Chris: There they go into the last great gasp of the wilderness known as Alaska. We all have our own relationship with the wild. Out there or in here, in our hearts, in our souls. Wheeling, West Virginia, 1983. I'm in the joint, prison library, working my way backward from Z. Stendahl, Proust, I'm in the L's and eureka, baby! Jack London, my main man. If Whitman gave me poetry, then Mr. London took me to a place inside me I didn't know existed but recognized instantly, like I'd been heading there all my lost life. There was Buck, big civilized mutt from the south land, slapped down in the frigid north to redefine himself for what he really was. I was Buck, Buck was I, Buck is us.