Gary Paulsen
1987 Aladdin / Simon & Schuster

“He would not forget his first hit. Not ever. A round-shaped fish, with golden sides, sides as gold as the sun, stopped in front of the arrow and he aimed just beneath it, at the bottom edge of the fish, and released the arrow and there was a bright flurry, a splash of gold on the water. He grabbed the arrow and raised it up and the fish was on the end, wiggling against the blue sky.”

Hatchet has won dozens of awards and appears on many summer reading lists, for good reason. Eloquent, suspenseful prose, plus accurate natural detail, make this a fun, intelligent read.

Raised in the city, and stranded without food, tools, or supplies, Brian calls upon his limited knowledge of physics and biology to carve out an existence for himself in the Canadian woods. Through trial and error, he learns to create shelter, catch rabbits and fish, and defend himself.

Paulsen does not romanticize the difficulties Brian faces. Readers witness his gut-wrenching sickness from eating too many berries, and his shock when he realizes he has never before heard total silence: “The noise of his voice had startled everything and it was quiet. He looked around, listened with his mouth open . . . it lasted only a few seconds, but it was so intense that it seemed to become part of him.” Brian’s failures and triumphs are presented as equal parts of one life-altering experience.

In the two months he spends in the wild, Brian undergoes countless mental and physical changes. Paulsen keeps the reader at Brian’s side as he discovers how strong he has always been.

Hatchet will keep readers enthralled to the last page. Fans may also enjoy Paulsen’s The Island, as well as the companion volumes to Hatchet (Brian’s Winter, Brian’s Return, The River) – all are about people who learn to love the world around them, even when doing so is difficult. Reading these books can only build a massive affection for nature. As twelve-year-old Megan says, “Hatchet made me have to go outside and really look at the trees.”

Gary Paulsen’s Hatchet is a great story. This account of 13-year old Brian’s survival in the Canadian woods following the crash of a private plane and the death of the pilot is exciting, detailed, and engrossing. The story is great—but the way it is told is not.

Paulsen’s writing is incredibly repetitive. Events are described at least twice, sometimes three or four times:

The pilot had been talking, just a moment ago complaining of the pain. He had been talking.
Then the jolts had come.
The jolts that took the pilot back had come, and now Brian sat and there was a strange feeling of silence in the thrumming roar of the engine—a strange feeling of silence and being alone. Brian was stopped.
He was stopped. Inside he was stopped. He could not think past what he saw, what he felt. All was stopped. The very core of him, the very center of Brian Robeson was stopped and stricken with a white-flash of horror, a terror so intense that his breathing, his thinking, and nearly his heart had stopped.
Stopped. (pp. 11-12)

Brian Robeson’s parents are recently divorced, and he is on his way from his mom’s in New York to visit his father in Canada when the pilot of the bushplane has a heart attack and dies. Brian manages to crash-land the plane in a lake, pulling himself out of the sinking craft and swimming to shore with nothing but the clothes on his back and a hatchet (which his mother had given to him only hours before) fastened to his belt.

City kid that he is, Brian learns over the next seven and a half weeks to construct a shelter, find food, fashion spears and a bow and arrows using his hatchet, make fire, and catch small birds and fish. He survives encounters with a skunk, a bear, a moose, a wolf, and a porcupine, and (told in horrible detail), hordes of mosquitos:

. . . with the heat came clouds of insects—thick, swarming hordes of mosquitos that flocked to his body, made a living coat on his exposed skin, clogged his nostrils when he inhaled, poured into his mouth when he opened it to take a breath.
It was not possibly believable. Not this. He had come through the crash, but the insects were not possible. He coughed them up, spat them out, sneezed them out, closed his eyes and kept brushing his face, slapping and crushing them by the dozens, by the hundreds. But as soon as he cleared a place, as soon as he killed them, more came, thick, whining, buzzing masses of them. Mosquitos and some small black flies he had never seen before. All biting, chewing, taking from him. (pp. 34-35)

Brian makes mistakes and learns from them. As much as he has to forge his own survival in the Canadian wilderness, becoming physically more able and more attuned to his surroundings, he also has to strengthen his mental and emotional state, fortifying his resolve to keep going.


And he was, at that moment, almost overcome with self-pity. He was dirty and starving and bitten and hurt and lonely and ugly and afraid and so completely miserable that it was like being in a pit, a dark, deep pit with no way out. (p. 67)


He was not the same now—the Brian that stood and watched the wolves move away and nodded to them was completely changed. Time had come, time that he measured but didn’t care about; time had come into his life and moved out and left him different.
In measured time forty-seven days had passed since the crash. Forty-two days, he thought, since he had died and been born as the new Brian. (p. 117)
. . .
He was not the same. The plane passing changed him, the disappointment cut him down and made him new. He was not the same and would never be again like he had been. That was one of the true things, the new things. And the other one was that he would not die, he would not let death in again. (p.119)


I know of a lot of young people, mostly boys, who love this book. It seems to be a good choice for students with learning disabilities because it is very high interest, and the repetitive nature of the writing actually increases the likelihood of reading comprehension.

Personally, despite the fact that I enjoyed the story, I found Paulson's writing style incredibly tedious and a major deterrent. Lord of the Flies this ain’t. I had tried once or twice to read it and given up because of the awkwardness of the language, before finally making my way to the end. However, given this book’s popularity (OVER 2 MILLION COPIES SOLD, the cover boasts), and the number of awards it has won ( Newbery Honor, ALA Notable Book, Booklist Editors’ Choice, etc. etc.), my view is most definitely a minority opinion.

Hatch"et (?), n. [F. hachette, dim. of hache . See 1st Hatch, Hash.]


A small ax with a short handle, to be used with one hand.


Specifically, a tomahawk.

Buried was the bloody hatchet. Longfellow.

Hatchet face, a thin, sharp face, like the edge of a hatchet; hence: Hatchet-faced, sharp-visaged. Dryden. -- To bury the hatchet, to make peace or become reconciled. -- To take up the hatchet, to make or declare war. The last two phrases are derived from the practice of the American Indians.


© Webster 1913.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.