Annie Olson

A New and Different Sun

I flew to Anchorage in late May of 2002. I don’t remember the plane ride. I also don’t remember which hotel I stayed at, only that I thought it was close to the Aramark headquarters where I had to report in the morning. It wasn’t close. I walked for over a mile—hauling my suitcase and duffle bag—and arrived late for the employee training. After orientation, my new coworkers and I rode on a bus for six hours to McKinley Village, a resort outside of Denali where we had seasonal contracts. The dense green of the forest blurred along the highway, and I poked holes in the seat in front of me like an elementary school student. I was twenty-one years old and I wanted the past year of my life to disappear like the black spruce and muskeg ponds on the other side of the window.

Two days earlier, I’d dropped out of college in rural Minnesota with no plans to return. My boyfriend, Mike, and I broke up the night I left. I told him I loved him for the first time that night because I didn’t think there would be a second chance. We sat on the side of a dirt road, next to my old Chrysler van.

“I love you, too,” Mike said.

He didn’t mean it, at least not the way I did, but it was the right thing to say. Our relationship was complicated.Real life is complicated. Something happens, and then something else happens. But the real story is often what happens after that. I was assaulted at a party in Madison, Wisconsin in March of 2001, about 15 months before I moved to Alaska. Not raped. I woke up on a couch at 2:00 AM with some guy on top of me, starting to have sex. One of the girls I was staying with let him back into the house after we’d gone to bed—he’d forgotten a jacket. Something like that. He kept trying after I woke up, pulled off my clothes, and I shoved and kicked him off the couch a few times. Eventually, it seemed like the easiest way to get rid of him was a blowjob in the kitchen. It was a gray area. I know all about the gray area.

I went to the hospital and filed a report, even though I didn’t know if I wanted to press charges. Police in Madison assured me that all sexual assaults should be reported—even if they were “attempted” or “third degree” and not rape. That report is probably in a box somewhere. No one followed up with me, and I didn’t call the police station in Madison to check in.

Instead, I returned to school at the University of Minnesota-Morris, a small branch campus in the far western part of the state. If you look at a map of Minnesota, Morris is the little bulge in the state line that juts into South Dakota. You can walk from one side of town to the other in 45 minutes. There are five bars and four gas stations.

Mike and I stayed in Morris during the summer of 2001. We were not dating, but we moved into a tiny, one-bedroom yellow house together that cost $300 a month to rent. He smoked cigarettes like James Dean, talked about politics with confidence, and always opened the door for me. I’d loved him from the day we met in class as college freshman. But that summer, we were just friends. I didn’t know how to move the relationship out of the friend zone. This is a reversal, I’ve realized, from the way college relationships typically progress. We spent every waking minute together, and he slept on the couch at night.

Maybe the assault in Madison affected things with Mike over the summer. I was uncomfortable even talking about sex. I remember wanting clear definitions, like: if someone starts to have sex with you, but doesn’t finish, are you still a virgin? I thought it was an important question. Regardless, both of us wanted to keep things easy. We worked at the movie theater to pay rent and survived mostly on theater popcorn. We read Vonnegut in the basement, watched Steal This Movie (the Abbie Hoffman story) dozens of times, and talked about changing the world. The most that happened was a hot-and-heavy make-out session on a mattress on the floor. That shiny, magical summer could have been the first chapter of a romance novel.

Here is where the gray area ends. Mike moved out at the end of August to live with his friends. I kept the lease on the little yellow house. We were still friends, just no longer living together, and we were both at a party on September 7, 2001, the first Friday of the school year.

I drank a lot of tequila at the party and walked home alone. Or started to. It was late and quiet, so it must have been after 1:00 AM, when the bars let out—not that Morris is rowdy, rather, it’s so small you can hear when the bars let out from several blocks away. A truck pulled over, and a couple guys asked if I wanted a ride. They were college-aged, but not college students, and I did not know them. I took the ride. We drove around for 20 minutes. It was disorienting. Perhaps purposefully disorienting, like the beer and vodka they dared me to drink and then poured in my mouth while they held me down in the back of the truck.

We arrived at a single-story house with an attached garage. I wasn’t blacked out; it was more like browned out drunk—the point where you remember some things but not others. There were six or more men at the house and no women. They took off my clothes and asked me to dance in the living room. I remember going in and out of consciousness and frantically looking for my t-shirt. Someone had his hands around my throat and, as he choked me, another yelled from a different room, “she’s mine next.” Then there was a bedroom in the basement with shag carpet and fake wood panels. One of them raped me while the others watched. Later, I grabbed some clothes off the basement floor, went up the stairs, out the garage door, and ran down an alley.

I kept running straight to Mike’s new place. It was an impulsive decision that I wanted to take back the next day. He and two roommates found out that night. Of all the things I regret, for a long time I just wished I hadn’t told anyone. I’d already been through the gray area of Madison and put myself in a far worse situation. So when my Morris friends tried to get me to go to the police—that night and in the weeks ahead—I refused. Fool me once, shame on you, but fool me twice, well, I couldn’t think of a way to reconcile that.

Mike was better at confronting the obvious. When I didn’t file a police report, he asked me to see a psychiatrist. When that didn’t work, he told me he wouldn’t stay involved if I didn’t admit myself for 72-hour psychiatric hold. Someone had to force my hand. We stood in his bedroom, faced off across a futon mattress without a bed sheet, a sleeping bag, and piles of dirty laundry.

“It’s too much. This is too big,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t take care of you, Annie.”

“I’m not asking.”

“You’re not doing anything.”

I couldn’t lose Mike. It was the only thing I knew for sure. So I agreed to go to the psych ward in Fergus Falls, about an hour north of Morris, for three days. Doctors rotated through Fergus as they made their rounds of the many poor, rural towns in western Minnesota. The place had glaring fluorescent lights and furniture that was 15 years out of date. I spent September 13th through 15th in the hospital and watched CNN most of time. The Twin Towers collapsed on repeat. It seemed like proof the world was falling apart in much bigger ways than had to do with me.

The doctors asked me to call my parents. I hadn’t told them about Madison. My mother listened and probably responded somewhat appropriately at first. But I remember the end of the conversation most clearly. She said, “I hope you learned a lesson about alcohol,” and changed the subject. We never discussed it again, and I doubt we ever will. I didn’t expect real support, but her words reinforced my own guilt. These days, I remind myself that tens of thousands of women are raped in the United States each year, and most do not have supportive families. It doesn’t make me feel better about my mother, but it is an important reminder.
At the hospital, I made up my mind not to take anyone to trial. I wonder about the forgotten police report in Madison and if it influenced my decision, but I’m fairly sure the real problem was Morris—a town where one friend learned about me being raped from a nurse at the ER, my boss at the movie theater heard about it at a bar, and my professors talked about me in committee meetings. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I was a good student, a campus activist, and my life was supposed to be devoted to helping others or fighting for a cause. I wanted a different story.

When I was released, I told everyone I was fine and pretended it was true. Gradually, the pressure to press charges faded. I moved in with Mike and slept on the couch for months. In March, I relocated from the couch to his bedroom. I was finally in a relationship with someone I loved, but neither of us was happy. Actually, we were miserable: he was failing out of school, I was clinically depressed, and we had emotionless, drunken sex and avoided conversations about the future. We needed to get out of Morris and figure out our own issues before we could be good for each other. Dropping out of school became the only solution. In May, Mike moved back to his family home in Wisconsin. I found a job in Alaska, bought a ticket, and got on an airplane.

I thought Alaska was cliché. It’s the paradox of being 21. Everything I did felt cliché—being depressed, dropping out of college, running away to Alaska—but I did it anyway. When I got off the plane in Anchorage, I bought another copy of John Krakauer’s book, Into the Wild, in the airport gift store. I hadn’t packed my copy. It was the only book I’d read about Alaska, but I didn’t want to cop to my ignorance. Or maybe I didn’t want to acknowledge the allure of tragic stories.

Into the Wild is the biography of Christopher McCandless, a young man who died in the Alaskan bush in 1992 while trying to live off the land. McCandless was, by Krakauer’s account, an idealist and non-conformist. He left behind a comfortable, upper-middle class life to roam across America. He burned his driver’s license and social security card, ditched his car, and spent two years hitchhiking in the West. When he died, he left behind journals that chronicle his adventures and espouse big ideas about freedom, individuality, disdain for material possessions, and the romance of nature. Ideas, frankly, which are much easier to embrace with McCandless’ privileged background.

There was always a gap between McCandless’ mentality and my own. I had a job by age 14. While he reveled in the joy of exhaustion after an honest day’s work for a rancher in North Dakota, I grew up bailing hay for my grandparents and picking rock for farmers in Morris. He graduated with honors from Emory University and gave away the $24,000 left in his trust fund—approximately the cost of my entire college education.

Still, I related to McCandless. At 21, it’s easy to dismiss economic class and focus on McCandless’ very sincere desire to escape conformity. He epitomized the rugged self-reliance I aspired to. Like McCandless, I didn’t talk to my parents and wanted to make it on my own. Although I didn’t come from wealth, I appreciated his disdain for it. I loved his rebellion, his anger and passion. Even McCandless’ death in the wilderness was interesting. I often thought about living fast and dying young in vague ways: what was the point of life past age 30, anyway? At least he died in a beautiful place, beneath an open sky.

Like McCandless, I wanted to give up on a conventional life. I didn’t belong anywhere. When I left for college at 18, I knew I would never return to live with my family. Morris had been home for three years. Even now, I can tell you where to hop the back of the train to ride through town, describe the rooms in half of the dilapidated 1940s houses college students rent, and insist you order the grilled cheese sandwich at Don’s diner. But it stopped feeling like home in 2001. Moreover, I had an impressive flight response—the type where if asked to order too quickly at a fast-food drive-through, I would hit the gas pedal if I hadn’t decided. I was alone and confused, so I set out for a place where it was possible to vanish.


McKinley Village is 230 miles north of Anchorage on the Parks Highway. The resort was built on a wide peninsula, at a bend in the Nenana River just south of Denali National Park. When you see the river, you know the Nenana carved mountains and tundra to exist in its current form. I arrived in