a true hermit. “I can’t expla<strong>in</strong> my actions,” he said. “I had no plans when I left, I wasn’t th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g of anyth<strong>in</strong>g. I just did it.”
14 Knight actually did have a plan. Or maybe it was <strong>the</strong> opposite of a plan. Regardless, he had a goal: to get lost. Not just lost to <strong>the</strong> rest of <strong>the</strong> world but actually lost <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> woods by himself. He carried only rudimentary camp<strong>in</strong>g supplies, a few articles of cloth<strong>in</strong>g, and a little food. “I had what I had,” he said, “and noth<strong>in</strong>g more.” He left <strong>the</strong> keys <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> car and vanished <strong>in</strong>to <strong>the</strong> forest. It’s not that easy to get lost. Anyone with basic outdoor skills generally knows which way <strong>the</strong>y’re go<strong>in</strong>g. <strong>The</strong> sun burns west across <strong>the</strong> sky, and from <strong>the</strong>re it’s natural to set <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r directions. Knight knew that he was head<strong>in</strong>g south. He said he didn’t make a conscious decision but felt pulled like a hom<strong>in</strong>g pigeon. “<strong>The</strong>re was no depth or substance to <strong>the</strong> idea. It was at <strong>the</strong> <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ctual level. It’s <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct among animals to return to home territory, and my home ground, where I was born and raised, was that way.” Ma<strong>in</strong>e is partitioned <strong>in</strong>to a series of long north-south valleys, <strong>the</strong> geologic clawmark left by glaciers surg<strong>in</strong>g and retreat<strong>in</strong>g. Separat<strong>in</strong>g <strong>the</strong> valleys are str<strong>in</strong>gs of mounta<strong>in</strong>s, now wea<strong>the</strong>r-worn and bald-topped like old men, but only a couple of dozen million years ago <strong>the</strong> Appalachians were mightier than <strong>the</strong> Rockies. <strong>The</strong> valley floors at <strong>the</strong> time of year when Knight arrived were a summer soup of ponds and wetlands and bogs. “I kept largely to <strong>the</strong> ridges,” Knight said, “and sometimes crossed swamps go<strong>in</strong>g from one ridge to ano<strong>the</strong>r.” He worked his way along crumbled slopes and muddy taiga. “Soon I lost track of where I was. I didn’t care.” Virtually every natural feature <strong>in</strong> Ma<strong>in</strong>e, pond to peak, has a proper name, but Knight saw such titles as human impositions and preferred not to know <strong>the</strong>m. He sought a purity to his retreat beyond all measure. “<strong>The</strong>re were no signs say<strong>in</strong>g, ‘You are here.’ It was ei<strong>the</strong>r dry land or wet land. I knew where I was but I didn’t know where I was. Oh, I’m gett<strong>in</strong>g all metaphysical here, aren’t I?” He was unfettered by <strong>the</strong> rules of society, k<strong>in</strong>g of his own jungle, and alone and lost <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> forest—a quilt of dreams and nightmares both. Knight mostly liked it. He’d camp <strong>in</strong> one spot for a week or so, <strong>the</strong>n head south yet aga<strong>in</strong>. “I kept go<strong>in</strong>g,” he said. “I was content <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> choice I had made.” Content except for one th<strong>in</strong>g: food. He was hungry, and he really didn’t know how he’d feed himself. His departure was a confound<strong>in</strong>g mix of <strong>in</strong>credible commitment and complete lack of forethought, not all that abnormal for a twenty-year-old. It was as if he went camp<strong>in</strong>g for <strong>the</strong> weekend and didn’t come home for a quarter century. He was an able hunter and angler, but he carried nei<strong>the</strong>r a gun nor a rod. He didn’t want to die, at least not <strong>the</strong>n. His idea was to “forage” for food. <strong>The</strong> wilds of Ma<strong>in</strong>e are enchant<strong>in</strong>g to behold and monumentally broad, though not generous. <strong>The</strong>re are no fruit trees. Berries sometimes have a weekend-long season. Without
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Also by Michael Finkel True Story:
- Page 5 and 6: Contents Cover Also by Michael Fink
- Page 7 and 8: In memory of Eileen Myrna Baker Fin
- Page 13 and 14: 1 The trees are mostly skinny where
- Page 15 and 16: 2 Terry Hughes’s wife nudges him
- Page 17 and 18: eyes, and trains the .357 square in
- Page 19 and 20: down, hands still locked behind his
- Page 21 and 22: truth. Anything else would be wasti
- Page 23 and 24: “I took no medications and never
- Page 25 and 26: Or them. Nobody knew. Because of th
- Page 27 and 28: North Pond hermit, it turns out, wa
- Page 29 and 30: 7 I learned about Christopher Knigh
- Page 31 and 32: 8 A white envelope arrived in my ma
- Page 33 and 34: against the rules of journalism. I
- Page 35 and 36: 9 Augusta, Maine, is picturesque bu
- Page 37 and 38: East accent. I plowed awkwardly on.
- Page 39 and 40: 10 Knight lived in the same campsit
- Page 41 and 42: Knight, matching him step for step.
- Page 43 and 44: He’d spread a carpet over the mag
- Page 45 and 46: It was the kind of total quiet that
- Page 47 and 48: to the nature of the electromagneti
- Page 49 and 50: something. Chris was smart and frie
- Page 51 and 52: 13 But why? Why would a twenty-year
- Page 53: including Charles Darwin, Thomas Ed
- Page 57 and 58: the sorts of places where it’s ne
- Page 59 and 60: their canoe has been borrowed and r
- Page 61 and 62: 16 Knight lived in the dirt but was
- Page 63 and 64: he was famished for words, he’d s
- Page 65 and 66: Knight had a strong distaste for bi
- Page 67 and 68: Knight’s camp. He began observing
- Page 69 and 70: 18 The only book Knight didn’t st
- Page 71 and 72: my winter toilet. Do my business. T
- Page 73 and 74: pen name. “Human society has been
- Page 75 and 76: do telethons? I hate Jerry Lewis.
- Page 77 and 78: fed her, but with Knight she had no
- Page 79 and 80: 21 A thousand poets sing of solitud
- Page 81 and 82: “psychologically completely out o
- Page 83 and 84: 22 Snow melted, flowers bloomed, in
- Page 85 and 86: changes is where the brain is funct
- Page 87 and 88: His thieving raids became considera
- Page 89 and 90: to sing, with his food supplies nea
- Page 91 and 92: inherited from her mother, and a co
- Page 93 and 94: 25 A side door to the jail swings o
- Page 95 and 96: Jail, he’s realized, might not be
- Page 97 and 98: 26 Chris’s oldest brother, Daniel
- Page 99 and 100: That note, thirty-four words long,
- Page 101 and 102: the bright side. The sun will come
- Page 103 and 104: 28 A mile down the road, I pull ove
- Page 105 and 106:
It’s now just a spot in the woods
- Page 107 and 108:
For insight into Knight: Matt Hongo
- Page 109 and 110:
Annette Schipf Chris Anderson David
- Page 111 and 112:
David and Louise Proulx, whose tiny
- Page 113 and 114:
A Note About the Author Michael Fin