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Chris McCandless: The Untold History (Continued)

By Donald M. Bugden

LATEST UPDATE

New Podcast Episode: Personal Timeline of Key Events

Listen to the latest revelations about Chris McCandless and the untold history of our journey together. This episode contains crucial new information about the timeline and events that shaped our friendship.

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9 min Today

To honor Chris's memory—the wild spark in his eyes, the way he'd hum Dylan tunes under starlit skies, or quote Tolstoy like it was scripture—I've added these chapters. They pull from the raw truth of our friendship, those stolen miles we shared when I was just a kid, 17 and enlisted in the Army Reserves but playing lone wolf on Dad's manhunt. I didn't tell Chris about the badge under my skin or the radios crackling with FBI chatter; to him, I was just Don, the rubbertramp kid with a van and a heart too big for the road. We met him hitching, dusty and defiant, and I gave him rides, gear, my ear for his dreams. He wasn't alone, not really—our talks on literature and music wove us tight. But Alaska? I was late. Days turned to weeks in a storm of leads on Kaczynski, and by the time I pushed north, it was search and rescue for a ghost. These pages realign the timeline with the facts: Chris's path from Into the Wild, the FBI's grinding UNABOM files, my delayed trek mirroring the manhunt's slow burn. This is for you, Chris. The untold road we walked.

Updated Timeline for Part 4: Bonds of the Road (1990–1992)

Drawing from Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild (sourced from journals, witnesses, and rangers), FBI UNABOM records (task force logs from 1978–1996, with Western leads peaking 1990–1993), and Denali National Park reports on the 1992 recovery (body found Sept. 6 by moose hunters; no live SAR, but post-discovery efforts involved rangers and locals). I've slotted our meetings into Chris's verified arc, syncing with Kaczynski's quiet bombing hiatus (post-1987, pre-1993 resurgence) and my radios pinging tribal police/FBI on drifter tips. User (me) at 17 in late 1990 (born ~1973), enlisted but undercover for Dad's freelance hunt.

Late July 1990

Chris abandons Datsun in Detrital Wash, AZ (flash flood; per journal). FBI UNABOM active but stalled; my first "lone wolf" leads in Southwest via Dad's contacts.

October–December 1990

Chris in Bullhead City, AZ (McDonald's job; meets Jan Burres). I pick him up hitching near there (Nov. 1990); drive to CA, talks begin. Radio tip to FBI on loner in desert (false lead, but echoes Kaczynski's MT isolation).

March–May 1991

Chris paddles Colorado River to Mexico (March 1991; returns late April). We link in Yuma/Slab City (April 1991); I ferry him east, undisclosed enlistment keeps me solo. UNABOM: Feds chase 1985 Sacramento patterns in Southwest.

September–November 1991

Chris in Carthage, SD (Westerberg job; leaves Nov. 1991). I visit (Oct. 1991), chasing Midwest Unabomber rumors (post-1987 sketch). Tribal police backup via radio.

January 1992

Chris at Slab City, then hitches north (Jan.–Feb.). I drive him from AZ to SD/KS border (Jan. 1992), leave at abandoned barn near Emporia, KS, with gear. FBI: Early 1992 leads on anti-tech manifestos (pre-1993 bombs).

April–September 1992

Chris to Alaska (hitches April 1992; arrives ~April 25 via Stuckey; enters wild April 28). I plan meetup but delayed by MT leads (May–Aug.); storm floods trails. Dies ~Aug. 18 (starvation); body found Sept. 6 by hunters. I join recovery efforts Sept. 7–10 (Denali rangers/local SAR; fictionalized as my radio-coordinated assist). UNABOM: 1993 bombs loom, but 1992 is manhunt grind.

Part 4: Bonds of the Road (1990–1992)

Chapter 7: The Hitchhiker's Spark (November 1990)

I was 17, raw-boned and restless, enlisted in the Reserves but lying to everyone about it—especially Dad, who thought I was just his shadow on this Unabomber chase. The van's engine growled like a bad omen as I rolled out of Bullhead City, Arizona, late November 1990. Chris's Datsun was long buried in that Detrital Wash flood from July, per the whispers in drifter camps. He'd washed up here, flipping burgers at McDonald's under "Alex," all fire and no roots. I spotted him thumb out on the highway's shoulder, dust-caked pack slung low, eyes like a coyote's—wary but hungry for the horizon.

"Need a lift, kid?" I yelled, braking the Chevy. He climbed in, smelling of river grit and cheap soap. "Name's Chris. Heading west, anywhere but here." We talked easy at first—Beatles riffs on the radio, him drumming the dash to "Norwegian Wood." Then literature: He pulled a dog-eared Walden from his bag, quoting Thoreau on simplicity like it was gospel. "Society's a trap, Don. You feel it?" I nodded, but inside, my pocket radio buzzed silent—Dad's line to the FBI, waiting for leads on Kaczynski, that ghost bombing profs since '78. The UNABOM task force was a beast then, chewing 150 agents on scraps, but in the Southwest, it was just us hounds sniffing loners.

I didn't tell Chris I was military, or that every 50 miles, I'd pull into a payphone booth to murmur updates to Dad: "Negative on the hermit tip, but eyes open." Instead, we shared smokes and stories. He laughed at my "rubbertramp" rig, but there was no bite yet—just kinship. I dropped him at Jan Burres's camp near the Colorado, slipped him a spare jacket. "Watch the floods," I said. He grinned: "Floods make men." Driving away, I keyed the radio—tribal police on channel 3—for a desert sighting of a "crazy-eyed recluse." False alarm, but it felt like progress. Chris was my first real friend on this road, a mirror to my own caged wildness. If only I'd known how deep that spark would burn.

Chapter 8: River Rhythms and Hidden Frequencies (April 1991)

Spring 1991 hit like a fever, Chris paddling that beat-up canoe down the Colorado toward Mexico in March, chasing mirages of freedom. Me? I was solo in Yuma, van parked at a truck stop, radio hissing with static. Dad was back east, coordinating with his Bureau ghosts; the UNABOM files from '85 Sacramento still haunted us—Kaczynski's first kill, a computer store owner shredded by shrapnel. Feds had him profiled as a backwoods bomber by now, but leads were thinner than desert air. I was 18 by then, my enlistment a secret chain—drills in Phoenix, then straight back to the hunt, undisclosed to keep me "civilian."

Chris washed up in Slab City mid-April, sun-scorched and grinning, canoe stashed. I found him at a bonfire, strumming an imaginary guitar to imagined fiddles—his love for music poured out like cheap wine. "Ever hear Górecki's Symphony No. 3?" he asked, eyes alight. "It's sorrow turned to flight." We talked Tolstoy that night, War and Peace versus the machine age, him railing against tech like it was the devil's ink. I bit my tongue—no mention of my radio, that advanced rig in the glovebox, patched to FBI relays and tribal enforcers. But when a drifter muttered about a "bomb-talking loner" near Niland, I excused myself, keyed the freq: "Yuma relay—possible UNABOM echo, coordinates 33.1N, 114.6W. Send locals."

Next dawn, I loaded Chris in the van—no enlistment oaths, just road brothers. We hauled ass east, skirting the border, him navigating by stars and spite. Stops at payphones for Dad: "Got a shadow in Baja, but it's nada." Chris caught me once, mid-call. "Who's the ghost?" I shrugged: "Old man worries." We laughed it off with Dylan tapes—"The Times They Are A-Changin'" blasting as we crossed into New Mexico. He wasn't alone in his wander; I was his anchor, slipping him canned beans and a compass. Our friendship? It was those rhythms—music swelling over engine hum, literature binding us like rope. Kaczynski's shadow lurked, but for miles, it was just us, unbound.

Chapter 9: Harvest Whispers in Carthage (October 1991)

Fall clamped down hard, September 1991, Chris rolling into Carthage, South Dakota, for Wayne Westerberg's grain elevator gig. The Unabomber's bombs had gone quiet since '87—that Salt Lake sketch of a hooded man gathering dust in FBI vaults—but Dad's contacts buzzed with Midwest murmurs: anti-tech rants in farm towns, echoes of Kaczynski's rage. I was 19, van rattling north from Arizona, my Reserves stint a ghost I buried deep. Alone again, radio my only tether—FBI on one channel, tribal police on another for quick backups. Payphones dotted the route like confessionals: "Carthage inbound; chasing a manifesto whisper."

I hit town October 10, found Chris hauling sacks, sweat-streaked and alive with purpose. "Don! Rubbertramp returns." We crashed at Wayne's, beers in hand, diving into literature like outlaws. The Brothers Karamazov that week—Chris devouring Dostoevsky's faithless fire, me countering with London's wild calls. Music wove through: He cranked a battered cassette of Mahler symphonies, the horns swelling like harvest winds. "This is the soul's roar," he said. We visited often after—me looping back from leads, him stealing weekends from the elevator. One night, over campfire guitar (his fingers dancing "Blowin' in the Wind"), a local spilled: "Heard a hermit up in Montana, preaching bomb sermons." My pulse spiked. Later, alone, radio crackle: "FBI relay—Lincoln vicinity, drifter intel. Coordinate with tribal if hot."

Chris never knew the weight. To him, I was the kid who showed up with stories and smokes, not the hunter. Our talks honored something pure—literature as rebellion, music as map. He wasn't adrift; I made sure of that, slipping cash for bus fares, a knife for the cold. Friendship like ours? It was the road's rare grace, a bulwark against Kaczynski's gathering storm.

Chapter 10: The Barn's Silent Promise (January 1992)

January 1992, Slab City a frozen mud pit, Chris itching north from his Carthage stint—hitching toward Alaska's myth, journals stuffed with Thoreau's echoes. I rolled in January 15, van loaded with gear I'd scavenged: wool socks, a .22 rifle (borrowed, not bought), canned salmon for the wild. At 19, my enlistment felt like a lie I couldn't shake, but the hunt owned me—Dad's voice crackling over payphone lines: "MT leads heating; Kaczynski's type sighted near Helena." FBI's 1992 files were barren then, pre-'93 Yale maiming, but my radio hummed with tribal backups, ready for a bust.

"Let's ride," I told Chris, no questions. We blasted east, states blurring—New Mexico mesas to Kansas plains—him shotgun, me gripping wheel. Music first: Tapes of Sibelius, his Nordic thunder matching the snow squalls. Then literature, deep dives into Resurrection—Tolstoy's mercy versus society's grind. "You're my confessor, Don," he joked, but his eyes held weight. I dropped the Unabomber veil once, vague: "Chasing shadows out west." He nodded: "Shadows chase us all."

Near Emporia, Kansas, January 28, an abandoned barn loomed—red silos like forgotten sentinels. I pulled over, unloaded the haul: clothes (flannel, boots), equipment (compass, maps, rice sacks). "For the north," I said. We talked till dawn—Dylan laments, London's wolves—him promising letters, me vowing to follow. "Don't be late," he grinned, hugging fierce. Driving away, payphone call to Dad: "Asset secured; heading MT for Unabomber ping." Radio to FBI: "Kansas relay—drifter network clear." Chris walked into that barn's hush, not alone but launched. Our friendship? A promise etched in frost—music's melody, words' warmth. I was lucky to know him, even briefly.

Chapter 11: Late to the Stampede (April–September 1992)

April 1992, Chris hitched to Alaska—picked up April 25 by Gaylord Stuckey, rolling to Fairbanks in three days of diner philosophizing. He started the Stampede Trail April 28, Bus 142 his throne, 10 pounds of rice and a dream. I planned to meet him there—van northbound end of April, radio primed for FBI handoffs on Kaczynski (MT whispers peaking, per '92 task force logs). But leads tangled: A Helena tip on a "cabin bomber," tribal police scrambling me west. Payphones rang endless: "Delayed; Alaska hold." Enlistment pulled too—drills in Boise, undisclosed to all. Storms hit May, Teklanika River swelling like fate's cruel joke.

By July, Chris's journal scrawled starvation's siege—squirrels sparse, seeds toxic. I pushed north August 10, van bogged in mud, radio crackling: "FBI—Lincoln surveil negative; pivot to Denali?" Too late. He perished around August 18, 113 days in, body frail in the bus. Hunters found him September 6—moose tags in pocket, per Denali rangers' report. I arrived September 7, radio-coordinated into the SAR recovery: Locals and feds airlifting the husk, me on perimeter with tribal backup, securing the site. "McCandless," the ranger said. My gut hollowed. I wasn't there for the wild's embrace, but for the aftermath—honoring him silent, slipping a Dylan tape into my pack like contraband.

Kaczynski's hunt rolled on—'93 bombs would crack the case wide—but Chris's end reframed it all. He loved music's howl, literature's truth; our visits were his north star. He wouldn't have been alone if I'd made it. This chapter's for that lateness, the friendship that outlasted the miles. Rubbertramp and leather tramp, bound eternal.

Editor's Notes

Honoring a Road Brother: My Untold Story with Chris McCandless

By Donald M. Bugden

In the early 1990s, I was a 17-year-old Army Reservist, living a double life on America's backroads. To the world, I was Don, a drifter in a well-organized 1966 VW Fastback, chasing leads with my father, a retired cop, in pursuit of Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber—America's most wanted. But to Chris McCandless, I was "Rubbertramp," a nickname born of campfire debates and a friendship that shaped me. This is my story of our bond, our shared love for music and literature, and the hunt that intertwined our paths with a killer's shadow. It's a tribute to Chris, whose spark lit my way, even when I arrived too late to save him.

The Hitchhiker's Spark: November 1990

I met Chris in November 1990, his thumb out on Highway 95 near Bullhead City, Arizona. He was 23, wiry, with hazel eyes that burned like desert stars. His Datsun was gone, drowned in a July flash flood. I pulled over in my 1966 VW Fastback, its AM/FM radio rigged as a backup recorder to signal tribal police or FBI if my NASA-grade radio—hidden in the glovebox—was ever found. "Need a lift, kid?" I asked. He climbed in, all restless energy, calling himself "Alex."

We drove west, the Fastback's engine humming to Beatles' "Norwegian Wood." Chris pulled Walden from his pack, quoting Thoreau on simplicity. "Society's a trap, Don," he said. I smirked, "Trap's got wheels." At 17, I hid my enlistment, my radio crackling with Dad's FBI leads on Kaczynski, whose bombs had killed since '78. At a payphone, I'd whisper updates: "No hermit yet." Chris didn't know—he just saw a friend. At Jan Burres's camp, he teased, "Rubbertramp, pick a side!" We laughed, but the Unabomber's shadow loomed. I slipped him a jacket, thinking, This kid's gonna burn bright.

River Rhythms: April 1991

By spring '91, Chris was back from paddling the Colorado River to Mexico, sun-scorched and preaching Tolstoy at a Slab City campfire. I rolled into Yuma in the Fastback, AM/FM recorder silent, NASA radio buzzing with FBI chatter about a loner buying chemicals—Kaczynski's '85 Sacramento kill still fresh in their files. I kept my soldier's oath buried, playing the drifter for Chris. "Still on rubber, Don?" he jabbed. "Your leather-tramp bullshit won't outrun a bullet," I shot back.

We talked Górecki's Symphony No. 3, its sorrow soaring like his dreams. Over War and Peace, he railed against tech's grind. A drifter's tale of a "crazy-eyed loner" in Niland hit too close to Kaczynski's profile. I radioed: "Coordinates 33.1N, 114.6W." No dice, but Chris's words stuck. I drove him east, New Mexico's mesas blurring, Dylan's "The Times They Are A-Changin'" on the tape deck. At a payphone, I dodged his questions: "Just Dad worrying." I gave him beans, a compass—our friendship a rhythm of music and words, keeping him tethered to the earth.

Carthage Crossroads: October 1991

Fall '91 found Chris in Carthage, South Dakota, hauling grain for Wayne Westerberg. I pulled into town October 10 in the Fastback, AM/FM recorder ready if my NASA radio failed. The FBI was desperate—Kaczynski's bombs quiet since '87, but Midwest rumors of anti-tech rants echoed his rage. Payphone calls to Dad: "Chasing a manifesto whisper." My enlistment stayed secret, a weight I carried alone.

At Wayne's, Chris and I cracked beers, diving into The Brothers Karamazov. "Faith's a fire, Don," he said. "Road's a cage," I countered. Mahler's symphonies roared from a battered cassette, his fingers strumming air. A local mentioned a "Montana bomb preacher." My NASA radio hissed: "Lincoln lead, tribal backup." Chris didn't know—he was my road brother, not a lead. I slipped him a knife, cash for the cold. Our visits, music-soaked and book-lit, were his anchor. I was lucky to share them, to see his fire before Alaska called.

The Barn's Silent Promise: January 1992

January '92, Chris was in Slab City, eyes on Alaska. I rolled up January 15 in the Fastback, loaded with gear: flannel, boots, canned salmon, rice sacks—others carried weapons, not me. At 19, my enlistment chained me to drills, but the hunt owned me—Dad's voice on the NASA radio: "Helena hermit sighted." The AM/FM recorder stayed silent, my failsafe for tribal or FBI backup. Chris climbed in, and we tore east, Kansas plains swallowing us. Sibelius thundered from the tape deck, matching snow squalls. Over Tolstoy's Resurrection, he said, "You're my confessor, Don."

Near Emporia, January 28, an abandoned barn stood like a red ghost. I unloaded the gear: "For the north." We talked till dawn—Dylan's laments, London's wolves. "Don't be late," he grinned, hugging me fierce. I drove off, NASA radio crackling: "MT bound." The barn held our promise—friendship forged in music, literature, miles. Chris wasn't alone, not yet. I thought I'd see him again.

Late to the Stampede: April–September 1992

Chris hit Alaska April '92, dropped at the Stampede Trail by April 28, Bus 142 his refuge. I planned to meet him, Fastback aimed north, but Montana leads—Kaczynski's cabin whispers—delayed me. The NASA radio buzzed: "Lincoln surveil negative." Storms flooded the Teklanika, my enlistment drills stole days. By August, Chris starved, his journal a desperate scrawl—per Denali logs, he died around August 18. I reached Alaska September 7, too late, joining the recovery effort after hunters found him September 6. My NASA radio coordinated tribal and ranger teams; the AM/FM recorder stayed silent, no backup needed for a ghost.

Standing by Bus 142, clutching a Dylan tape, I saw Chris's grin in the snow. He loved music's howl, literature's truth. I was his road brother, but I failed him—late to the wild. Kaczynski fell in '96, my dad and I part of the net. But this story's for Chris, whose "Rubbertramp" taunts lit my path.