Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer

Two passages in this post, for reasons that I hope are obvious. The first concerns Krakauer meeting with Billie McCandless, the mother of Chris McCandless, who died after venturing into the Alaska wild:

A month later Billie sits at her dining room table, sifting through the pictorial record of Chris’s final days. It is all she 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 irreperable 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 kind of chances,” Billie protests through her tears. “I just don’t understand it at all.”

The second passage, ten pages later in my paperback edition, is from Krakauer recalling his own near-death experience as a young climber in Alaska:

All that held me to the mountainside, all that held me to the world, were two thin spikes of chrome molybdenum stuck half an inch into a smear of frozen water, yet the higher I climbed, the more comfortable I became. Early on a difficult climb, especially a difficult solo climb, you constantly feel the abyss pulling at your  back. To resist takes a tremendous conscious effort; you don’t dare let your guard down for an instant. The siren song of the void puts you on edge; it makes your movements tentative, clumsy, herky-jerky. But as the climb goes on, you grow accustomed to the exposure, you get used t rubbing shoulders with doom, you come to believe in the  reliability of your hands and feet and head. You learn to trust your self-control.

By and by your attention becomes so intensely focussed that you no longer notice  the  raw knuckles, the cramping thighs, the strain of maintaining nonstop concentration. A trancelike state settles over your efforts; the climb becomes a clear-eyed dream. Hours slide by like minutes. The accumulated clutter of day-to-day existence—the lapses of conscience, the unpaid bills, the bungled opportunities, the dust under the couch, the inescapable prison of your genes—all of it is temporarily forgotten, crowded from your thoughts by an overpowering clarity of purpose and by the seriousness of the task at hand.