Note to the reader: This account reflects a desire for autonomy and freedom. It is not an expression of self-harm or suicidal intent, and interpretations suggesting otherwise are incorrect.

My name is Jarod. In November 2018, I flew to Kalispell, Montana from Texas with one goal: to vanish into the mountains north of the city and live on my own terms. A cab dropped me off at the post office in Trego, about 50 miles north, with a 110-liter backpack on my back and an 18″ × 36″ duffel over my shoulder—50 pounds of gear that reminded me I’d overpacked, but I didn’t care. I have cerebral palsy, mild but still real. That didn’t make me weak, it didn’t make me incapable. I set out with determination, carrying every ounce of my will along with my gear. I was inspired by Chris McCandless, the man who abandoned society and ran to Alaska to live in the wilderness—whose story is told in the book and film, Into the Wild. I wanted what he had: freedom, solitude, and autonomy. I wasn’t reckless. I wasn’t suicidal. I wasn’t naive. I wanted control over my life, my choices, my path—even in the face of death.

A woman from the post office pulled up in her pickup, and I asked her to drive me into the mountains. “No way! You can get killed by a mountain lion,” she said. Instead, she drove me ten miles further to Eureka and convinced me to book a night at the Kasanka Inn. The next morning, she returned with her husband and adult son.

Her husband, Rick, was relentless. He refused to take me anywhere near the mountains, even to the nearby Rexford campground—just six miles away. Instead, he insisted on hauling me 66 miles south back to Kalispell, to a homeless shelter called the Samaritan House, simply to ease his own conscience. Every argument I made—my gear, my preparation, my experience—was dismissed. I carried a tent, a coat and trousers rated for -50°F, mitts rated for -60°F, Baffin boots rated for -100°F, a sleeping bag, base layers, and all the necessary equipment to survive frigid temperatures and harsh conditions—but Rick refused to acknowledge any of it. He seemed determined to focus not on my readiness or my planning, but on his own fears and what he imagined could go wrong. His obsession with my supposed lack of judgment turned every conversation into a lecture about “using my brain” and avoiding rash, impulsive actions that could jeopardize my life.

Rick escalated beyond practical concerns and moved into moral judgment. He accused me of attempting to put God to the test, speaking as if he alone could know God’s will for me, despite holding no ministerial or prophetic authority. I reminded him that my decision was rooted in faith, citing Matthew 6:25–34 and explaining that I was choosing to move forward without fear while still taking responsibility for my preparation, actions, and consequences. He ignored this, instead insisting that I was acting recklessly and as if divine intervention could override my mortal risks. He cited dangers—mountain lions, bears, and wolves—as reasons to control my path, yet he refused to acknowledge my right to autonomy. It didn’t matter how often I addressed one concern; he immediately found another. It was not his place to assume responsibility for my life or to override my judgment. He had no right. None.

I asked Rick if he would take me out to the mountains, but he said “Not on my conscience!” He made the whole situation about himself. He only cared about his concerns and conscience— only caring about where he wanted me to be. He didn’t care about my goals or where I wanted to go. Back then, I was not as assertive as I am now. I was actually quite timid at the time because it was the first time I had ventured off on my own without family or friends, and I didn’t have good social skills. I wanted to tell Rick off and refuse his help, but I was afraid that he might have concluded that I was having a mental health crisis and report a suicide emergency. I was also doubting that I could carry my heavy luggage around, that, and Rick was so fixated on taking me to the Samaritan House and wouldn’t shut up about it, so I agreed to go with him. His wife booked me two more nights at the motel and I left with Rick and his son the following Monday.

We were on our way to Kalispell, heading southbound on Montana state highway 93. Most of the way was scenic, consisting of mountains and vast forests of pine trees, with small lakes and rivers in some areas. I regretted my decision and begged Rick to pull over and let me out on the side of the highway, but Rick refused and said, “Not on my conscience,” and his son said, “We’re concerned about you”. This, of course, made me upset. They were obviously concerned because of my disability, which I took offense to and felt disrespected, but I kept my feelings to myself. At the time, I appreciated Rick’s willingness to go out of his way to help me more than I cared about my disappointment, and I wasn’t even angry with him until about a week after we departed. As we drove along the road, Rick was telling me stories about people being killed by mountain lions. He had also mentioned having served in the Marines, and that not even he could survive in the wilderness in spite of his military training and experience.

When we arrived in Kalispell, Rick helped me into the Samaritan House entrance. I filled out all the necessary paperwork, then I had to give the staff my knives for lockup. Before Rick and his son left, he told me that if I were to go drifting again then he would never talk to me again, but that didn’t matter because I never heard from him again from that point on. Rick went on his way, and I stayed one night at the Samaritan House.

The shelter had some ridiculous rules. Residents were not allowed to bring food into the building and we could only eat what we were served, apart from buying food and eating it outside of the shelter. My diet was plant-based at the time, as it is now, and has been since 2011, and I told the staff and manager this, but they didn’t care. They said they didn’t make the rules, but only enforced them. This is one thing that really peeves me. Any time employees enforce rules they claim they don’t agree with is a hypocrite. If they didn’t agree with the rules, then they would not work there. At dinner time, we had to walk a block away to a separate building where the cafeteria was. The lady serving the meal was sympathetic to my diet and served me crackers. It was all that was available besides chili, which had meat in it. Luckily, I had canned food in my backpack, and I broke the rules and ate in the dorm that night and didn’t get caught.

Another stupid policy they had was that residents couldn’t be in the building from 9 to 4. This was dreadful because I had just arrived in Kalispell and didn’t know where anything was. I couldn’t even find the bus stop. In that town, not every bus stop had a sign or anything else to indicate they were bus stops. You just had to know where they were, as Kalispell had a developing bus routing system at the time. Even worse, the staff at the shelter were not very kind or helpful. They just told me to wait at the corner of the street, but they weren’t specific and refused to be so. I found myself walking aimlessly on the street with my heavy backpack on until most of my energy was gone. I had enough and walked back into the shelter intending to gather my stuff and ditch the shelter planning to hitch hike my way back to the Eureka area.

They then proceeded to tell the manager what I told them. His name was Ken, and he drove me to a clinic called Sunburst Mental Health. I spoke to a case manager there (whom became one of my good friends later on) and told her what I told the shelter staff, but she didn’t think I was in any danger of self-harm. While still at Sunburst, Ken found an available room for me to move into, in a boarding home called My House, LLC. (a.k.a. the Rosebrier Inn), and I met with the landlord to the place, paid my first rent and deposit and moved in all on the same day. In less than a week of flying to Montana I had my own place.

My House was the cheapest place I could afford that was openly available. It was $345/mo. until the following January, then the rent rose to $375/mo. My room was just that—a room. It was small, about maybe 8′ x 10′ and included a bed, a dresser, a chair and a TV. In the facility, the bathrooms were centralized on both floors, and there was only one kitchen in which all tenants had to share, except for those who could afford one of the few, bigger and more expensive rooms that included their own kitchens and bathrooms. My room happened to be at the end of the first-floor hall, the second to the last room. I had to walk across the hallway to use the restroom and kitchen. It was burdensome at first, but I got used to it.

I lived there for seven months, and my life there wasn’t all bad, except for the bedbugs! Yes! This place had a serious bedbug infestation, and I was bitten every single night, waking up in the middle of the night to scratch where I was bitten, and to kill the bedbugs that were crawling on my bed. It was horrible. My sheets always had blood spots and streaks on them no matter how often I did laundry. The landlord claimed he was only allowed to spray the place once a month, and tenants were not allowed to treat their own rooms either due to a possible chemical reaction with the bug guy’s spray. It was ridiculous.

The building was heated via a boiler, and each room had a radiator to keep it warm during the frigid nights. It would often get too hot in my room, which was another problem because it was situated just right above the basement at the spot where the boiler was, and my room got warmer than the others. Sometimes I had to sleep with my window ajar even when it was zero degrees outside because my room got so damn hot! I would sweat which made me shivering cold because of the cold breeze blowing in the window. Then I had to shut it. My options were to be shivering cold or sweltering hot.

I had five close friends at My House; two of them would give me rides to the grocery store, and another would take me on road trips just to get me out of the facility about once a week. We explored the Flathead Valley together—driving into the mountains, deep into the forests, through the towns surrounding Flathead Lake, or just taking directionless joyrides at night. One day, he took me to Whitefish Mountain Ski Resort where we rode the chairlift to the summit. It was a breathtaking experience. We didn’t ski, but we hung out at the lodge. I looked out over the other side of the range—miles of peaks that seemed to stretch on forever.

Eventually, I became familiar with the bus system and used it to navigate the town. I even qualified for a dial-a-ride card, which allowed me to ride the city bus for free; I would often ride just for the sake of a joyride, using the movement as a way to relieve anxiety and stress. For five months before I left, I received counseling at Sunburst. The facility included a lounge called “The Village,” where residents from the local shelters—both the Samaritan House and A Ray of Hope—would congregate during the hours they were locked out of their buildings. I spent most of my time in Kalispell at the Village, even on days I didn’t have counseling, just to hang out with the two case managers and the other regulars. It was a simple space—tables, chairs, three couches, and a TV. Free coffee was served and I always helped myself to it. There was another place I enjoyed retreating to: the Montana Coffee Traders shop. Between it and The Village, I managed to carve out a circle of friends outside of my home.

Kalispell had a library which I would visit frequently to use a computer to check my email or watch YouTube videos. I would especially go to the library on Saturdays because Sunburst wasn’t open on the weekends and the busses didn’t run. Sundays, though, were dreadful because even the library was closed. The only thing open where I hung out other than home was Montana Coffee Traders, but their Sunday hours were short. I spent most of my Sundays at home watching old westerns on TV, such as Gunsmoke and Daniel Boone. I hated staying at home because of boredom and drama. The landlord had serious anger issues and I would often hear him yelling at the other tenants. Fortunately, I remained on his good side and he never yelled at me.

Despite all my good fortunes, I perceived my life there to be dreadful and disappointing because it wasn’t what I had in mind. I was still obsessed with fleeing into the mountains because living in Kalispell or in any city or town defeated the purpose of why I went to Montana. I asked so many people for help getting out there, but no one was willing to do it out of concern. I asked all my friends, a few tenants at My House, all the bus drivers and even a few acquaintances. They all refused.

In late December, I posted a Craigslist ad for a temporary place to stay until summer, mentioning my disability. An elderly couple from Valier, on the other side of Glacier National Park, responded. I told the man my plan: stay until the snow melted, then venture into the mountains. Despite my lack of specifics, he immediately assumed I was having a mental health crisis and refused to rent to me. It was an arrogant judgment; he knew nothing of the severity of my disability, my professional-grade gear, or my actual circumstances. I wrote back and explained that if I truly intended to harm myself, I wouldn’t go through the time, cost, and effort of preparing for a wilderness journey. Though he briefly changed his mind after that, he ultimately backed out again over a religious disagreement, but that is a different matter.

All I wanted was the simple freedom to live as a hermit in the wilderness—to just be. But instead of seeing a man seeking solitude, people only see a disability and fixate on the catastrophe that could follow. The dangers aren’t imaginary; they’re obvious—wild predators, sub-zero cold, isolation with cerebral palsy. Yet instead of respecting my right to weigh those risks against my dream and accept them on my own terms, they force their will on me, taking “preventative” measures because they can’t tolerate the mental discomfort of my autonomy—and would rather believe that I’m suicidal. This reveals a deeper issue: an inability to separate their personal fear from my objective right to make informed risks. They aren’t saving me from a mountain lion; they’re saving themselves from the anxiety of knowing I chose to confront one. Said anxiety, when it becomes controlling, is not harmless—it actively harms others. Concern does not give anyone the right to override another adult’s choices.

Looking back, it was Rick’s relentless need to control the situation to ease his own conscience that forced me into Kalispell, ignoring my clear choices and autonomy. I carried a bitter anger toward him for years (thoughts I won’t share here), but it wasn’t just him. Everyone I told my story to, even strangers who didn’t know my name, reacted with that same heavy, suffocating concern. It wasn’t helpful or rational; it was a ridiculously overwhelming, almost hysterical force. It felt like being surrounded by zombies, their hands all over me, pulling at my life until I felt completely smothered. I didn’t just want to leave; I needed to escape.

The mentality of those who stopped me—from Rick in Eureka to the staff at the Samaritan House—was rooted in a neurotic obsession with “what if.” They fixated on bears and sub-zero temperatures, yet ignored the reality that life is inherently risky for everyone. Even though I have cerebral palsy, I am an adult capable of making informed decisions. I have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness—and that includes the liberty to risk my survival for the sake of that happiness. To prioritize my survival over my goals without my permission is not an act of conscience or mercy; it is an act of ownership. It is treating me like a child rather than a man with the “dignity of risk.” My survival is my responsibility—and to decide my priorities for me is to refuse to respect me at all, and to impose your will on me.

Many of the people I encountered in Montana claimed to be acting out of Christian concern, yet their actions were anything but selfless. Scripture teaches that love is not selfish (1 Corinthians 13:5), yet Rick and others placed the comfort of their own “clean conscience” above my actual goals. While they might quote Romans 13:10—which states that “love does no harm to a neighbor”—to justify their interference, they are misapplying the context of Scripture. That passage refers to committing intentional harm, not to the neurotic need to prevent someone from taking a personal risk.

By forcing their will on me, they were actually the ones causing harm to my spirit and my agency. They judged me by my outward appearance (John 7:24) and bore false witness (Exodus 20:16) by labeling my pursuit of a dream as “suicidal.” If they had truly taken a moment to understand the perspective of someone living with a disability and broken dreams, they would have realized that my desperation was for freedom, not death. Natural law does not dictate that survival is the only goal of a human life. To claim that a “law of conscience” grants authority over my person is a delusion—one that people use to justify controlling others under the guise of care. If you cannot respect my right to be free—even at the expense of my survival—then your concern is not for me, but is for your own ego.

Kalispell felt like a vacuum because I was sucked into a life I didn’t choose by people who refused to listen. When Rick refused to pull over on Highway 93 after I clearly asked to be let out, the situation crossed a line. I was an adult, not under arrest, not under any legal hold, and I had explicitly withdrawn my consent to remain in the vehicle. At that point, continuing to keep me there against my will was no longer help—it was illegal restraint.

There are many things I’ve had to accept I may never do because of my disability—careers I can’t pursue, paths that are closed to me, even simple things like driving a car or riding a two-wheel bike. Those limits are real. But not everything is out of reach, and I refuse to let my disability define every boundary of my life. Living alone in the wilderness—on my own terms—was not just a possibility; it was the most important dream I had for my life. I could not allow that to be taken from me as well, even if pursuing it meant facing the real possibility of death.

This is what makes paternalism dangerous: the moment concern becomes justification to override a competent adult’s clear refusal, it stops being care and becomes control. My well-being was no longer the focus—his conscience was. That is the weight of paternalism—the assumption that because I am disabled, my survival becomes something others are entitled to manage. I understand the risks; I never denied them. What I asserted was my right to accept them. Refusing to help me was not the issue—overriding my decision was, and that line matters. When my choices are dismissed on the basis that the risks are “too high for someone like me,” the message is clear: my autonomy is conditional, and my goals are treated as less valid than those of an able-bodied person. My life is not subject to someone else’s threshold for acceptable risk. Concern does not grant authority, and conscience does not create a right to control.

I only wish that I had been more assertive to explain to people that while it is true that I could have been attacked by a wild animal, or that I could have starved or froze; it is just as true that I could have choked on a meal and suffocated to death. I could have been mugged at a bus stop. I could have slipped on the ice on the side walk and injured myself. I could have been hit by a car while crossing the street. Yet, no one seemed to express any concern for those scenarios. If people are going to be concerned about me in one area, then they should be concerned in all. The fact that they are not exposes an inconsistency. You can’t make judgments based on what could happen. Life is so full of possibilities. What good is life without taking risks? At the end of the day, this was never about recklessness or a disregard for life. It was about the right to make my own decisions—even difficult or risky ones—and to have those decisions respected.

If one’s conscience convicts them about my choices or lack of preparedness, then it means the individual is mentally unstable. As an adult, I have a right to decide what my priorities are. If I decide that my happiness is more important than my survival, then it is my happiness alone that needs to be the reason for concern. To decide otherwise is failure to recognize me as an adult. Scripture clearly states that fear does not come from God. If one is to have a conviction of conscience because he fears for my life, then obeying his conscience is to obey the devil.

In light of this, and the nature of my autonomy and self-responsibility, nobody has any valid arguments to support the feeling of responsibility for my death; such a feeling is invalid, as responsibility for my life is not theirs to assume unless I explicitly grant them permission to take it.

So, reader, I hope you can at least understand my perspective. The risks were real—but they were mine to weigh. Concern does not grant authority. It does not give anyone the right to override my decisions or decide my path for me. My life. My risks. My choices. My independence. My freedom.

Home