John Fisher's first mistake was made before his hike even began. It was made before a step was taken, before a thing was packed, and when the first decision was made. The mistake was the decision to go hiking, even though a snow storm was coming in. It was Alaska in the winter and John knew that it would be cold, but he underestimated the cold's power. He thought that he would be able to survive through it, just like on any other cold night.

When John awoke early in the morning of January 17, 1854 he was freezing. His campfire had gone out some time in the night and he had forgotten to put on a few extra layers in anticipation for the temperature dropping in the night. The air bit through his 2 measly layers of shirts like needles pricking him. It was dark outside, and it would be for another 4 hours, until a little after 10. In the dark, underneath the thick covers, which felt as thin as tissue paper, was where John made his mistake. He considered not going out that day. He considered just lighting the fire and staying inside, cozied up by the fireplace, warm and comfortable, but he didn't. John, instead, chose to get dressed, eat breakfast, take a shower, get his stuff together, and take his dog, Max, and go hiking. Just as planned.

He walked through endless forest for hours. It was cold, just as he expected, but he was prepared, he brought food and a backpack with a tent, in case he got lost out in the woods, and some matches, in case all else failed. He even stopped to eat a little bit after sunrise. By all accounts things were going perfectly. John and Max walked through the forest for hours every now and then Max would bark at a squirrel or something of the same effect out in the distance, but the walk was mostly solitary and peaceful. The forest was a white castle, with giant spikes of trees, jutting out of the ground at odd angles, with either no branches, or so many branches that it made an unnatural effect when the light shined off of the icicles built up on it. In the glimmering, ghostly light John walked. He walked for hours and hours, until the light from the glorious, atmospheric, sun began to fade.

When he saw the sun begin to set he immediately knew that he should have headed back for home a long time ago. There was no time to worry about this though, he had to get a fire started before the sun set. He hastily grabbed dry twigs, leaves, pieces of bark, and some dry grass to use for kindling. He carefully built up the fire, making sure not to sit under a branch with snow on it, from grass, to leaves, to bark to twigs, to sticks, and eventually, to a few small pieces of a dead tree he had found. It wasn't a warm night , but it was a survivable one.

In the morning the first thing John decided immediately to head back. John ate breakfast and woke his dog up, then looked at his compass and started towards the way he came. He tracked back through the forest for hours and hours, then the sun began to set. This was John's second mistake. John chose to ignore the sun setting, because he knew that his house had to be near. He walked ignorantly for what must have been forever. He walked past tree, after tree, after tree, after tree, after tree, but he never found home. John did not know this, of course, so he kept walking. He walked on and on and on and on. Then, in that dark, cold, winter night, came John Fisher's third mistake.

In the dead of the night of January 18, 1854 a winter snow storm came across John. It was at this point when John finally realized the direness of his situation, but he kept walking. He could not afford to loose preciouses time panicking, or thinking of what to do next, and anyways, he couldn't turn back now, it was too late for that. He walked, unrelenting now. Determined to find home. The storm rolled in and the snow started. It was light at first, just a few delicate snowflakes drifting in a slight wind, then it gradually got worse. The wind went from a light breeze, to a light gust, to a hard gust, to a howling, raging monster, determined to blind anything and anyone within it. The flakes were no longer delicate, fragile things. Now they were bullets, shot into John's eye by his own mistakes. It wasn't a good day to even be awake inside, but it was the worst kind of day to be lost and alone on a mountain. Then John made mistake number four.

John could have hunkered down and made a make-shift, temporary shelter in the snow. It was well within his skill set, even if he couldn't see, to make a small shelter in the snow to protect himself from the wind, but he didn't. Instead he remained steadfast in his determination. He let the cold seep in and gash its razor sharp teeth into his skin, and he kept walking. He kept walking and walking, until he realized that he would never make it walking, especially not in these conditions. Instead he opted to charge into the wall of snow at full speed. He sprinted for what felt like forever, he ran and ran and ran and ran. He crashed through branches and into trees, he stomped into holes and tripped over logs, he was in a desperate, reckless, fight for life. John entered a clearing and continued running. He ran and ran and ran through the cold, blindingly white, night, until he could run no more.

He collapsed to his feet in exhaustion, but he was still not ready to give up his fight. He began to crawl into the blanket, desperate for some kind of salvation. One of his gloves fell off in the process and he could immediately feal the blood in his hand retreat from the cold, like a defeated army from its opponent. John finally collapsed, gasping for air, unable to move. He could feal his body getting colder and colder, he wished he hadn't abandoned Max so that he could maybe steal some warmth from him, or at least not die alone. Just then, a miracle happened, John suddenly became extremally hot. He sat there basking in the burning heat, his mind to altered by the cold to remember that being unexplainably hot is a sign that you don't have long to live out in the cold. John's mind slowly slowed and he drifted off into a warm slumber, for the last time. In his final moments of life, he had a dream. He dreamt that he was one of the townsfolk from the village nearby, it was summer and he was coming to check on himself, out in the cabin in the middle of nowhere. As he walked up the path to the front door he noticed something. A skeleton, lying mere feet from the door.