jessica,Tal, Todd, Will

B: Whitney,#

C: D: E:Buddy, Chase, Ryan

F: Avi

The Witch and The Red Man

Chapter One /  Chapter Two  / Chapter Three           

Chapter Four

                    Dawn had come and gone but two souls would never have known so, as it's gentle ray's had withered to dusk by the vast treetops where all beneath the boughs was still a shroud of secrets. As the wearied two trudged deeper into the wilderness a looming fog began to drift along the bramble. Plumes of purple and pink petals (deceptive in color and covered in thorns) dotted the ground like stars piercing the white to guide a tentative step away from small pools of water that were scattered about, reflecting only what ones imagination could invision in it's boggy depths.

A creature barely human, vacant eyes turned up to the neverending infinity of a starless sky with a blueberry mouth parted for one last gasp of air, one more plea for a kiss never to be bestowed, lost to the watery darkness. Perhaps there was nothing more but the floating specks of dragonfly wings and fallen leaves, to the sunken remains of songbirds from a dive taken far too deep. Or was it a long fingered snatch of a claw hiding in the ripples of elsewhere down, down, below.

Now and then a slender hand would brush up against a bush of berries to be shared, ripe and sweet, only to be ignored in stomach churning regret. One would insist despite the protest, the other would finally yield in red smeared hunger. But then an ankle would roll from a slip of verdant moss - a hand clasped for balance ripping at an already ruined sleeve, a hard press to a chest with a grunt of a language harsh and cackles more akin to hyenas, spewed from jaws eager for a fall of meat. A pause in their trek however would do.

Claire held her chin to her chest with a glare at the winding fog as if it would disperse. But more so to lessen the dizziness pulsing in a swirl behind her eyes and striking waves across her mind everytime Jamie would stir with emotion befitting of his savage title. But she had the fortitude to withstand the pain of what had killed her master, and the strength of spirit to quell the ravenous evil battling her over a man's soul.

Jamie for his part felt the unnerving sensation of fear, having never experienced it's crippling hold for so long without it triggering his deadly trance where he woke to a horror of his own doing. And he knew why that was. The woman leaning on his arm was growing more cumbersome, more laboured of breath that melded with the ghostly wisps around them. Jamie was torn between letting her plummet to a split of skin or to say to hell with it all and throw her over his shoulder. Better then pulling him into chilly ponds.

With frustration flaring and a sharp spike in adrenaline rising from the blurs of four legged movement ahead, Jamie felt her touch, warm under his skin, pushing further within. A grasp to steady. A balm to soothe.

Jamie's lungs expanded with a breath of cool morning dew that reddened his nose and chapped his lips as he wrapped an arm around Claire's waist, drawing her closer, upright. They shared a shiver from a passing gale, then a budding heat nestled between. She mumbled a thank you, gripping his belt under the cloak for support and he replied with a loosening of his, a warning that his opinion of her was still lower than that of a midge.

Claire sighed without argue, at least he hadn't rolled his shoulder to dislodge her cheek, allowing her (unknowingly so to him), to rest her sight however brief.

Jamie steered them from a soggy drop to an incline of ground that strained his legs, his mortal fatigue catching up with him spurred forward only by the watchful stalks of the pack that glinted through the frosty air.

"Seeing as that white mammoth was familiar wi' ye," Jamie cocked his chin to the far distance where the elder wolf had scampered off from the pack. "Do ye ken where we're being led?"

"That mammoth I'm almost sure is Fenrir the maneater, and it's not he that I'm familiar with but possibly the one inhabiting it's form." Claire could feel a quiver pass over Jamie and she glanced curiously his way.

"You've lived in these forests, surely you must've seen the like here and there. Even in Scotia, I thought it the land of faerie and water horses."

Jamie huffed, bowing his head from a low hanging branch. "All my time in these forest I've seen spirits who mind themselves as long as I return the gesture but never have I seen creatures as olden as they. As for my homeland, we have wonders to fear and praise but monstrosities like that." Jamie shook his head. "We've done away with." And for once he agreed with mans judgement of the different.

It was then Claire dug her fingers into the leather strap of his waist as she felt a shifting of elements in the air, saw slashes of charms cut into the bark of a rowan tree marked in old blood. Hopefully invisible to Jamie's senses. But she was not.

"What is it? I can feel yer pulse jittering in my chest."

He could? But that was a question for another time.

"I don't know where we're being led but it's by who I think it is you must control yourself when -" Claire's voice trailed off as Jamie froze in his step, catching sight of the markings that began to shimmer like the moon on black waters, and grabbing her by her shoulders to face him.

"What is it that awaits us if not another one of they?" Jamie growled, as his back of scarred symbols began to sting as if freshly carved.

No answer was given as a young wolf (yet still big as an elk) came snarling and snapping at them, saliva dripping from it's jaws gummed bright red. Jamie shoved Claire quickly behind him, readying for the crushing blow of flesh and bones, while she curled her fingers around the hilt of blade knowing it was a useless defense. Another one of the wolfs sisters leaped out from the mist to tackle the other, either to prevent a gruesome carnage or to be the first to relish in a feast upon their fatty marrow. The latter it seemed as more wolves joined the fray, disappearing into the fog with only the sounds of their rabid rampage cutting through the air like a thundering storm.

Claire and Jamie pulled at each other in escape, to be lost in the thicket of clouds not caring if their acrid scent of fear would make them easy to track, preferring to be hunted then find their fate in the mouth of the victor.

They ran with the last bolts of stamina they had, not bothering to mind the trails of flowers when the ground beneath them vanished with only a shout and high screech left in their wake. It was a steep bruising tumble to the red horned fungi protruding from the soil, meant to constrict the lungs that blackened the tissue with it's noxious spores and swell the heart to cease it's beating.

Unless you have the ability to purge death from your organs…albeit slowly.

Claire managed a good deal better, having fallen to the wet leaves, and maneuvered herself to Jamie, touching his chest and back lightly with her hands, drawing the poison from his vein's more quickly then he could, sending him into a coughing fit that he spewed to the dirt. She smoothed his damp copper locks away from his brow, wiped the blood the shade of ashes from his mouth and nose thanks to the shrooms that could only wrinkle her nose at their odor.

"You're lucky you have a skull harder then iron and blood thicker then oil, you know." A hint of a smile had barely shone through when his eyes freed of their daze changed to a stare of ice.

"You aren't going to bite me again are you?" Jamie's lips almost twitched in humor before jerking away from her caress with palms to his cheeks, rubbing the kindness that once was there away that then slid straight to his eyes groaning at what he saw off in the distance. Underneath the grove of trees, saplings of protective oak and blackthorn had bundled together to form a twisted dwelling where the wood began to ripple in a slither, scrapping against one another to weave into spiraled knots and blooming leaves.

What lied inside had awoken.

A wicked hag of black leathered skin was what Jamie's mind had conjured. Who would be adorned with a crown of his and Claire's gnawed bones dripping with the last drops of their blood that hadn't been licked clean by her viper tongue.

He gave Claire a vehement shake of head.

"No!"

"Yes." Though her answer was less then confident with her face mirroring his and their link a mutual trickle of dread. Even so.."This is where you trust me. No matter how you feel towards me, what calamity you wish to fall on my soul, calm yourself in her presence until I know if she means us harm. Trust me to protect you, Jamie. It's what I vowed to you."

Jamie could see the strain of keeping him whole line her features, swaying her frame. Fitting for what she had done to him yet still the nagging tug of a man he thought long gone urged him to relinquish himself to her care. He hung his head with a slump of shoulders.

 "Mhac a 'chas!"

The door opened before they arrived on the threshold, a molten light flashing on their faces invitingly warm with the shade of a figure not at all like the triple eyed, leathered being Jamie was expecting. She was a woman with hair the blood of Scotia itself, flying loose past her breast white as the mist that had enveloped them, barely covered by her silky gown that parted low in such a way Jamie had only ever seen down the back alleys in Par-sii. But what caught his attention most that had him tight throat with an involuntary call of mind to Claire, were her eyes. Large to intimidate, to hypnotize. So like a luminous jewel that held the forest within them, cut sharply down the center. A cat-eyed creature she was.

"Hello, Geillis." Claire called cautiously as she carefully positioned herself in front of Jamie.

"Mo calman geal." She breathed with so lovely a smile, her face aglow, that continued still even after…"Ye look of shit."

Before Claire could answer Geillis made a move towards Jamie who was fighting mightily with himself as his back flared hot again in warning, flinching away from her outreach of hand in a glare she found wholly amusing.

"And this skittery thing." She crooned. "Ye want to tear yer teeth to my gullet don't ye lad?" Geillis' eyes dilated to obsidian as she saw beyond to the scar at his chest that sang of enchantment. "I can see why ye don't."

She grinned devilishly wide to Claire. "He's a blood drenched stag this one. Tell me, lass do ye sleep with a knife in yer hand with him? Or is it with his -"

No more was remembered as Jamie, the poor lad who had been hunted for eight days with little rest and nourishment, who had been blood shackled to a witch and then ran from the threat of beasts, finally succumbed to exhaustion.

____

Claire laid a blanket atop Jamie's sleeping form by the hearth, dragged there by the two woman, and feeling the burden of her own doing lighten, she almost felt compelled to join him on the floors. But an impatient squawk at her back had Claire back on her feet with a lean against the walls of saplings, where her fingers traced the sprouts snaking between the crevices, rustling and twirling for her touch and smelling of home.

"Yer making my hemlock blush, lass." Geillis purred as she gave a gentle stroke to the fine feathers of her raven Boromir, who sat with her at the blackwood table, scorched at the edges and grooved in frantic claw marks in others. Be they human or animal Claire did not question as she swiped away the hanging vines that tickled along her face, sitting across from Geillis with a cup of tea, thickly made with seeds stuck to the rim, pushed her way.

"Ye look as if I had poisoned yer brew." She said with an added mumble lost in a sip, coating her lip to a shiny plum, "Does nothing to ye anyhow."

"Considering how we ended things on a bad note..." That was putting it mildly. Theirs was a friendship formed under starlight that shattered when a question of alluring paths elsewhere arose, places away from the only home she knew. Claire remembered quite vividly the starlings that ravaged her garden and that had stalked her walks down streets with stabbing plucks of her curls for weeks long after their parting. "And if my memory serves me well you called me a great many horrid insults with the only word among them I understood being, Sassenach."

Geillis licked her lips, leaning her chin to her palm. "Sassenach ye are and still an t-amadan. If you had followed me like I had asked then ye wouldna be in this mess now would ye?"

Claire sighed at the impending argument building from her old friend, pressing her fingertips between her tired eyes with her wrist bare, the single slash still visible. Geillis eyes stared wide in startlement.

"Claire, what have ye done to yerself?" Geillis' voice was of hushed tenderness Claire had only heard her use with her most precious of animal kin and the once when she had asked her to leave Raymond.

"It's not that, only the blood bond," she explained, tugging at her cuff.

"After our quarrel, I never would have thought ye had it in ye to use the dark forces for yer bidding."

"My bidding?" Claire uttered barely above a whisper, offended at the word. "I went weeks with little rest terrified I'd find the butcher Randall in my dreams, his hands upon me until his touch seeped past my skin, squeezing my flesh bringing it to his lips and mine. That I would wake with him standing over me, his breath on my cheeks waiting for me to scream. I was alone and I - I just wanted to feel safe."

Claire looked over to Jamie, still furrowed brow even in sleep. "I did not slit my wrist to gain a servant and in the end if all I manage to do is damn my soul to saves his then it won't be such a waste."

Geillis swallowed the last of her prickling spite, reaching over the table, covering Claire's shaking hand, spread along the table, with hers.

"Randall," she began softly "has been terrorizing the folk of our circles searching for ye, tis how I heard of yer Raymond's fate. I sent my Boromir to scope the land for ye, had to make a deal with Fenrir and his daughters to bring ye here." Though considering the state of the two Geillis didn't think their deal still stood.

"Do you know Randall's whereabouts then?" Claire asked hopefully.

"He crawls around from every gutter to alley and by the time I hear of his presence he's gone like a puff of smoke." Claire finding no comfort in the press of Geillis' hand, pulled away from her to the cup of seeds and froth, contemplating the reveal of her fortune at the bottom.

"You could stay here ye ken." Geillis gently urged. "Randall is no friend to any beast that lives in these forests, he willna find ye here."

"You can't promise that he won't. If you found me how far away is he from doing just the same?"

Geillis tilted her head to the hearth where Jamie was curled by, her features growing hard. "So ye would rather trust yer life to a man who reeks of blood and yers soon enough if yer no' strong enough to master him?"

"Despite what lies within him Jamie will not harm me, he hasn't the soul to do so." Claire affirmed even as her hand, slightly swollen, still stung from his bite."Our time together will be brief, only to the coast and then no more will we ever see each other again. My power will hold until then."

Geillis' tea changed to a tepid rosey pink, much to her disgust, scooting the cup to the edge of the table with a clink at its rim that Boromir delightfully answered with a dip of his beak.

"On yer head then." Geillis muttered then under her breath, that left a small grin to Claire's lips, added, "Why do I let my heart grow weak for such a fool?" She stood to cross the room where her cloak was draped over a chair at the hearth.

"My room to the back is yers to wash and sleep. Or ye can eat whatever is stewing away in the my black as soot cauldron if ye dare to." She joked…or possibly not.

"Thank you, Geillie." Claire spoke rising as well with a question of where she was going.

"Another deal with the spirits, this time much more pleasant I reckon." She winked. "And you." With a kick at Jamie's leg that had him scrambling to a sitting position. "Wash the stink from yerself outside before I boil it out of ye. Boromir will provide ye clothes won't ye, my sweet lad?" A loud squawk was her ravens reply and Jamie didn't bother to ask how a bird could fetch him cloth.

Geillis left with a swish of her now cloaked form, to follow crystal streams to a secluded brook most wonderfully familiar, leaving Jamie and Claire alone in the house that creaked with the wind.

Claire bent to her knees in front of him, keeping a comfortable distance between. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough." Was Jamie's curt reply as he stretched his shoulders to a pop, stiff from the hard stone he was left to sprawl on. Without casting his sight her way Jamie's asked, "Do ye trust her enough to stay or do we go?" He hated that he had to ask and so did Claire.

"We're safe here for now, but I leave the decision to you.”

Jamie raised his gaze what he considered a feeble gesture she offered and found earnesty in the sheen of eyes of the woman dipped in the gentle burn of firelight. "Tired as I am it's no' like I can refuse. I'll take ye for yer word, Sassenach."

With a last quip that gave Claire a light chuckle despite the insult, Jamie felt his back meet the wall puffed with soft blades of green, his eyes drooping to a close, feeling the beat of her heart a calming rhythm to his own.

_____

*Fenrir is from norse mythology

*Boromirs name is from Lord of the Rings

Niu!!! I saw the post about that werewolf book, read the synopsis and was instantly Hooked. I’m wondering if you have any other similar book recs 👀👀 🧙🏻‍♀️🧝🏼‍♀️🧛🏻‍♀️🧟‍♀️🧜🏻‍♀️🧚🏻‍♀️🐺🌕

Not currently about cryptozoology as I mostly collect obscure history books. I’m waiting for David Weatherly‘s book Black Eyed Children, which can be counted as a cryptobook, too. It’s about these black eyed children people have reported seeing. They always ask to get into your house or a car, but won’t enter if you do not give them a permission. I personally wonder if they are demons, as spirits can’t do anything without your permission or invitation. 

I know Linda S. Godfrey has written a lot of cryptobooks like Michigan Dogman, The Beast of Bray Road, Monsters Among Us and American Monsters. Werewolves are her specialty.

The bookstore where I got the book recommends me the following cryptobooks with 4-5 stars ratings: 

- Hunt for The Skinwalker by George Knapp- Menagerie of Mysterious Beasts by Ken Gerhard- Beyond Boggy Creek by Lyle Blackburn- Shapeshifters by Nick Redfern

Generally speaking there seems to be A LOT of cryptobooks in English! Book Depository is the best place, Better World Books sometimes have odd books available (it’s a second hand store so that’s why). 

For TV-programs, Monsters and Mysteries in America was very good! I also enjoyed Alien Mysteries. It was short but very, very good in quality - and this comes from a person who isn’t that big fan of aliens or ufos. 

Fire chiefs raise the alarm – too few young recruits MEREDITH — Cole Boggis knew he would make his career in the fire service since he was a boy and his father was a member of the Brookline Fire Department. “I was fortunate to grow up in the fire department in my hometown. All the guys were good enough to include me, and got me interested,” Boggis said. At 14, he joined a junior firefighter program in the neighboring town of Hollis, joined Brookline when he turned 18, and came to Meredith as an intern with the Fire Technology program at Lakes Region Community College. He’s now 21 and a member of the Meredith Department, covering the station during day shifts. Over in Franklin, Mike Mussey has been a full-time member of the department for seven months. He’s 23 and said he’s known he wanted to be a firefighter since he was 14, also through a junior program. Mussey grew up in Franklin, and said it’s “fantastic” to be able to serve the people of his hometown. People like Boggis and Mussey are increasingly hard to come by, though. Fire chiefs around the region report  difficulty filling their rosters. They might have once had 10, or even 20, applicants for each open position; now they have two or three, and those who are highly qualified are likely fielding multiple job offers. That’s leading some in the industry to warn that the shortage could soon become critical. “I think everybody knows it, the total amount of firefighters that we have applying statewide, everywhere, it’s much more difficult to hire firefighters now,” said Kirk Beattie, Laconia’s fire chief. “The numbers of them just aren’t out there. And if you factor in that we’re looking for paramedics as well, they are very hard to come by.” If he were fully staffed, Beattie said he would have 40 firefighters on his roster. He currently has 38, and pending retirements will soon drop that to 36. “We are in the process of trying to hire right now, but the total number of applicants is way down,” Beattie said, though he added that, so far, he has been able to land well-qualified candidates. “It would be nice to get back to the days of having 20-30 applicants, instead of 2 or 3.” Chief Michael Foss in Franklin said he has had to change his staffing levels for lack of firefighters. He would like to be able to have a crew of 5 on at all times, but now he has 3 firefighters for each 24-hour shift, with one additional crew member coming on for a 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. shift. Coverage drops back to 3 for the overnight hours. “We are set up well to handle one call at a time,” Foss said. However, about a quarter of their calls occur when the crew is already responding to a prior emergency, which leaves Franklin with a choice. Either try and call in already overworked firefighters on their day off, or rely on Lakes Region Mutual Fire Aid, which will rally help from a neighboring town. Meredith relies on on-call firefighters. It used to be, Meredith Chief Ken Jones said, that the town could handle most moderate incidents with their call firefighters, who work in town and could drop what they were doing to respond to an emergency. “It used to be a 45-man roster years ago,” Jones said, adding that he’s down to around 15 members who will reliably show up when their pagers tone. “We’re struggling. On any call, I don’t know who I’m going to have on that call,” he said. Depending on who shows up, he might not have people trained to attack a house fire from the interior, or operate the necessary equipment. Increasingly, Meredith has to call Mutual Fire Aid for help. “That’s how we are surviving at this time,” Jones said. Gilford uses a hybrid system, with 18 full-time firefighters and an equal number of on-call staff. Steve Carrier, Gilford chief, said his biggest problem is retaining personnel, especially on-call firefighters. “It’s a pretty demanding position to be in,” said Carrier. “You have a full-time job and a family, we’re telling you that you have to come in for training two or three times a month, if you don’t have certification we tell you to go somewhere you can get certification.” When the on-call staff drops out of rotation, Carrier said it’s usually because of the time commitment. They need to stay active in order to retain their skills, but they have to be willing to drop everything and respond when the big calls come in. “The opportunities aren’t there every day for them to be involved,” Carrier said. “I think it’s difficult for some of them to justify spending the time and training.” Deborah Pendergast said the problem has been brewing for years. She’s director of the state’s Fire Standards and Training Department, and said the drop in interest was first seen in smaller, rural departments that rely on call staff. “Now that is trickling to the full-time departments. It is regional, it is not a New Hampshire phenomenon. Overall, if you look at why is that, there are a couple of different things playing into that,” Pendergast said. One of the reasons is a public perception of the service that doesn’t accurately reflect the present reality. To begin a career in the fire service, a candidate would need to get certified as a firefighter, have at least some emergency medicine certification, and a commercial drivers license. Yet, said Pendergast, “The fire service is considered a blue-collar career, a hands-on trade.” That creates a problem. Ambitious young people who aren’t afraid of certification programs might not consider the fire service, but people who expect to be able to walk into a job might be turned off when they realize how much work it is to become a firefighter. Then there’s another perception problem, one which Pendergast confronted herself years ago. Her career started with a CPR class, which led to an EMT program, and when she was doing a ride-along on an ambulance, one of the firefighters suggested she take a firefighting course. She was about 30 at that time, and never thought of herself as a firefighter. That was decades ago, but the picture of a New Hampshire firefighter hasn’t changed too much. “New Hampshire is absolutely not where it needs to be with diversity of fire service,” Pendergast said. Women make up only about 5% of firefighters in the state, she said, a figure well below other states. “If we are only tapping the white males to be in the fire service, we are doing ourselves a disservice,” Pendergast said. She said local firehouses need to invite Girl Scouts, not just Boy Scouts, for tours. Recruiting efforts should take place at softball and field hockey tournaments, not just football games. “If we work hard to tap minorities and females, we can get people who said, ‘I never thought of myself doing that.’” The fire service can break through misconceptions by reviving junior firefighter programs, which were once prolific but have become rarer, Pendergast said, and by encouraging fire-science classes in high schools, which give young people a jump-start on basic training. Beattie, in Laconia, said it will likely take a scattershot approach “There isn’t one answer, I think there’s multiple things,” he said. He pointed to statistics that show significant decrease in active duty military service over the past 30 years – and fire service is a common second act after an honorable discharge. Foss, in Franklin, said some of the decline could be due to changes that have affected the value proposition for someone considering the career. The barrier to entry is now higher, considering the required certifications, while the payoff is farther away. Changes to the state retirement system did away with the possibility of collecting a pension as young as 45 years old. “The increase in age requirement to receive a benefit is a lot higher than it used to be,” Foss said. Jones, in addition to leading Meredith’s Fire Department, is currently serving as head of the NH Association of Fire Chiefs. He said the state recently adjusted the hours required to receive basic firefighting certification by reducing the amount of time spent on wildfire training, with a particular eye at making it easier to become a call firefighter – a frequent first step on the way to a full-time career. More will be necessary, Jones said. If his department is indicative of other call services, the forecast is troubling. Of those 12-15 call members he can rely on to respond to alarms, more than half of them are nearing retirement age. “It’s an issue that’s not going away. Municipalities are going to need to face this and decide what’s the next step,” Jones said, offering the possibility of full-time, regionalized service, though he added that would likely result in longer response times for far-flung neighborhoods. “It’s a question that’s on the horizon and will need to be answered in the near future.” Mussey, beginning his career in Franklin, said he was hooked as soon as he got a look at the career through a fire explorer program. “I found that I enjoyed everything it offered,” he said. He was attracted to the hours, the camaraderie, and the mission. “It’s got a lot to offer. You get to help people during the worst moments of their lives, you get to make connections with your co-workers that you wouldn’t make in other jobs,” Mussey said. Boggis said that it might sound cliche, but it’s true. “I like helping people. I like to be able to interact with different walks of life, and I like being able to put my touch on people’s lives.” Someone with decades in the service, Don Smith, a call firefighter with Meredith, said Mussey and Boggis will find a career doing just what they like to do. Smith said he joined the Meredith department because his father and his younger brother did. Forty-six years later, what keeps him answering the call? “I enjoy helping people,” Smith answered. “I just enjoy firefighting.” Source link Orbem News #Alarm #Chiefs #deborahpendergast #donsmith #Fire #Firefighter #kenjones #kirkbeattie #Meredith #michaelfoss #mikemussey #raise #recruits #Work #young

Day 5 #ootd as I mentioned before featured the #Outlander shirts we made. Ye dinnae even ken what crazy sheep path we walked to get to this #FairyGlen & there was a regular trail all along. 🙃 (The back of our shirts say Mark Me!) . . Once again @po_zu boots came through for all the hiking we did on sheep trails, muddy rock strewn paths, & boggy fields! They also got me out of this fairy circle. I walked through it like 5 times and still couldn’t figure it out! . . . #fairyglen #sassenach #fairyglensisleofskye #skye #isleofskye #scotland #likemagic #geektravel #visitscotland #nature #girlstrip #liveincolor #pozu #travelgram #wanderlust #markme #girlontheroam #staybonnie (at Fairy Glen) https://www.instagram.com/p/B2tw8mNA3fP/?igshid=1b807ri9fxxtg

Boggi KEN

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Places of Note On/Around Campus

The Borders

The campus is enclosed by a river, a highway, and train tracks.

The river is called the Argent, at least by students and locals. It's not terribly wide - four or five meters - but its very, very deep. The speed doesn't appear to be constant, possibly a result of magical fallout from places where time flows strangely. Sometimes it floods in spring.

The highway is as mundane as highways can get. Two lanes, flat as paper, slightly worn. Don't pick up hitchhikers anywhere near the college. Always put something in the passenger seat if you’re in the car alone.

The train tracks are abandoned. You think. Sometimes you hear trains at night. Sometimes you hear the scream of steel. Sometimes there's the light blazing out of the fog, visible through the trees and making the shadows move. But the train tracks are abandoned. The train tracks are abandoned. The train tracks are abandoned. You do not ask why.

Outside the Borders

The town. You don't know the name. It might be Fairfield? Something-ville? Or maybe....? In any case, it's small. There's a total of five named streets. Maybe that's why you can't ever quite remember the name. It's entirely generic. The townies are quiet but agreeable enough. They don't have much patience for damn students and the noise they make up there on the hill.

The only thing of note in town is the quintessential student cafe, Kenning's. Packed with big armchairs and serving strong coffee till late at night, it's one of the safest places to discuss the forbidden major, as it sits beyond the reach of the Gentry. It's run by one Mrs. Margaret Kenning, who's reportedly the seventh such Kenning to own the cafe, and certainly has the disaffected demeanor of someone with six inherited generations of customer service. There are poetry slams on Thursdays.

Within the borders - Non-EU buildings

The EU buildings cluster largely in the center of the several square miles of school land. Around the edges are:

The Walmart. It squats right by the highway turnoff onto Elsewhere land. It doesn't look big, for a Walmart, but inside it is virtually endless. They employ a lot of students. You have probably found yourself working there two or three times over the years, although you can't remember applying, or arriving at all, for that matter. No one lasts longer than three days. This is not because of any particular danger. Rather, you quit because roughly half the cash you accept turns to dead leaves in the morning, and it's taken out of your pay every time. On particularly busy nights you end up owing the Walmart money. In every sense of the phrase, you aren't being paid enough for this. But at least it’s safe to visit as a customer.

(More often than not the person on the next register has horns/five arms/hands that are more or less just suction cups, and they seem as confused about wearing the official uniform as you are. The Walmart is a liminal space for all entities on campus, without discrimination. This is also the only known situation in which one of the Gentry can be seen using a computer without something awful happening, but then the computers seem weirdly...organic? So who knows what's up with that.)

The Denny’s: It’s in the same Walmart parking lot. It's a perfectly normal Denny's by night, and it's possible to get a perfectly average job there provided you only work the night shift. When the sun rises it turns transparent and then vanishes entirely with everyone inside, leaving only ruined foundations. It reappears at sunset, fully formed and empty. Do not be inside when the sun rises.

A particularly beloved EU tradition is to gather on the Denny's curb twenty minutes before sunrise the morning following a school dance, and throw things at the building until it's gone entirely. It's generally agreed that seeing what happens to a syrup cup as it passes through a wall that isn't entirely there is A. highly entertaining B. literally indescribable and C. a hell of a warning. The Denny's parking lot segment is true neutral ground, ideal for deals and duels.

The Forest. The heavily forested area in the south, which borders the highway and a good portion of the river, is sometimes called Morganwode. That’s the name that shows up on old maps, at least - the ones that date back to when the University itself had a real name. These days it’s more commonly just called the Forest. It looks very small on Google Earth, which shows a small clearing in the center of a sparse group of trees. In the center, you can see the round roof of something that might be a gazebo. No one has ever found this clearing. On foot, the forest appears dense, enormous, and virtually lightless. Optimistic outdoorsfolk have set up an intricate system of color-coded hiking trails over the years, which are generally safe provided you don't stray at all. Sometimes people say that the deeper you go, the older the forest gets, until you're walking in true wild forest, ancient and untouched and uncaring, thousands of years old - creaking oaks and cedar and birch, taller than you can see, wider than you thought possible... But the trails do not go that deep, and so you don't know if this is true.

The Wishing Well: it sits on the edge of the woods, and cannot be reasoned with.

The Swamp: a boggy area in the east, the area that’s usually flooded by the river in the spring. Home of the swamp hag.

A Monster Year! Highlights, Behind the Scenes & Honorary Monster Guys Inductees (Episode 057) - The Monster Guys Podcast The Monster Guys

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A Monster Year! 2017 Highlights, Behind The Scenes & Honorary Monster Guys Inductees

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The Monster Guys Podcast: Episode 057 – “A Monster Year! 2017 Highlights, Behind The Scenes & Honorary Monster Guys Inductees”

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Show Notes & Summary:

Thanks to you (our listeners) and you (our guests), 2017 was an outstanding year here at The Monster Guys Podcast.

For our final episode of the year, we’ve pulled highlights from several of our guests, and share behind the scenes insights into our lives while making the show this year. We also announce the 2017 Honorary Monster Guys Inductees, something we’ve been doing at our live shows for years, and a first for the podcast.

Thanks for making 2017 a great year! We’re taking a short break for the holidays and we’ll meet you on the flip side of 2018.

Thanks for listening!

Credits:

Music: “Can’t Kill The Beast: Theme Song for The Monster Guys Podcast” by Werewolves in Siberia – Werewolves in Siberia on Bandcamp”

Music: “Home Again” by Werewolves in Siberia – Werewolves in Siberia on Bandcamp”

Music: “In Search of the Beast: Theme Song for The Monster Guys Podcast” from the EP “In Memoriam” by Werewolves in Siberia – Werewolves in Siberia on Bandcamp”

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MTV Miaw 2021: confira a lista completa de indicados da premiação

<span class="hidden">–</span>Marisa/Divulgação

Vamos de mais um MTV Miaw? A lista de indicados da premiação jovem mais importante da América Latina foi divulgada e podemos ver nomes como Karol G e Anitta dominando as categorias!

O evento está marcado para acontecer no dia 13 de julho e, além dos prêmios do mundo da música e do audiovisual, a cerimônia também vai honrar a galera da internet! Inclusive, tem meme brasileiro na lista, viu?

Quem se lembra das irmãs Maria Antônia e Maria Eduarda, que viralizaram em 2020 com o vídeo do parabéns no aniversário de uma delas? Pois bem, as duas estão concorrendo em Viral Bombástico do Ano! Teve até teste para saber medir o seu nível de deboche, hahaha.

Maria Antônia, rainha do deboche!Reprodução/CAPRICHO

Indicados

ICONE MIAW Kimberley Loaiza Kunno Kenia OS Domelipa Jashlem Jimena Jiménez Brianda Deyanara Rod Contreras

CREADOR DEL ANO Kimberley Loaiza Amadora Caín Guzmán Darian Rojas Ralf Ignacia Antonia Legna Hernández Kevlex

Creador Global Martinez Twins Naim Darrechi Charli D’Amelio Dixie D’Amelio Lele Pons Bella Poarch Noah Beck

STORIADOR MIAW Luisito Comunica Elán Juanpa Zurita Paco de Miguel Danna Paola Bad Bunny Kenia OS Kim Shantal

FAV NUEVA ESCUELA Aaron Mercury Ingratax Mau López Carlota Madrigal Melipandda Augusto Gimenez Marian Krawstor Amaranta

BOMBA VIRAL El Niño Del Oxxo La Chilindrina En Biniki El Reencuentro de RBD Ay Rico Rico Rico Las Iñas Del Cumpleaños Máteme Ese Recuerdo De Ese Amargo Amor #SilhouetteChallenge Ciclovía De Puebla

ES MUY CRINGE Paty Navidad Conspiranoica Pelea Fake Mariana Rodríguez y Bárbara Del Regil Trump No Acepta Derrota Fails De Alfred Adame Golpiza Campo de Golf El Chico Gucci Pepillo Origel Se Vacuna López-Gatell de Vacaciones

FILÓSOFO VIRAL Mane Josi La Más Perdidas Cardi B Pamela Chup Trixy Star Camilo Pulgarin

COREO CRAK Kunno Rod Contreras Mont Pantoja SamuelLópez Iamferv Libardo Isaza Los Siblings Itsmitch

LIPSYNC MASTER Érika Buenfil Orson Padilla JD Pantoja Celes Salas Carolina Díaz Fernando Lozada Sebastián Yatra Macarena García

TEAM DEL AÑO Privé Team Ken Team Fénix Mansión Lit DIablos MS Cheli House

FANDOM Jukis Blinks BTS Army Keninis Dreamers Cachers Team Ken Fandom CNCOwners

CELEBRITY CRUSH Joaquín Bondoni Harry Styles Boggi Hadassah Macarena Achaga Billie Eilish Ester Expósito Victor Pérez

PAREJA EN LLAMAS Camilo & Evaluna Zuribeso Jearin Lele & Guaynaa Ilika Cruz & Vane Amador Nodeli Calle & Poché Jukilop

STREAMER DEL AÑO Auronplay Missasinfonía Arigameplats Coscu Windygirk Juan Guarnizo El Kun Agüero

OBSESIÓN GAMER Among Us Fall Guys Fortnite GTA V League of Legends Free Fire Call of Duty: Warzone

KILLER SERIE Wandavision Handmaid’s Tale Euphoria Luis Miguel, La Serie The Mandalorian El Internado: Las Cumbres The Boys Emily In Paris

REALITY DEL AÑO Acapulco Shore Quién Es La Máscara? Guerreros Shark Tank La Más Draga Exatlón

AMO DEL PODAST La Cotorrisa Creativo El Frasco Leyendas Legendarias En Cortinas Con Luisito Karime Kooler Radio Divaza Niñas Bien

COMEDIA TODO TERRENO Paco de Miguel Mario Aguilar Backdor Herly Memelas De Orizaba Se Rentan Cuartos La Resolana Borat

BICHOTA DEL AÑO Jimena Jiménez Herly Ana Lago Nathy Peluso Karol G Anitta Karime Pindter Jaylin Acashore

ARTISTA MIAW Karol G Bad Bunny J Balvin Maluma Rauw Alejandro Danna Paola C. Tangana Natti Natasha

ARTISTA + CHINGÓN MÉXICO Danna Paola Gera MX Christian Nodal Mon Laferte Reik Aleman

ARTISTA + DURO COLOMBIA Karol G Piso 21 J Balvin Camilo Maluma Sebatián Yatra

ARTISTA + IDO ARGENTINA BZRP Khea Nicki Nicole Duki Tini Cazzu

HINO VIRAL “Pareja Del Año” – Sebatián Yatra, Myke Towers “Lá Tóxica” – Farruko “El Makinon” – Karol G, Mariah Angeliq “Se Te Nota” – Lele Pons & Guaynaa “BZRP Music Sessiosn #36” – BZRP & nathy Peluso “Reloj” – Rauw Alejandro x Anuel XX “Hecha Pa’ Mi’” – Boza “Quien Te Crees?” – MC Davo feat. Calibre 50

EMERGENTE Leon Leiden Humbe Renee Natanael Cano Yendry Mario Puglia Bratty María Becerra

VIDEO DEL AÑO “Nominad/Hong Kong” – C. Tangana, Jorge Drexler y Andrés Calamaro “Telepatía” – Kali Uchis “Niño” – Ed Maverick, Muelas de Gallo “La Noche de Anoche” – Bad Bunny x Rosalía “Popular” – Zoé “Ojos Noche” _ Elsa y Elmar feat. Carla Morrison

HIT DEL AÑO “Bichota” – Karol G “Dákiti” – Bad Bunny x Jhay Cortez “Fiel” – Wisin, Jhay Cortez, Los Legendarios “Telepatía” – Kali Uchis “Hawái” – Maluma “Botella Tras Botella” – Gera MX, Christian Nodal “Relación Remix” – Sech, Daddy Yankee, J Balvin, Rosalía, Farruko “La Curiosidad” – Jay Wheeler, DJ Nelson, Myke Towers

HIT GLOBAL DEL AÑO “drivers license” – Olivia Rodrigo “Levitating” – Dua Lipa feat. DaBaby “Golden” – Harry Styles “Leave The Door Open” – Silk Sonic “Save Your Tears” – The Weeknd “Peaches” – Justin Bieber feat. Daniel Caesar, Giveon “Kiss Me More” – Doja Cat feat. SZA “Montero (Call Me By Your Name)” – Lil Nas X

MUSIC-SHIP DEL AÑO “Lo Vas a Olvidar” – Billie Eilish, Rosalía “Location” – Karol G, Anuel AA, J Balvin “Baila Conmigo” – Selena Gonez, Rauw Alejandro “La Nota” – Manuel Turizo x Rauw Alejdnro x Myke Towers “No Bailes Sola” – Danna Paola, Sebatián Yatra “Párteme La Cara” – C. Tangana, Ed Maverick “La Noche de Anoche” – Bad Bunny x Rosalía “Las Nenas” – Natti Natasha x Farina x Cazzu x La Duraca

DOMINIO K-POP Rosé Blackpink BTS IU TXT SEVENTEEN TWICE (G)I-DLE

Ansiosa?

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  Me voici de retour du pays des kilts, des lochs et des elfes bourrés au whisky!

Un séjour de quelques semaines dans le pays de mes origines m’a inspiré un véritable récit de voyage que je concocte soigneusement en ce moment-même. Mais avant de vous livrer les petits secrets de mes journées passées à gambader entre deux cups of tea, voici un petit amuse-bouche qui je l’espère, vous donnera envie de lire la suite: une liste (non-exhaustive) de petits mots et expressions typiquement utilisés par un(e) vrai(e) Scot!

L'”Ecossais”, qu’est-ce-donc? Une langue qui ressemble vaguement à l’Anglais, certes. C’est surtout un langage bien particulier, un accent où les “r” roulent comme l’eau sur les pierres des ruisseaux cachés sous la bruyère; où la langue cisèle les mots telle une roche fendant le ciel brumeux; où les expressions fleuries sentent l’orge et le houblon…

Bon, assez de poésie, passons aux choses sérieuses!

Ce petit vocabulaire pourra vous être bien utile si vous choisissez ce fabuleux pays comme destination prochaine de vos vacances 😉

PETIT VOCABULAIRE ECOSSAIS

WEE dans le langage enfantin, signifie “pipi”; les Ecossais l’utilisent comme adjectif devant n’importe quel nom commun: “a wee shoe”, “a wee girl” “a wee walk”; non, cela ne veut pas dire que tous ces objets/gens/actions sont couverts d’urine, mais qu’ils sont “petits”. Messieurs, si une Ecossaise dit ce mot durant l’amour, vous saurez à quoi vous en tenir.

AYE Oui, affirmatif, absolument. A ne pas confondre avec le “AYE-AYE-AYE!” de Cristina Cordula.

A BEVVIE “a beverage” en Anglais châtié; signifiant une boisson, plutôt fraîche, type bière ou toute autre boisson alcoolisée, que l’on éclusera au son des cornemuses, chants traditionnels ou après son premier vomi de la soirée.

A CUPPA Pour “a cup of tea”: dans tout le RU, ce petit mot doux et affectueux désigne la bonne tasse de thé, bien chaude, bien réconfortante, quand dehors il fait un temps de chiottes depuis 6 mois et qu’on essaie de se rappeler pourquoi on ne devrait pas se suicider de suite.

A DINNAE KEN! Non, il ne s’agit pas du Ken de Barbie ici, cette étrange phrase veut dire: “I don’t know!” (ça veut donc dire “je ne sais pas”, pour les cancres qui dormaient en cours d’Anglais)

A LASS une jeune fille, une demoiselle. A ne pas confondre avec Lassie, ou toute autre chienne fidèle. Bande de coquins.

A LAD un jeune homme, jeune garçon, ou l’écuyer qui vous amènera votre cheval pour parcourir les lande brumeuses.

A LORRRR (à prononcer comme un bon raclement de gorge, cherchez vos glaviots) pour dire “a Loch” = lac écossais. Bannissez de votre langage la prononciation “Lok Ness”, c’est une HERESIE!!

BOGGY LAND, BOG HOLES Les terrains légèrement humides de l’Ecosse sont souvent qualifiés ainsi lorsqu’ils menacent d’engloutir vos jambes jusqu’aux genoux. C’est marrant, les randos dans les Highlands.

CHIPPY SAUCE Sauce pour les frites, car “chippy” ça veut dire frites, ou “fritounettes”, en fait. Cette sauce n’existe qu’à Edinburgh, on mélange la classique Brown sauce avec du vinaigre pour assaisonner les frites! Et c’est bon. Enfin. Si vous avez des origines britanniques, vous trouverez ça bon.

FISH’N’CHIPS Oh, tiens, un plat léger! Du poisson blanc bien frrrrit dans du grrrraaaas! C’est tellement gras que rentrer dans les snacks qui le vendent me retourne l’estomac à chaque fois; et l’on en ressort avec un parfum “Brume marine et fleur de friture”, hyper séduisant pour aller draguer après.

Au snack, le fish’n’chips est super gras et servi avec des grosses frites, on arrose ça de vinaigre ou de Brown sauce, ou la fameuse “chippy sauce” d’Edinburgh.

Au resto, le poisson est de bonne qualité, la friture adoucie avec un peu de citron, accompagné de bonnes frites et des petits pois bien verts. Ça reste quand même un bon gros plat bien lourd et pas très raffiné, hein.

HAGGIS (prononcer “ha-guéss”) l’emblématique plat de l’Ecosse! Une panse de brebis (donc voilà, une poche bien ronde, bien grasse, bien sortie du bide d’un animal), garnie des abats de la bête (ben oui, faut pas gaspiller) de céréales (pas des Corn flakes hein, mais de l’orge et de l’avoine) et des épices qui donnent un petit goût piquant. Le haggis s’accompagne traditionnellement des “neeps and tatties” (petit surnom affecteux donné aux navets écossais et aux pommes de terre, normalement nommées “ turnip and potatoes”). On le mange en buvant un bon verre de whisky! C’est super bon- mais pas génial si on est végétarien, c’est sûr. Le haggis se mange en Janvier, pour célébrer la vie du poète Ecossais Robert Burns, lors de la “Burns night”.

Les Ecossais sont quand même un peu bizarres avec leur bouffe: surnoms mignons pour des légumes et carrément un poème en honneur du Haggis (“Ode to a haggis” de R.Burns). C’est comme si Victor Hugo avait écrit, je sais pas moi, “Hommage à ma p’tite blanquette de veau”, par exemple.

HIGHLAND COW La légendaire vache des hauts plateaux de l’Ecosse, couverte de poils très longs.

HOLD Y’ER WHEESCHT!! Ferme-la/ tiens ta langue! Je n’ai toujours pas compris ce que wheescht signifiait exactement, mais ça n’a pas l’air super classe.

MILLIONAIRE’S SHORTBREAD Tout le monde connait le shortbread, ce biscuit léger et peu calorique. Je rigole! Composé d’environ 500 kilos de beurre^^, et sûrement 1000 calories à la bouchée, ce délicieux biscuit typique du tea-time se décline dans des versions diverses. La plus redoutable pour nos hanches est le diabolique Millionaire’s: du shortbread; une couche de délicieux caramel; une tranche de chocolat au lait. C’est TE-RR-IBLE.

OOORRR NOOO Oh no!

ROAM Errer, vagabonder, gambader joyeusement parmi les moutons, vaches, collines, lochs…

SCONE (prononcer “scôô-n'”) Petite pâtisserie britannique, qui peut être aux raisins ou nature, accompagnant aliments salés (fromage, soupe) ou sucrés, type marmelade d’orange ou confiture de fraises et “clotted cream” ou “double cream”, des crèmes très grasses et suuuuper bonnes!

STICKY TOFFEE PUDDING Diabolique, ce typique(et écoeurant) gâteau est traditionnellement confectionné avec des dattes, parfois sans; et surtout nappé de caramel, de sucre, de caramel, de sucre, de crème, de sucre… aaaarrr!!

THE WERREULD CUP en Anglais, “the World cup”= “Coupe du Monde”, une sorte de compétition à laquelle participent quelques millionnaires du monde entier, impliquant un ballon rond et beaucoup d’émotions. Si j’ai bien compris.

Hullo, dae ye speak Scottish? Me voici de retour du pays des kilts, des lochs et des elfes bourrés au whisky!

50 of Terry Wogan and Graham Norton's most scathing Eurovision quotes

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50 of Terry Wogan and Graham Norton's most scathing Eurovision quotes

This Saturday marks the 63rd edition of the Eurovision Song Contest, with the Portuguese capital of Lisbon on hosting duties.

A parade of trashy, cringe-inducing performances, the best part of Eurovision has always been the pithy commentary, whether from the late, great Sir Terry Wogan, or from Graham Norton, who replaced his compatriot in 2009.

They have both given the contest a delightfully acerbic edge, poking fun at the expense of those onstage, or sharing the despair of the hours-long telethon with viewers at home.

Here are 50 of the best quotes from the two commentators to get you in the spirit.

• The ultimate Eurovision quiz: do you know your ABBA from your Wurst?

Terry Wogan

On 2006 heavy-metal winners Lordi: “Every year I expect it to be less foolish, and every year it is more so.”

Introducing the 2007 broadcast: “Who knows what hellish future lies ahead? Actually I do, I’ve seen the rehearsals.”

On Iceland’s 1990 entry: “This has been typified as a Eurosong… they do a little walking and bounce about a bit.”

(Photo: BBC)

On the UK’s 1995 effort: “It’ll either win by a mile or it’s the Diadora League next year.”

“Every year I go to see it and every year I say: ‘Isn’t it terrible? It’s worse than last year!’”

On Belgium’s 2003 entry: “They’ve got four languages in Belgium… and they’re singing in an imaginary one. The very essence of Eurovision.”

“It’s supposed to be bad. And the worse it is, the more fun it is.”

On France’s 2006 entry: “That’s the same song the French have been singing since they hung the washing up on the Maginot Line.”

“I don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a major musical event. I love the Eurovision Song Contest and it will continue long after I’m gone. Just please don’t ask me to take it seriously.”

When the Swedish points announcer struggled with countries’ names in 2008: “It’s not easy this. You have to move your lips and it’s not easy. Are you related to the Director General of Swedish television?”

“Spain is next, with a song called ‘Bloody Mary’. That reminds me, I haven’t touched a drop yet.”

(Photo: BBC)

During the 2002 show: “I don’t know about you, I’m going to have a stiff drink.”

“It’s been 29 years since the Netherlands won the Eurovision Song Contest. After this performance, make that 30.”

“This skit must have seemed like a tremendous idea at the time, but actually it’s covering a commercial break for Finnish television. And if you don’t mind me expressing an opinion, I’d prefer the commercials.”

“That was France. Gosh, wasn’t that awful?”

With 24 out of 25 songs performed: “Hold on. Be strong. Just cling to the wreckage. It will be over soon.”

On the interval performance in 2009: “I’ve seen this. This goes on for quite some time, so if you fancy making yourself a stiff drink, or putting the kettle on, or walking the dog, this is the time to do it.”

“I’m trying to remind myself of Serbia and Montenegro’s song. What in hell’s name was it? 109 points? I wouldn’t have given them one.”

On a backstage skit in 2007: “Is this supposed to be funny? No, of course not – it is the Eurovision Song Contest. What’s the matter with me? Can we please watch the commercials? Why are these green room moments such an unmitigated disaster?”

“It’s been a wonderful, wonderful evening. I mean, not musically of course, but in terms of spectacle…”

(Photo: BBC)

Graham Norton

On Albania’s 2015 entry: “OK… That’s three minutes we’ll never get back, but look at it this way: We’ll never have to hear that song again.”

“It’s a grey, damp night outside, so there is a slight smell of wet dog in the arena.”

When the 2014 host suggested older viewers may not understand hashtags: “Don’t patronise me Nikolaj. I’m 51, not dead!”

“My one tip is, don’t start looking at his eyebrows, you won’t be able to stop.”

On Britain’s chances a few years ago: “Give them a nudge, every vote counts… Oh, I do hope we get some votes tonight.”

“This year’s theme is celebrating diversity. Let’s see who they’ve chosen to host. Oh. It’s three white men.”

On Poland’s 2014 entry: “‘We are Slavic girls, we know how to use our charming beauty, now shake what your mama gave you.’ It’s essentially a feminist anthem.”

(Photo: BBC)

“You keep thinking this will make sense in a moment. But no.”

“They’re dressed like posh hospital workers from the future.”

When the host spoke to members of the audience: “Nothing has gone wrong. This was planned.”

“The song is called ‘Alcohol is Free’. Ironic to sing that in Sweden, where it’s anything else. You have to sell your car to get a pint.”

“The last few years the semi-finals have weeded out some of the Eurovision lunacy… but not this year.”

On Norway’s entry in 2015: “He said he did something terrible as a boy. We don’t know what it was. It might have been write this song.”

“If you think my job’s easy, check out the guy pretending to play the saxophone for three minutes.”

On Albania’s 2012 entry: “She’s a devoted experimental jazz musician. She can do extraordinary things with her voice… not pleasant things, but extraordinary.”

Eurovision host: “It’s really interesting to see people’s emotions when they win.” Graham Norton: “It’s not that interesting though, is it?”

(Photo: BBC)

On Italy’s 2017 performance: “If you’re going to get someone to dress as a gorilla, at least get a decent outfit. That looks like couple of old car seats sewn together.”

On Russia’s 2012 effort: “It’s an unusual Eurovision this year. There are lots of songs that are really quite good and brilliantly sung. This is not one of those.”

On Hungary’s 2016 entrant: “If it doesn’t work out for him, he’s always got his Hotel Management degree. I feel he’s going to use it.”

On the fashion sense of 2015’s Georgian entry: “Her outfit does involve some roadkill. I fear some Georgian crows were harmed in the making of this act.”

On a Hungarian performance: “Don’t worry, he hasn’t brought his mother’s ashes on stage. It is, in fact, a mini milk churn. Who knew. Oh, and in case you are wondering, there hasn’t been a stage invader. She is a fully trained dancer. She is meant to be there.”

On the name of Hungary’s 2015 entrant: “Her name was unpronounceable so she decided to go by her nickname, which is Boggie. She could have called herself anything. Trixie-bell, Floo-Floo, but no. Boggie.”

(Photo: BBC)

Eurovision hosts: “There is so much love in the room tonight.” Graham Norton: “Not for you.”

On Germany’s 2016 entrant: “Maybe I’m just old and grumpy but there isn’t a single thing about this woman that doesn’t annoy me. Here’s Jamie-Lee, making Björk seem great.”

After a lengthy ballad in 2015: “You still there? It’s over. It really is over!”

“Ooh, some dodgy notes in there. I wonder if there’s something going wrong technically. Or maybe, he’s just not great.”

When it was announced there were 14 songs still to go in 2016: “She says that as if it’s a good thing!”

On some scantily clad backing dancers: “It is quite a good song, but you won’t notice because you’ll be distracted by the… oh, let’s call them dancers.”

“She claims to be the only yodeller in Romania. Probably because the others don’t talk about it. That’s the first rule of yodelling club.”

“It’s got everything; a pop tempo, a disco beat and two half naked men splashing about in a paddling pool.”

On the Danish points announcer: “It’s obviously dress-down Saturday in Denmark.”

The Eurovision Song Contest 2018 is on BBC One on Saturday at 8pm.

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Into the Wild

James Gallien had driven five miles out of Fairbanks when he spotted the hitchhiker standing in the snow beside the road, thumb raised high, shivering in the gray Alaskan dawn. A rifle protruded from the young man's pack, but he looked friendly enough; a hitchhiker with a Remington semiautomatic isn't the sort of thing that gives motorists pause in the 49th state. Gallien steered his four-by-four onto the shoulder and told him to climb in. The hitchhiker introduced himself as Alex. "Alex?" Gallien responded, fishing for a last name. "Just Alex," the young man replied, pointedly rejecting the bait. 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." Alex's backpack appeared to weigh only 25 or 30 pounds, which struck Gallien, an accomplished outdoorsman, as a 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 three 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 recalls. "He was determined. He couldn't wait to head out there and get started." So Gallien drove Alex to the head of the Stampede Trail, an old mining track that begins ten miles west of the town of Healy, convinced him to accept a tuna melt and a pair of rubber boots to keep his feet dry, and wished him good luck. Alex pulled a camera from his backpack and asked Gallien to snap a picture of him. Then, smiling broadly, he disappeared down the snow-covered trail. The date was Tuesday, April 28, 1992. More than four months passed before Gallien heard anything more of the hitchhiker. His real name turned out to be Christopher J. McCandless. He was the product of a happy family from an affluent suburb of Washington, D.C. And although he wasn't burdened with a surfeit of common sense and possessed a streak of stubborn idealism that did not readily mesh with the realities of modern life, he was no psychopath. McCandless was in fact an honors graduate of Emory University, an accomplished athlete, and a veteran of several solo excursions into wild, inhospitable terrain. An extremely intense young man, McCandless had been captivated by the writing of Leo Tolstoy. He particularly admired the fact that the great novelist had forsaken a life of wealth and privilege to wander among the destitute. For several years he had been emulating the count's asceticism and moral rigor to a degree that astonished and occasionally alarmed those who knew him well. When he took leave of James Gallien, McCandless entertained no illusions that he was trekking into Club Med; peril, adversity, and Tolstoyan renunciation were what he was seeking. And that is precisely what he found on the Stampede Trail, in spades. For most of 16 weeks McCandless more than held his own. Indeed, were it not for one or two innocent and seemingly insignificant blunders he would have walked out of the Alaskan woods in July or August as anonymously as he walked into them in April. Instead, the name of Chris McCandless has become the stuff of tabloid headlines, and his bewildered family is left clutching the shards of a fierce and painful love. On the northern margin of the Alaska Range, just before the hulking escarpments of Denali and its satellites surrender to the low Kantishna plain, a series of lesser ridges known as the Outer Ranges sprawls across the flats like a rumpled blanket on an unmade bed. Between the flinty crests of the two outermost Outer Ranges runs an east-west trough, maybe five miles across, carpeted in a boggy amalgam of muskeg, alder thickets, and scrawny spruce. Meandering through this tangled, rolling bottomland is the Stampede Trail, the route Chris McCandless followed into the wilderness. Twenty or so miles due west of Healy, not far from the boundary of Denali National Park, a derelict bus--a blue and white, 1940s-vintage International from the Fairbanks City Transit System--rusts incongruously in the fireweed beside the Stampede Trail. Many winters ago the bus was fitted with bedding and a crude barrel stove, then skidded into the bush by enterprising hunters to serve as a backcountry shelter. These days it isn't unusual for nine or ten months to pass without the bus seeing a human visitor, but on September 6, 1992, six people in three separate parties happened to visit it on the same afternoon, including Ken Thompson, Gordon Samel, and Ferdie Swanson, moose hunters who drove in on all-terrain vehicles. When they arrived at the bus, says Thompson, they found "a guy and a girl from Anchorage standing 50 feet away, looking kinda spooked. A real bad smell was coming from inside the bus, and there was this weird note tacked by the door." The note, written in neat block letters on a page torn from a novel by Gogol, read: "S.O.S. I need your help. I am injured, near death, and too weak to hike out of here. I am all alone, this is no joke. In the name of God, please remain to save me. I am out collecting berries close by and shall return this evening. Thank you, Chris McCandless. August?" The Anchorage couple had been too upset by the implications of the note to examine the bus's interior, so Thompson and Samel steeled themselves to take a look. A peek through a window revealed a .22-caliber rifle, a box of shells, some books and clothing, a backpack, and, on a makeshift bunk in the rear of the vehicle, a blue sleeping bag that appeared to have something or someone inside it. "It was hard to be absolutely sure," says Samel. "I stood on a stump, reached through a back window, and gave the bag a shake. There was definitely something in it, but whatever it was didn't weigh much. It wasn't until I walked around to the other side and saw a head sticking out that I knew for certain what it was." Chris McCandless had been dead for some two and a half weeks. The Alaska State Troopers were contacted, and the next morning a police helicopter evacuated the decomposed body, a camera with five rolls of exposed film, and a diary--written across the last two pages of a field guide to edible plants--that recorded the young man's final weeks in 113 terse, haunting entries. An autopsy revealed no internal injuries or broken bones. Starvation was suggested as the most probable cause of death. McCandless's signature had been penned at the bottom of the S.O.S. note, and the photos, when developed, included many self-portraits. But because he had been carrying no identification, the police knew almost nothing about who he was or where he was from. Carthage, South Dakota, population 274, is a sleepy little cluster of clapboard houses, weathered brick storefronts, and shaded yards that rises humbly from the immensity of the northern plains, adrift in time. It has one grocery, one bank, a single gas station, a lone bar--the Cabaret, where Wayne Westerberg, a hyperkinetic man with thick shoulders and a rakish black goatee, is sipping a White Russian, chewing on a sweet cigar, and remembering the enigmatic young man he knew as Alex. "These are what Alex used to drink," says Westerberg with a smile, hoisting his glass. "He used to sit right there at the end of the bar and tell us these amazing stories of his travels. He could talk for hours." Westerberg owns a grain elevator in town but spends every summer running a custom combine crew that follows the harvest from Texas north to Montana. In September 1990 he'd been in Montana cutting barley when, on the highway east of Cut Bank, he'd given a ride to a hungry-looking hitchhiker, a friendly young man who said his name was Alex McCandless. They hit it off immediately, and before they went their separate ways Westerberg told Alex to look him up in Carthage if he ever needed a job. "About two weeks later," says Westerberg, "he thumbed into town, moved into my house, and went to work at the elevator. He was the hardest worker I've ever seen. And totally honest--what you'd call extremely ethical. He set pretty high standards for himself. "You could tell right away that Alex was intelligent," Westerberg continues. "In fact, I think maybe part of what got him into trouble was that he did too much thinking. Sometimes he tried too hard to make sense of the world, to figure out why people were bad to each other so often. A couple of times I tried to tell him it was a mistake to get too deep into that kind of stuff, but Alex got stuck on things. He always had to know the absolute right answer before he could go on to the next thing." McCandless didn't stay in Carthage long--by the end of October he was on the road again--but he dropped Westerberg a postcard every month or two in the course of his travels. He also had all his mail forwarded to Westerberg's house and told everybody he met thereafter that he was from South Dakota. In truth McCandless had been raised in the comfortable, upper-middle-class environs of Annandale, Virginia. His father, Walt, was an aerospace engineer who ran a small but very prosperous consulting firm with Chris's mother, Billie. There were eight children in the extended family: Chris; a younger sister, Carine, with whom Chris was extremely close; and six older half-siblings from Walt's first marriage. McCandless had graduated in June 1990 from Emory University in Atlanta, where he distinguished himself as a history/anthropology major and was offered but declined membership in Phi Beta Kappa, insisting that titles and honors were of no importance. His education had been paid for by a college fund established by his parents; there was some $20,000 in this account at the time of his graduation, money his parents thought he intended to use for law school. Instead, he donated the entire sum to the Oxford Famine Relief Fund. Then, without notifying any friends or family members, he loaded all his belongings into a decrepit yellow Datsun and headed west without itinerary, relieved to shed a life of abstraction and security, a life he felt was removed from the heat and throb of the real world. Chris McCandless intended to invent a new life for himself, one in which he would be free to wallow in unfiltered experience. In July 1990, on a 120-degree afternoon near Lake Mead, his car broke down and he abandoned it in the Arizona desert. McCandless was exhilarated, so much so that he decided to bury most of his worldly possessions in the parched earth of Detrital Wash and then--in a gesture that would have done Tolstoy proud--burned his last remaining cash, about $160 in small bills. We know this because he documented the conflagration, and most of the events that followed, in a journal/snapshot album he would later give to Westerberg. Although the tone of the journal occasionally veers toward melodrama, the available evidence indicates that McCandless did not misrepresent the facts; telling the truth was a credo he took very seriously. McCandless tramped around the West for the next two months, spellbound by the scale and power of the landscape, thrilled by minor brushes with repeatedly. But he made it to the gulf, where he struggled to control the canoe in a violent squall far from shore and, exhausted, decided to head north again. On January 16, 1991, McCandless left the stubby metal boat on a hummock of dune grass southeast of Golfo de Santa Clara and started walking north up the deserted beach. He had not seen or talked to another soul in 36 days. For that entire period he had subsisted on nothing but five pounds of rice and what he could pull from the sea, an experience that would later convince him he could survive on similarly meager rations when he went to live in the Alaskan bush. Back at the border two days later, he was caught trying to slip into the United States without ID and spent a night in custody before concocting a story that got him across. McCandless spent most of the next year in the Southwest, but the last entry in the journal he left with Westerberg is dated May 10, 1991, and so the record of his travels in this period is sketchy. He slummed his way through San Diego, El Paso, and Houston. To avoid being rolled and robbed by the unsavory characters who ruled the streets and freeway overpasses where he slept, he learned to bury what money he had before entering a city, then recover it on the way out of town. Snapshots in the album document visits to Bryce and Zion, the Grand Canyon, Joshua Tree, Palm Springs. For several weeks he lived with "bums, tramps, and winos" on the streets of Las Vegas. When 1991 drew to a close McCandless was in Bullhead City, Arizona, where for three months he lived in a tent and flipped burgers at McDonald's. A letter from this period reveals that "a girl Tracy" had a crush on him. In a note to Westerberg he admitted that he liked Bullhead City and "might finally settle down and abandon my tramping life, for good. I'll see what happens when spring comes around, because that's when I tend to get really itchy feet." Itchy feet prevailed. He soon called Westerberg and said that he wanted to work in the grain elevator for a while, just long enough to put together a little grubstake. He needed money to buy some new gear, he said, because he was going to Alaska. When McCandless arrived back in Carthage on a bitter February morning in 1992, he'd already decided that he would depart for Alaska on April 15. He wanted to be in Fairbanks by the end of April in order to have as much time as possible in the North before heading back to South Dakota to help out with the autumn harvest. By mid-April Westerberg was shorthanded and very busy, so he asked McCandless to postpone his departure date and work a week or two longer. But, Westerberg says, "Once Alex made up his mind about something there was no changing it. I even offered to buy him a plane ticket to Fairbanks, which would have let him work an extra ten days and still get to Alaska by the end of April. But he said, 'No, I want to hitch north. Flying would be cheating. It would wreck the whole trip.'" McCandless left Carthage on April 15. In early May Westerberg received a postcard of a polar bear, postmarked April 27. "Greetings from Fairbanks!" it read. 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 your a great man. I now walk into the wild. McCandless's last postcard to Westerberg fueled widespread speculation, after his adventure did prove fatal, that he'd intended suicide from the start, that when he walked into the bush alone he had no intention of ever walking out again. But I for one am not so sure. In 1977, when I was 23--a year younger than McCandless at the time of his death--I hitched a ride to Alaska on a fishing boat and set off alone into the backcountry to attempt an ascent of a malevolent stone digit called the Devils Thumb, a towering prong of vertical rock and avalanching ice, ignoring pleas from friends, family, and utter strangers to come to my senses. Simply reaching the foot of the mountain entailed traveling 30 miles up a badly crevassed, storm-wracked glacier that hadn't seen a human footprint in many years. By choice I had no radio, no way of summoning help, no safety net of any kind. I had several harrowing shaves, but eventually I reached the summit of the Thumb. When I decided to go to Alaska that April, I was an angst-ridden youth who read too much Nietzsche, mistook passion for insight, and functioned according to an obscure gap-ridden logic. I thought climbing the Devils Thumb would fix all that was wrong with my life. In the end it changed almost nothing, of course. I came to appreciate, however, that mountains make poor receptacles for dreams. And I lived to tell my tale. As a young man, I was unlike Chris McCandless in many important respects--most notably I lacked his intellect and his altruistic leanings--but I suspect we had a similar intensity, a similar heedlessness, a similar agitation of the soul. The fact that I survived my Alaskan adventure and McCandless did not survive his was largely a matter of chance; had I died on the Stikine Icecap in 1977 people would have been quick to say of me, as they now say of him, that I had a death wish. Fifteen years after the event, I now recognize that I suffered from hubris, perhaps, and a monstrous innocence, certainly, but I wasn't suicidal. At the time, death was a concept I understood only in the abstract. I didn't yet appreciate its terrible finality or the havoc it could wreak on those who'd entrusted the deceased with their hearts. I was stirred by the mystery of death; I couldn't resist stealing up to the edge of doom and peering over the brink. The view into that swirling black vortex terrified me, but I caught sight of something elemental in that shadowy glimpse, some forbidden, fascinating riddle. That's a very different thing from wanting to die. Westerberg heard nothing else from McCandless for the remainder of the spring and summer. Then, last September 13, he was rolling down an empty ribbon of South Dakota blacktop, leading his harvest crew home to Carthage after wrapping up a four-month cutting season in northern Montana, when the VHF barked to life. "Wayne!" an anxious voice crackled over the radio from one of the crew's other trucks. "Quick--turn on your AM and listen to Paul Harvey. He's talking about some kid who starved to death up in Alaska. The police don't know who he is. Sounds a whole lot like Alex." As soon as he got to Carthage, a dispirited Westerberg called the Alaska State Troopers and said that he thought he knew the identity of the hiker. McCandless had never told Westerberg anything about his family, including where they lived, but Westerberg unearthed a W-4 form bearing McCandless's Social Security number, which led the police to an address in Virginia. A few days after the Paul Harvey broadcast, an Alaskan police sergeant made a phone call to the distant suburbs of the nation's capital, confirming the worst fears of Walt and Billie McCandless and raining a flood of confusion and grief down upon their world. Walt McCandless, 56, dressed in gray sweatpants and a rayon jacket bearing the logo of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, is a stocky, bearded man with longish salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back from a high forehead. Seven weeks after his youngest son's body turned up in Alaska wrapped in a blue sleeping bag that Billie had sewn for Chris from a kit, he studies a sailboat scudding beneath the window of his waterfront townhouse. "How is it," he wonders aloud as he gazes blankly across Chesapeake Bay, "that a kid with so much compassion could cause his parents so much pain?" Four large pieces of posterboard covered with dozens of photos documenting the whole brief span of Chris's life stand on the dining room table. Moving deliberately around the display, Billie points out Chris as a toddler astride a hobbyhorse, Chris as a rapt eight-year-old in a yellow slicker on his first backpacking trip, Chris at his high school commencement. "The hardest part," says Walt, pausing over a shot of his son clowning around on a family vacation, "is simply not having him around any more. I spent a lot of time with Chris, perhaps more than with any of my other kids. I really liked his company, even though he frustrated us so often." It is impossible to know what murky convergence of chromosomal matter, parent-child dynamics, and alignment of the cosmos was responsible, but Chris McCandless came into the world with unusual gifts and a will not easily deflected from its trajectory. As early as third grade, a bemused teacher was moved to pull Chris's parents aside and inform them that their son "marched to a different drummer." At the age of ten, he entered his first running competition, a 10k road race, and finished 69th, beating more than 1,000 adults. By high school he was effortlessly bringing home A's (punctuated by a single F, the result of butting heads with a particularly rigid physics teacher) and had developed into one of the top distance runners in the region. As captain of his high school cross-country team he concocted novel, grueling training regimens that his teammates still remember well. "Chris invented this workout he called Road Warriors," explains Gordy Cucullu, a close friend from those days. "He would lead us on long, killer runs, as far and as fast as we could go, down strange roads, through the woods, whatever. The whole idea was to lose our bearings, to push ourselves into unknown territory. Then we'd run at a slightly slower pace until we found a road we recognized, and race home again at full speed. In a certain sense, that's how Chris lived his entire life." McCandless viewed running as an intensely spiritual exercise akin to meditation. "Chris would use the spiritual aspect to try to motivate us," recalls Eric Hathaway, another friend on the team. "He'd tell us to think about all the evil in the world, all the hatred, and imagine ourselves running against the forces of darkness, the evil wall that was trying to keep us from running our best. He believed doing well was all mental, a simple matter of harnessing whatever energy was available. As impressionable high school kids, we were blown away by that kind of talk." McCandless's musings on good and evil were more than a training technique; he took life's inequities to heart. "Chris didn't understand how people could possibly be allowed to go hungry, especially in this country," says Billie McCandless, a small woman with large, expressive eyes--the same eyes Chris is said to have had. "He would rave about that kind of thing for hours." For months he spoke seriously of traveling to South Africa and joining the struggle to end apartheid. On weekends, when his high school pals were attending keggers and trying to sneak into Georgetown bars, McCandless would wander the seedier quarters of Washington, chatting with pimps and hookers and homeless people, buying them meals, earnestly suggesting ways they might improve their lives. Once, he actually picked up a homeless man from downtown D.C., brought him to the leafy streets of Annandale, and secretly set him up in the Airstream trailer that his parents kept parked in the driveway. Walt and Billie never even knew they were hosting a vagrant. McCandless's personality was puzzling in its complexity. He was intensely private but could be convivial and gregarious in the extreme. And despite his overdeveloped social conscience, he was no tight-lipped, perpetually grim do-gooder who frowned on fun. To the contrary, he enjoyed tipping a glass now and then and was an incorrigible ham who would seize any excuse to regale friends and strangers with spirited renditions of Tony Bennett tunes. In college he directed and starred in a witty video parody of Geraldo Rivera opening Al Capone's vault. And he was a natural salesman: Throughout his youth McCandless launched a series of entrepreneurial schemes (a photocopying service, among others), some of which brought in impressive amounts of cash. Upon graduating from high school, he took the earnings he'd socked away, bought a used Datsun B210, and promptly embarked on the first of his extemporaneous transcontinental odysseys. For half the summer he complied with his parents' insistence that he phone every three days, but he didn't check in at all the last couple of weeks and returned just two days before he was due at college, sporting torn clothes, a scruffy beard, and tangled hair and packing a machete and a .30-06 rifle, which he insisted on taking with him to school. With each new adventure, Walt and Billie grew increasingly anxious about the risks Chris was taking. Before his senior year at Emory he returned from a summer on the road looking gaunt and weak, having shed 30 pounds from his already lean frame; he'd gotten lost in the Mojave Desert, it turned out, and had nearly succumbed to dehydration. Walt and Billie urged their son to exercise more caution in the future and pleaded with him to keep them better informed of his whereabouts; Chris responded by telling them even less about his escapades and checking in less frequently when he was on the road. "He thought we were idiots for worrying about him," Billie says. "He took pride in his ability to go without food for extended periods, and he had complete confidence that he could get himself out of any jam." "He was good at almost everything he ever tried," says Walt, "which made him supremely overconfident. If you attempted to talk him out of something, he wouldn't argue. He'd just nod politely and then do exactly what he wanted." McCandless could be generous and caring to a fault, but he had a darker side as well, characterized by monomania, impatience, and unwavering self-absorption, qualities that seemed to intensify throughout his college years. "I saw Chris at a party after his freshman year at Emory," remembers Eric Hathaway, "and it was obvious that he had changed. He seemed very introverted, almost cold. Social life at Emory revolved around fraternities and sororities, something Chris wanted no part of. And when everybody started going Greek, he kind of pulled back from his old friends and got more heavily into himself." When Walt and Billie went to Atlanta in the spring of 1990 for Chris's college graduation, he told them that he was planning another summerlong trip and that he'd drive up to visit them in Annandale before hitting the road. But he never showed. Shortly thereafter he donated the $20,000 in his bank account to Oxfam, loaded up his car, and disappeared. From then on he scrupulously avoided contacting either his parents or Carine, the sister for whom he purportedly cared immensely. "We were all worried when we didn't hear from him," says Carine, "and I think my parents' worry was mixed with hurt and anger. But I didn't really feel hurt. I knew that he was happy and doing what he wanted to do. I understood that it was important for him to see how independent he could be. And he knew that if he wrote or called me, Mom and Dad would find out where he was, fly out there, and try to bring him home." In September--by which time Chris had long since abandoned the yellow Datsun in the desert and burned his money--Walt and Billie grew worried enough to hire a private investigator. "We worked pretty hard to trace him," says Walt. "We eventually picked up his trail on the northern California coast, where he'd gotten a ticket for hitchhiking, but we lost track of him for good right after that, probably about the time he met Wayne Westerberg." Walt and Billie would hear nothing more about Chris's whereabouts until their son's body turned up in Alaska two years later. After Chris had been identified, Carine and their oldest half-brother, Sam, flew to Fairbanks to bring home his ashes and those few possessions--the rifle, a fishing rod, a Swiss Army knife, the book in which he'd kept his journal, and not much else--that had been recovered with the body, including the photographs he'd taken in Alaska. Sifting through this pictorial record of Chris's final days, it is all Billie can do to force herself to examine the fuzzy snapshots. As she studies the pictures she breaks down from time to time, weeping as only a mother who has outlived a child can weep, betraying a sense of loss so huge and irreparable that the mind balks at taking its measure. Such bereavement, witnessed at close range, makes even the most eloquent apologia for high-risk activities ring fatuous and hollow. "I just don't understand why he had to take those kinds of chances," Billie protests through her tears. "I just don't understand it at all." When news of McCandless's fate came to light, most Alaskans were quick to dismiss him as a nut case. According to the conventional wisdom he was simply one more dreamy, half-cocked greenhorn who went into the bush expecting to find answers to all his problems and instead found nothing but mosquitoes and a lonely death. Dozens of marginal characters have gone into the Alaskan backcountry over the years, never to reappear. A few have lodged firmly in the state's collective memory. There is, for example, the sad tale of John Mallon Waterman, a visionary climber much celebrated for making one of the most astonishing first ascents in the history of North American mountaineering--an extremely dangerous 145-day solo climb of Mount Hunter's Southeast Spur. Upon completing this epic deed in 1979, though, he found that instead of putting his demons to rest, success merely agitated them. In the years that followed, Waterman's mind unraveled. He took to prancing around Fairbanks in a black cape and announced he was running for president under the banner of the Feed the Starving Party, the main priority of which was to ensure that nobody on the planet died of hunger. To publicize his campaign he laid plans to make a solo ascent of Denali, in winter, with a minimum of food. After his first attempt on the mountain was aborted prematurely, Waterman committed himself to the Anchorage Psychiatric Institute but checked out after two weeks, convinced that there was a conspiracy afoot to put him away permanently. Then, in the winter of 1981, he launched another solo attempt on Denali. He was last placed on the upper Ruth Glacier, heading unroped through the middle of a deadly crevasse field en route to the mountain's difficult East Buttress, carrying neither sleeping bag nor tent. He was never seen after that, but a note was later found atop some of his gear in a nearby shelter. It read, "3-13-81 My last kiss 1:42 PM." Perhaps inevitably, parallels have been drawn between John Waterman and Chris McCandless. Comparisons have also been made between McCandless and Carl McCunn, a likable, absentminded Texan who in 1981 paid a bush pilot to drop him at a lake deep in the Brooks Range to photograph wildlife. He flew in with 500 rolls of film and 1,400 pounds of provisions but forgot to arrange for the pilot to pick him up again. Nobody realized he was missing until state troopers came across his body a year later, lying beside a 100-page diary that documented his demise. Rather than starve, McCunn had reclined in his tent and shot himself in the head. There are similarities among Waterman, McCunn, and McCandless, most notably a certain dreaminess and a paucity of common sense. But unlike Waterman, McCandless was not mentally unbalanced. And unlike McCunn, he didn't go into the bush assuming that someone would magically appear to bring him out again before he came to grief. McCandless doesn't really conform to the common bush-casualty stereotype: He wasn't a kook, he wasn't an outcast, and although he was rash and incautious to the point of foolhardiness, he was hardly incompetent or he would never have lasted 113 days. If one is searching for predecessors cut from the same exotic cloth, if one hopes to understand the personal tragedy of Chris McCandless by placing it in some larger context, one would do well to look at another northern land, in a different century altogether. Off the southeastern coast of Iceland sits a low barrier island called Papos. Treeless and rocky, perpetually knocked by gales howling off the North Atlantic, the island takes its name from its first settlers, now long gone, the Irish monks known as papar. They arrived as early as the fifth and sixth centuries A.D., having sailed and rowed from the western coast of Ireland. Setting out in small open boats called curraghs, made from cowhide stretched over light wicker frames, they crossed one of the most treacherous stretches of ocean in the world without knowing what they'd find on the other side. The papar risked their lives--and lost them in untold droves--but not in the pursuit of wealth or personal glory or to claim new lands in the name of a despot. As the great Arctic explorer Fridtjof Nansen points out, they undertook their remarkable voyages "chiefly from the wish to find lonely places, where these anchorites might dwell in peace, undisturbed by the turmoil and temptations of the world." When the first handful of Norwegians showed up on the shores of Iceland in the ninth century, the papar decided the country had become too crowded, even though it was still all but uninhabited. They climbed back into into their curraghs and rowed off toward Greenland. They were drawn west across the storm-wracked ocean, past the edge of the known world, by nothing more than hunger of the spirit, a queer, pure yearning that burned in their souls. Reading of the these monks, one is struck by their courage, their reckless innocence, and the intensity of their desire. And one can't help thinking of Chris McCandless. On April 25, 1992, ten days after leaving South Dakota, McCandless rode his thumb into Fairbanks. After perusing the classified ads, he bought a used Remington Nylon 66--a semiautomatic .22- caliber rifle with a 4x20 scope and a plastic stock that was favored by Alaskan trappers for its light weight and reliability. When James Gallien dropped McCandless off at the head of the Stampede Trail on April 28 the temperature was in the low thirties--it would drop into the low teens at night--and a foot of crusty spring snow covered the ground. As he trudged expectantly down the trail in a fake-fur parka, the heaviest item in McCandless's half-full backpack was his library: nine or ten paperbacks ranging from Michael Crichton's The Terminal Man to Thoreau's Walden and Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Illyich. One of these volumes, Tanaina Plantlore, by Priscilla Russel Kari, was a scholarly, exhaustively researched field guide to edible plants in the region; it was in the back of this book that McCandless began keeping an abbreviated record of his journey. From his journal we know that on April 29 McCandless fell through the ice--perhaps crossing the frozen surface of the Teklanika River, perhaps in the maze of broad, shallow beaver ponds that lie just beyond its western bank--although there is no indication that he suffered any injury. A day later he got his first glimpse of Denali's gleaming white ramparts, and a day after that, about 20 miles down the trail from where he started, he stumbled upon the bus and decided to make it his base camp. He was elated to be there. Inside the bus, on a sheet of weathered plywood spanning a broken window, McCandless scrawled an exultant declaration of independence: Two years he walks the earth. No phone, no pool, no pets, no cigarettes. Ultimate freedom. An extremist. An aesthetic voyager whose home is the road. Escaped from Atlanta. Thou shalt not return, 'cause "the West is the best." And now after two rambling years comes the final and greatest adventure. The climactic battle to kill the false being within and victoriously conclude the spiritual pilgrimage. Ten days and nights of freight trains and hitchhiking bring him to the Great White North. No longer to be poisoned by civilization he flees, and walks alone upon the land to become lost in the wild. Alexander Supertramp May 1992 But reality quickly intruded. McCandless had difficulty killing game, and the daily journal entries during his first week at the bus include "weakness," "snowed in," and "disaster." He saw but did not shoot a grizzly on May 2, shot at but missed some ducks on May 4, and finally killed and ate a spruce grouse on May 5. But he didn't kill any more game until May 9, when he bagged a single small squirrel, by which point he'd written "4th day famine" in the journal. Soon thereafter McCandless's fortunes took a sharp turn for the better. By mid-May the snowpack was melting down to bare ground, exposing the previous season's rose hips and lingonberries, preserved beneath the frost, which he gathered and ate. He also became much more successful at hunting and for the next six weeks feasted regularly on squirrel, spruce grouse, duck, goose, and porcupine. On May 22 he lost a crown from a tooth, but it didn't seem to dampen his spirits much, because the following day he scrambled up the nameless 3,000-foot butte that rose directly north of the bus, giving him a view of the whole icy sweep of the Alaska Range and mile after mile of stunning, completely uninhabited country. His journal entry for the day is characteristically terse but unmistakably joyous: "CLIMB MOUNTAIN!" Although McCandless was enough of a realist to know that hunting was an unavoidable component of living off the land, he had always been ambivalent about killing animals. That ambivalence turned to regret on June 9, when he shot and killed a large caribou, which he mistakenly identified as a moose in his journal. For six days he toiled to preserve the meat, believing that it was morally indefensible to waste any part of an animal that has been killed for food. He butchered the carcass under a thick cloud of flies and mosquitoes, boiled the internal organs into a stew, and then laboriously dug a cave in the rocky earth in which he tried to preserve, by smoking, the huge amount of meat that he was unable to eat immediately. Despite his efforts, on June 14 his journal records, "Maggots already! Smoking appears ineffective. Don't know, looks like disaster. I now wish I had never shot the moose. One of the greatest tragedies of my life." Although he recriminated himself severely for this waste of a life he had taken, a day later McCandless appeared to regain some perspective--his journal notes, "henceforth will learn to accept my errors, however great they be"--and the period of contentment that began in mid-May resumed and continued until early July. Then, in the midst of this idyll, came the first of two pivotal setbacks. Satisfied, apparently, with what he had accomplished during his two months of solitary existence, McCandless decided to return to civilization. It was time to bring his "final and greatest adventure" to a close and get himself back to the world of men and women, where he could chug a beer, discuss philosophy, enthrall strangers with tales of what he'd done. He seemed to have turned the corner on his need to assert his autonomy from his parents. He seemed ready, perhaps, to go home. On a parchmentlike strip of birch bark he drew up a list of tasks to do before he departed: "patch jeans, shave!, organize pack." Then, on July 3--the day after a journal entry that reads, "Family happiness"- -he shouldered his backpack, departed the bus, and began the 30-mile walk to the highway. Two days later, halfway to the road, he arrived in heavy rain on the west bank of the Teklanika River, a major stream spawned by distant glaciers on the crest of the Alaska Range. Sixty-seven days earlier it had been frozen over, and he had simply strolled across it. Now, however, swollen with rain and melting snow, the Teklanika was running big, cold, and fast. If he could reach the far shore, the rest of the hike to the highway would be trivial, but to get there he would have to negotiate a 75-foot channel of chest-deep water that churned with the power of a freight train. In his journal McCandless wrote, "Rained in. River look impossible. Lonely, scared." Concluding that he would drown if he attempted to cross, he turned around and walked back toward the bus, back into the fickle heart of the bush. McCandless got back to the bus on July 8. It's impossible to know what was going through his mind at that point, believing that his escape had been cut off, for his journal betrays nothing. Actually, he wasn't cut off at all: A quarter-mile downstream from where he had tried to cross, the Teklanika rushes through a narrow gorge spanned by a hand-operated tram--a metal basket suspended from pulleys on a steel cable. If he had known about it, crossing the Teklanika to safety would have been little more than a casual task. Also, six miles due south of the bus, an easy day's walk up the main fork of the Sushana, the National Park Service maintains a cabin stocked with food, bedding, and first-aid supplies for the use of backcountry rangers on their winter patrols. This cabin is plainly marked on most topographic maps of the area, but McCandless, lacking such a map, had no way of knowing about it. His friends point out, of course, that had he carried a map and known the cabin was so close, his muleheaded obsession with self-reliance would have kept him from staying anywhere near the bus; rather, he would have headed even deeper into the bush. So he went back to the bus, which was a sensible course of action: It was the height of summer, the country was fecund with plant and animal life, and his food supply was still adequate. He probably surmised that if he could just bide his time until August, the Teklanika would subside enough to be forded. For the rest of July McCandless fell back into his routine of hunting and gathering. His snapshots and journal entries indicate that over those three weeks he killed 35 squirrels, four spruce grouse, five jays and woodpeckers, and two frogs, which he supplemented with wild potatoes, wild rhubarb, various berries, and mushrooms. Despite this apparent munificence, the meat he'd been killing was very lean, and he was consuming fewer calories than he was burning. After three months on a marginal diet, McCandless had run up a sizable caloric deficit. He was balanced on a precarious, razor-thin edge. And then, on July 30, he made the mistake that pulled him down. His journal entry for that date reads, "Extremely weak. Fault of pot[ato] seed. Much trouble just to stand up. Starving. Great Jeopardy." McCandless had been digging and eating the root of the wild potato--Hedysarum alpinum, a common area wildflower also known as Eskimo potato, which Kari's book told him was widely eaten by native Alaskans--for more than a month without ill effect. On July 14 he apparently started eating the pealike seedpods of the plant as well, again without ill effect. There is, however, a closely related plant--wild sweet pea, Hedysarum mackenzii--that is very difficult to distinguish from wild potato, grows beside it, and is poisonous. In all likelihood McCandless mistakenly ate some seeds from the wild sweet pea and became gravely ill. Laid low by the poisonous seeds, he was too weak to hunt effectively and thus slid toward starvation. Things began to spin out of control with terrible speed. "DAY 100! MADE IT!" he noted jubilantly on August 5, proud of achieving such a significant milestone, "but in weakest condition of life. Death looms as serious threat. Too weak to walk out." Over the next week or so the only game he bagged was five squirrels and a spruce grouse. Many Alaskans have wondered why, at this point, he didn't start a forest fire as a distress signal; small planes fly over the area every few days, they say, and the Park Service would surely have dispatched a crew to control the conflagration. "Chris would never intentionally burn down a forest, not even to save his life," answers Carine McCandless. "Anybody who would suggest otherwise doesn't understand the first thing about my brother." Starvation is not a pleasant way to die. In advanced stages, as the body begins to consume itself, the victim suffers muscle pain, heart disturbances, loss of hair, shortness of breath. Convulsions and hallucinations are not uncommon. Some who have been brought back from the far edge of starvation, though, report that near the end their suffering was replaced by a sublime euphoria, a sense of calm accompanied by transcendent mental clarity. Perhaps, it would be nice to think, McCandless enjoyed a similar rapture. From August 13 through 18 his journal records nothing beyond a tally of the days. At some point during this week, he tore the final page from Louis L'Amour's memoir, Education of a Wandering Man. On one side were some lines that L'Amour had quoted from Robinson Jeffers's poem "Wise Men in Their Bad Hours": Death's a fierce meadowlark: but to die having made Something more equal to the centuries Than muscle and bone, is mostly to shed weakness. On the other side of the page, which was blank, McCandless penned a brief adios: "I have had a happy life and thank the Lord. Goodbye and may God bless all!" Then he crawled into the sleeping bag his mother had made for him and slipped into unconsciousness. He probably died on August 18, 113 days after he'd walked into the wild, 19 days before six hunters and hikers would happen across the bus and discover his body inside. One of his last acts was to take a photograph of himself, standing near the bus under the high Alaskan sky, one hand holding his final note toward the camera lens, the other raised in a brave, beatific farewell. He is smiling in the photo, and there is no mistaking the look in his eyes: Chris McCandless was at peace, serene as a monk gone to God.

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