Wild: From Lost To Found On The Pacific Crest Trail

Paperback | March 26, 2013

byCheryl Strayed

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#1 NATIONAL BESTSELLER

At twenty-two, Cheryl Strayed thought she had lost everything. In the wake of her mother’s death, her family scattered and her own marriage was soon destroyed. Four years later, with nothing more to lose, she made the most impulsive decision of her life. With no experience or training, driven only by blind will, she would hike more than a thousand miles of the Pacific Crest Trail from the Mojave Desert through California and Oregon to Washington State—and she would do it alone. Told with suspense and style, sparkling with warmth and humor, Wild powerfully captures the terrors and pleasures of one young woman forging ahead against all odds on a journey that maddened, strengthened, and ultimately healed her.

NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE


One of the Best Books of the Year: NPR, The Boston GlobeEntertainment Weekly, Vogue, St. Louis Dispatch 

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“Original voices knock you out. And, that is exactly how I felt reading Cheryl Strayed’s new memoir Wild. At its core, the story of a deep and reverential love between mother and daughter, Wild is a searingly honest account of what it means to lose someone and yourself and then make yourself whole again. Strayed loses her mother to a totall...

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From the Publisher

#1 NATIONAL BESTSELLERAt twenty-two, Cheryl Strayed thought she had lost everything. In the wake of her mother’s death, her family scattered and her own marriage was soon destroyed. Four years later, with nothing more to lose, she made the most impulsive decision of her life. With no experience or training, driven only by blind will, s...

CHERYL STRAYED is the author of the #1 New York Times best seller Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, which was the first selection for Oprah's Book Club 2.0 and became an Oscar-nominated film starring Reese Witherspoon;Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar, a national best seller now the basis...

other books by Cheryl Strayed

Brave Enough
Brave Enough

Hardcover|Oct 27 2015

$19.50 online$22.00list price(save 11%)
Wild (movie Tie-in Edition): From Lost To Found On The Pacific Crest Trail
Wild (movie Tie-in Edition): From Lost To Found On The ...

Paperback|Nov 18 2014

$10.70 online$18.95list price(save 43%)
see all books by Cheryl Strayed
Format:PaperbackDimensions:336 pages, 8 × 5.2 × 0.7 inPublished:March 26, 2013Publisher:Knopf Doubleday Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0307476073

ISBN - 13:9780307476074

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Customer Reviews of Wild: From Lost To Found On The Pacific Crest Trail

Reviews

Rated 5 out of 5 by from Moved me This book moved me. If you have ever made a mistake and had trouble forgiving yourself read this book. It had me in tears. I could not put this book down, this became my journey . A worthwhile read. I selected it as my bookclub read this year and will read it again over the holidays. It reinforces that no one who they are based on one decision, one day, one path one chance or one relationship. Everyday is brand new and opportunity never stops knocking
Date published: 2016-12-01
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Very powerful This book made me want to go on a journey of self-discovery in the woods.
Date published: 2016-11-30
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Very powerful This book made me want to go on a journey of self-discovery in the woods.
Date published: 2016-11-30
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Beautiful Beautiful story - honest, real, and raw.
Date published: 2016-11-29
Rated 5 out of 5 by from I loved this! From the first page to the very last. I have recommended this book to all my friends.
Date published: 2016-11-22
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Inspiring! Makes me want to go on a self-journey of discovery.
Date published: 2016-11-22
Rated 5 out of 5 by from I think this book changed my life. I was on a family vacation when I read this. Five adults, one small house, and all I wanted to do was read. An honest and open and inspiring read for any woman.
Date published: 2016-11-18
Rated 1 out of 5 by from Hoping for more #plumreview I found this book difficult to finish. I just couldn't get into it.
Date published: 2016-11-14
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Inspiring Beautiful book with an inspiring story
Date published: 2016-11-13
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Very much enjoyed this book Cheryl is a voice for many of those who have gone through loss and pain.This book is exciting, funny, engaging and honest.
Date published: 2016-11-09
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Great One of the best books I've read. I felt like I was with Cheryl throughout her journey hiking the PCT. I would re-read this book.
Date published: 2016-11-09
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Totally wild! This book was insanely inspiring. It made me want to go on my own journey of self-discovery and re-evaluate all the things I take for granted in my life.
Date published: 2016-11-08
Rated 4 out of 5 by from I Liked It I really enjoyed it. Did I like the character? No. Did I feel that it dragged a bit? Yes. But I did like the struggle that she went through and the lengths she endured to try and get back on track. That's admirable and it was an honest representation of that struggle as well.
Date published: 2016-11-08
Rated 2 out of 5 by from I got tired of Cheryl Strayed tooting her own horn, the story went on too long for me Book club pick.
Date published: 2016-08-22
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Awesome book! Really enjoyed the book, the movie was good too!
Date published: 2016-06-13
Rated 5 out of 5 by from LOVE I loved this book. I liked the rawness of her writing, the way it flowed, the story. For anyone who is a traveller and has the heart of a lion this book is for you.
Date published: 2016-04-16
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Gripping read! I just finished reading this gem and thought it was very inspirational and uplifting. Wonderful writing style that is easy to read and kept me wanting more. Who knew a book about hiking could be so intriguing.
Date published: 2015-11-15
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Good vacation read The story is interesting. The PCT is something I've wanted to do for a long time. Even did a college paper on it. Her experiences on the trail were interesting. I don't think the writing is superb, but still worth the read. Particularly if you have interest in the trail.
Date published: 2015-10-18
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Great book! I didn't have high expectations for this book, but once I started reading I was hooked! It was an easy read and I would easily re-read
Date published: 2015-10-12
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Loved it! Surprised that I could be so absorbed in a story about hiking, but it is so much more! Loved it!
Date published: 2015-09-18
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Great book What a great story of courage and mental strengh. Cheryl Strayed you have definitly inspired me. What a journey!
Date published: 2015-07-25
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Thoroughly enjoyable Unique and entertaining writing style with an amazingly true story.
Date published: 2015-07-17
Rated 1 out of 5 by from Tried enjoying this book and failed. I only read 57% of this book according to my kobo. I felt bored and I had a hard time trying to like Cheryl. 57% reading progress is actually quite amazing considering...
Date published: 2015-07-13
Rated 5 out of 5 by from LOVE I jumped right in and fell in love with Strayed from the get-go. Her writing is easy to read, and the flashbacks to her life really resonated with me why she would hike the PCT. Going to read her other books now. SO GOOD!
Date published: 2015-06-09
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Wild Great book, for readers who love hiking, seclusion and finding meaning to oneself. I recommend this
Date published: 2015-06-01
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Surprisingly, better than I thought it would be! I thought the book was very interesting. I never had any desire to read it before, but the positive reviews changed my mind. It kept my attention, and I really enjoyed the story!
Date published: 2015-05-11
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Good Good book. I enjoyed it. Good book. I enjoyed it. Good book. I enjoyed it. Good book. I enjoyed it alot
Date published: 2015-04-19
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Lost then found. This book debunks the myth that women are the weaker sex. Every human endeavor taken to this extreme becomes primarily a mental challenge. Cheryl more than meets the challenge.
Date published: 2015-04-08
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Amazing read I loved this book and couldn't put it down. I couldn't imagine hiking the PTC but I sure enjoyed following Cheryl as she did.
Date published: 2015-04-07
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Wonderful. What a great and compelling read. I was hooked from cover to cover. I spent a few late nights reading this one unable to put it down. Worth your time.
Date published: 2015-04-05
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Fabulously Inspiring! I loved this book! It's made me want to do more with my life and to make each second count. I am inspired! I need to find my own PCT and get back to what really counts!
Date published: 2015-03-18
Rated 4 out of 5 by from GREAT SPIRIT. Slow read I really enjoyed this story-Autobiography from Cheryl Strayed. The story about a girl age 26 who is failing in every aspect of her life and is inspired by a book to go hike the PCT (5,000 mile trail). I loves how it showed her struggle because of lack of preparation for the hike, and I commend her for pushing her body to not give up (with raw skin and missing toenails) a true soul searching experience. I gave this book a 4 star because I did enjoy the story, however I found it very slow to get through. I had no problem putting the book down and taking some time to pick it back up. I was almost counting how many chapters I had left to get through. All in all good story
Date published: 2015-03-03
Rated 2 out of 5 by from Not a huge fan I read this book with my book club and most of the others loved this book. I, however, did not. I couldn't connect with Cheryl (the main character). I found myself rolling my eyes quite often actually...Cheryl gives the impression that she "dabbled" in drugs. Call me sceptic but how do dabble in drugs. From that point on, I had a hard time believing that the scenarios detailed in the book actually happened as she recounts. At the end of the book, I felt like she had skipped over a huge portion of her life and unfortunately that was the part that I think that I would have been most interested in... I wanted to know how this journey impacted her life after the fact and I was left wanting....
Date published: 2015-03-02
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Captivating! A grueling walk on the Pacific Crest Trail, that physically punishes the body, but heals the heart and soul. Well told true account of her young life.
Date published: 2015-03-02
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Inspirational! Awesome book. Well written, inspiring and happy. loved it and now I totally want to go hike the PCT too!
Date published: 2015-02-19
Rated 1 out of 5 by from Good title, but not for this book. I WAS VERY DISAPPOINTED IN BOOK. I WAS LOOKING FOR REAL ADVENTURE not that I miss my mom ! After half the book I gave up reading.
Date published: 2015-02-09
Rated 5 out of 5 by from A walk for to free yourself It's a great journey into one persons quest to find herself after a lost sence of direction in life. Very captivating story of someone trying to find her sence of direction.
Date published: 2015-02-08
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Surprisingly boring I love hiking, camping and backpacking and have been to many of the places on the PCT that Cheryl hikes through so I thought I would be totally engaged in her story. Instead I was bored and disinterested. Part of the problem is that although I could sympathize with her, I didn't really like her. She was so self-absorbed and made terrible decisions. It wasn't clear to me at the end if the experience had changed her for the better. The narrator for this audiobook was really good but because I was listening and not reading it was easy for my attention to wander. If the story had been a little more interesting this wouldn't have been a problem but because I was often bored silly I would zone out a lot. I couldn't wait for it to be over!
Date published: 2015-02-08
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Perfect one word for the title Thoroughly enjoyed this book and could not put it down. I was drawn in by Cherly's honesty and introspection ~her raw emotion and her spiritual journey. And then, her description of the PCT left me with a desire to hike the trail!Great read!
Date published: 2015-01-18
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Loved every second of this "awakening" I laughed, I cried ( and I do mean a two tissue type cry ) and I enjoyed every minute of this Cheryl Stayed " awakening" I felt somewhat lost myself when I was finished her incredible tale. This read has a bit of something for everyone, from the wilderness reader, to the self help guru.
Date published: 2015-01-17
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Mothers Loved and related in many ways to the brave author of this book duing this time of mouring my own wonderful and glorious mothe who I miss so dearly. There is no love better than your mother's love. Thank you for sharing your journey.
Date published: 2015-01-05
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Good read!! Read this book because I had heard about the movie with Reese Witherspoon and it being one of her best performances. I always like to read the book first if based on a book. If the movie is anything like the book it should be a good movie. It was a good read from beginning to end! I bet there is a lot of people whom struggle with things that have happened in their life but to do something so drastic and hard and hike the PCT and mostly alone! What an awesome feat. Kudos to Cheryl on her accomplishment! So many people use other means to drown out life's difficult moments! Loved this book!
Date published: 2015-01-02
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Open Mind I've recently heard more buzz about 'Wild,' probably because of Reese and upcoming movie. In prep for reading the book I read the reviews. I know it's a little unexpected, but the negative reviews make want me to read it more. Pretty judgmental for a young woman who wanted to try to clear her mind in a more positive way than other more destructive ways available to her. From what I've read, probably ill conceived and not well thought out as far as what she should expect...but she did it. And if I think of how I might (and sometimes did) have handled things at her age compared to the more "seasoned" me now, I shudder. So good for her.
Date published: 2014-12-15
Rated 2 out of 5 by from Ugh! I should have listened to my initial gut instinct and not purchased this book, but thought, how could a best selling novel, that is soon to be a major motion picture be that bad. This book is terrible, I spent a large amount of time rooting for the rattlesnakes and praying Cheryl would either fall off the side of a cliff, or quit lollygagging and finish her stupid hike. Had I have purchased this book in paper form, it would definitely be the starter fuel for my next fire, and not because I needed the extra space in my pack.
Date published: 2014-12-15
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Awesome Very easy to read. Hard to put the book down. Very inspiring read. Now to go and get out on my bike....
Date published: 2014-12-10
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Really Enjoyed! Nice to read a book about a female athlete that can show the guys up! While some of her success does come down to natural talent, it also comes from hard work, dedication, determination, and the ability to just keep going no matter what. While I will never be half the athlete Rebecca Rusch is, her book inspired me to really push what I think my limits are - and see how far I can really go. And it's an entertaining read - she has had some very interesting experiences and stories in her life. Picking up copied for several of my girlfriends for Christmas.
Date published: 2014-12-10
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Hapless (hitch) hiker Meh. This book got a lot of hype from Oprah, and since it was getting Oscar buzz for Reese Witherspoon's movie adaptation, it was either read it now, or likely not ever after I see the movie. I was underwhelmed. Hopefully Hollywood will work some magic to make seeing the film worthwhile. Cheryl was entirely ill-prepared for her life, nevermind her hike across the PCT. Who plans to hike for several months and doesn't even try to learn to use her water purifier before the journey? or check the weather? Frankly, Cheryl got lucky that so many friendly people helped her along the way, and none of them were serial killers. I found that she "by-passed" or hitch-hiked as much as she did trek, and I was more annoyed by her lack of preparedness than I was impressed by her moxie.
Date published: 2014-12-02
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Wild Courageous, enthralling, self-deprecating, humorous, human, real, enjoyable
Date published: 2014-09-26
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Wild Courageous, enthralling, self-deprecating, humorous, human, real, enjoyable
Date published: 2014-09-26
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Wild Courageous, enthralling, self-deprecating, humorous, human, real, enjoyable
Date published: 2014-09-26
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Good Read I can't disagree with some of the other reviewers that the author seemed unbelievably ill-prepared and seemed to make some incredibly cringe-worthy choices. I felt so sad for her as I was reading the book, for both herself and her husband, and I would hope to never be where either of them ended up. But, I also though she told her story very honestly and unapologetically (at least to us the readers), and my admiration grew for her as the story unfolded. You can call it stupidity or courage, strength of will or bullheaded determination, but she did it and kudos to her.
Date published: 2014-08-15
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Wild What a wonderful book! I loved every minute it.
Date published: 2014-08-05
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Thoroughly Enjoyed This Book When I first saw Wild out on book shelves, I was less than interested in it. I read a few reviews and after a few months of thinking about it, I finally purchased it. I'm really happy that I finally decided to get it as I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed the book. I read it in a very short amount of time and it has inspired me to one day possibly hike the PCT trail. It's an inspiring story to me since taking a trip like Cheryl did is risky - especially being as inexperienced as she was - but something a lot of people want/need to do but are afraid. I was shocked to find out that she made it the whole way she had planned with little to no injuries especially since the summer before I read this book, one of my friends did this very same hike but right from Mexico to Canada (we live in Canada..he hiked all the way home) who is an experienced hiker/adventurist and was hospitalized halfway through and almost had to call it quits. All in all, this book is a really amazing story, it definitely may not be the most exciting read (which is why I only gave it 4 stars), but something I think most people should read.
Date published: 2014-07-03
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Wild Really awesome read!!
Date published: 2014-06-19
Rated 5 out of 5 by from What a journey! Heartbreaking at times, raw emotionally and physically, I really enjoyed this book.
Date published: 2014-06-09
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Amazing book! I want to go hike the PCT!!
Date published: 2014-06-05
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Amazing read! Amazing tale of an incredible journey. Every emotion emerged out of me with this novel, laughs, tears, heartbeak, understanding, loss...acceptance. The best book I've ever read!!
Date published: 2014-05-30
Rated 5 out of 5 by from More than a book I loved this story. It is more than a book. It is a story for anyone who has never thought that they had the courage to find their own way. Cheryl takes you with her but after a while you are making your own path.
Date published: 2014-05-10
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Wild - From Lost to Found Beautifully crafted language and a compelling tale intertwined with humor and love. One of the most beautiful and insightful memoires I have read. Loved it and finished it in less than 48 hours.
Date published: 2014-05-03
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Uncovering personal strength Love this story. A woman who challenges herself to release grief as she uncovers her power, strength and mastery.
Date published: 2014-02-11
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Wild: From Lost To Found On The Pacific Crest Trail I wanted to buy this book when I first saw it in 2012. I finally purchased it boxing day sale 2013. This was a fascinating read about a person who needed to find their place in life. I was drawn to the book once I had read what it was about. It sounded very much like what I am going through, with losing my brother, aunt, dad,and then mom within a few years. Cheryl was able to discover her strength and regain her confidence.
Date published: 2014-01-27
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Uncovering personal strength This book was inspiring. I've never even came close to hiking any distance before.... Yet Strayed made me feel like I was walking alongside her throughout the whole book. Teaches you to "let it be" and helps you see the the luxury of connecting with nature. Filled me with fear, sadness, joy, but -most of all-anticipation throughout the whole book! Loved it!
Date published: 2014-01-27
Rated 1 out of 5 by from 300 + pages that I can never get back.... Brutal. I found Ms Strayeds story to be gratuitous, irrelevant and just plain boring. The story was flat, and did not give me much to hang on to or relate to. Her attempts to compare an experience on the trail to a metaphor for life was a complete stretch ; aka " cheesy" . These are the types of stories you want to walk away feeling like you have learned something based on their experience or feel inspired - WILD does not offer any of the above. There are better books out there waiting to be read..... find that one. Don't waste your time on this.
Date published: 2013-11-11
Rated 1 out of 5 by from wasn't wild about it I am of the opinion that everyone has a story to tell – that doesn’t mean everyone should tell it, though. Cheryl Strayed’s memoir should have made for a compelling read, but ended up winning “Book I Enjoyed Reading the Least” at our final book club meeting. (Although in my mind, it was neck and neck with Death Comes to Pemberley for the position.) When I teach memoir to students in my writing class, we talk a lot about the ‘why’? Why is this the story you are telling? What have you taken away from this experience? If you want to take a reader on the journey through your life, there has to be a pretty compelling reason. Some memoirs are more successful than others. In order for a memoir to work – for me at least – it has to combine three elements: story, character and writing. So, for example, Elizabeth Gilbert’s best selling memoir Eat, Pray, Love both worked and didn’t work for me. The writing was terrific; I loved the idea of her journey, but I didn’t like her very much. Let’s compare Eat, Pray, Love to another best-selling memoir, Julie & Julia. I loved the story, the writing and Julie herself. Then there’s Wild. At twenty-six Cheryl Strayed is still mourning the death of her mother, who died when she was 22, the dissolution of her marriage, which ended soon after, and recovering from her addiction to a guy named Joe and their shared heroin habit. Good times. Impulsively, she decides to hike the Pacific Coast Trail. That’s 4268 km of therapy. With very little preparation (or at least it seemed that way to me – she bought a book and some ill-fitting hiking books and suddenly she was walking), Strayed embarks on a journey which she hopes will clear her head or mend her broken heart. When the book opens, Cheryl has lost a boot over the edge of a mountain: "My boot was gone. Actually gone. I clutched its mate to my chest like a baby, though of course it was futile. What is one boot without the other boot. It is nothing. It is useless, an orphan forevermore, and I could take no mercy on it. It was a big lug of a thing, of genuine heft, a brown leather Raichle boot with a red lace and metal fasts. I lifted it high and threw it with all my might and watched it fall into the lush trees and out of my life. … I looked south, to where I’d been, to the wild land that had schooled and scorched me, and considered my options. There was only one, I knew. There was always only one. To keep walking." I felt like Strayed’s journey had all sorts of potential. I mean, her life was a total mess and here was her opportunity to work out her issues and reset her course. But the more I read the less I cared. I can’t quite say what it was about her, but others in book club had the same sort of feeling: we just didn’t like Strayed. Wild felt like a missed opportunity to me. Regardless of whether your relationship is awesome or toxic, the death of a parent is a game-changer. Strayed’s brother and sister and her beloved step-father, Eddie, sort of scatter to the wind and it made me wonder why. When my parents died – first my mom and then a couple years later, my dad – my three younger brothers and I circled the wagons and became even closer. We understood that it was just us now and ‘us’ was important. Strayed’s brother doesn’t even visit his mother when she is dying in the hospital. So, is Strayed ‘cured’ after her long walk. I doubt it. While on the surace it would seem that her journey to the Bridge of the Gods (and oh, those heavy-handed metaphors!) delivers her back to herself, I’m not sold.
Date published: 2013-10-28
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Great Book..! 'Wild' is a beautifully descriptive story about loss, pain, nearly giving up, and pushing on. I loved every moment of this book and am just blown away by the author's audacity and perseverance to achieve her goal. I personally will never be able to go three months in the wild,with a pack so heavy in my back, blistered feet, bleeding and sore, filthy, hungry and lonely. I couldn't believe she kept going, hiked 1100 miles solo on the PCT enduring scorching temperatures on the desert or frigid weather from the High Sierra Mountains, and wild animals but despite all that and the mental and physical tiredness she never gave up and accomplished her soul finding with every step she took in her journey. The bravery and willpower flowed from the pages of this book touched me deeply. It was a great book to read.
Date published: 2013-10-06
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Wild If you have ever spent any time searching for your true self...then this book is for you. I wish I was half as brave as Cheryl Strayed.
Date published: 2013-09-20
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Happy I loved this book so much I didn't want it to end.
Date published: 2013-09-06
Rated 2 out of 5 by from Not worth the rave reviews After reading all the hype about this book, I thought I'd give it a shot. I just finished it and that was only because I made myself. I didn't really care if she finished her journey as the book lacked some depth. I was much more interested in the details of her hike than any internal growth that may have occurred because there wasn't much evidence of that in the book. It's impressive she finished the hike (physically), but I didn't really see anything else redeeming in the story.
Date published: 2013-08-20
Rated 4 out of 5 by from A walk of a Lifetime I read this book for a book club I hope to attend in a few weeks. I was fortunate that it was available at the e-library. In reviewing this book, I have to look at the content and writing style. The author has a story to tell. She accomplished a great feat. Hiking the the Pacific coast trail is a challenge for even the most experienced hiker. In the book, the author tells of may hikers who had to give up. She was a rookie at long distance hiking. This is what can drive some readers crazy and others amuse. She decided to do it on whim. As she starts out, you want scream "What are you doing girl?" You have to shake your head at what she is trying to do. You have to admire her luck. As one of the other hikers said, peoplde did things for her that other people wouldn't do for them. She needed luck and guardian angels. I was alway thinking that she was grazy and flakey for doing this just because her mother died. As I often say, everyone has a story to tell. Some people don't want to tell it, for whatever reasons. Some people can't tell a story. And then there those who can tell a story. They can entertain us a story, no matter what it is. The author of this book did a great job of telling us how she she came to be on the trail, what she did to prepare for the hike. She talks about the hike in enough detail to keep us interested and understanding of challenges that she face. She shares with us the mistakes she made and personal weaknesses. She did a good job of bringing her character out in the book. She does use the This book was a selection for a book club meeting I want to attend. This club is all women. I was the first man to attend in quite awhile. I beleive that this book will appeal more to women than to men. It is a great story, but the story of her coming to grips with her feeling swill appeal more to women. The hiking story may appeal to men
Date published: 2013-08-10
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Wild Cheryl Strayed is a self-absorbed, ill-prepared ditz. She decides after losing her mother to cancer she needs to 'find' herself by hiking the Pacific Rim Trail from California to Oregon. SOOOOO, she leaves and divorces the husband she loves and who dearly loves her. She sleeps with a heroin addict and then tries heroin to keep her current love interest happy. She buys a pack she can't even carry and causes big-time chafing without trying it out or even thinking it through. She hikes in shoes that mangle her feet causing her toenails to fall off and probably irreparable damage to her feet. Having gone through all that she decides to hike the trail alone, some times without enough water. What was she thinking? I did enjoy the tales of the trail but did not at all understand why any person would put themselves in that position. There are a lot better and easy ways to kill yourself. The redeeming feature of this book is that it is not badly written.
Date published: 2013-08-06
Rated 2 out of 5 by from Slow. Painfully zone 2 slow. The book has far to much non racing background for my taste. That may work for some put I had to skip sections to keep moving at all. I was having such a hard time it took me almost a year to pick away at this book. The last quarter of the book is the best. The stuff about her challenge Roth races and pre race injuries are interesting to hear.
Date published: 2013-07-08
Rated 5 out of 5 by from A Memorable Wild Journey! At first I was skeptical of this book, thinking it was nothing but Oprah approved chick adventure tale. Well, I was wrong! This is a fascinating bio of a young woman seeking spiritual and moral rejuvenation by walking solo 1,100 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail. She endures thirst, famine, toenail loss, fear of rape, wildlife and everything else a human being can endure. Cheryl Strayed's trek shows that people are much stronger and strong willed than we give ourselves credit for. Highly recommended!
Date published: 2013-05-13
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Wild Fantastic......loved this story.
Date published: 2013-05-07
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Meh This book could have been half this length and given the same message. All that walking to end with ( spoiler alert) the acknowledgement of a man being the most noteworthy aspect of the end of the trail.
Date published: 2013-04-27
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Original and inspiring Read this a few months ago but didn't mark it so. Anyone who is struggling and at a crossroads will love this.
Date published: 2013-03-11
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Not what I expected - best book club selection this year When I found out my book club selected a non-fiction book for October's book, I was not going to read it. I am not a big fan of non-fiction and I did not want to shell out for a hardcover book to boot. When someone described it to me as a woman's journey to find herself, it sounded even less appealling. However, I relented and read the book from cover to cover in one weekend. It was a wonderful read and the best selection this year so far. Warning: it will make you want to go camping. Cheryl has a very concise writing style and kept the pages turning with her adventures on the trail. I will look for other works from this author as I enjoyed her writing style immensely.
Date published: 2012-10-08
Rated 4 out of 5 by from You are as elated as she is when she completes this quest! You walk every step with her, you carry the weight of the pack, you struggle to continue the challenges of the trail with her. But then you share in each and every accomplishment, each and every goal reached. Building on her new found strengths to succeed in this amazingly wonderous epic quest. Well done!
Date published: 2012-10-03
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Wild I thought this was a great read about self discovery. Cheryl demonstrates how a big change and change your life and that you don't need a lot of money or the strength of many others to do it yourself. The book was well written in the fact that the landscapes and situations are often repetitive, yet when reading it hardly ever feels that way. Not what I normally read but I was very impressed!
Date published: 2012-08-21
Rated 1 out of 5 by from Wild Maybe it was a case of bad timing. I read this book right after I finished Me to We by Craig and Marc Kielburger. Strayed's misguided self-focused misadventures seemed shallow and ridiculous compared to the outward-looking world vision of the Kielburger brothers. Maybe it's that Strayed is no Bill Bryson. I enjoyed Bryson's telling of his own misguided self-focused misadventures on the Appalachian Trail in A Walk in the Woods. But Bryson doesn't take himself so damned seriously and he's an entertaining humorist. Whatever the reason, Cheryl Strayed's memoir of her mountain hike irritated me. For someone who spent months preparing for her hike, she hit the Pacific Coast Trail shockingly unprepared. Here's a tip for any potential mountain trail hikers: it's hard. It's an uncomfortable, smelly, dangerous, potentially life-threatening, foot-blistering experience. Don't be surprised by this. Let me wrap up the plot of this book for you: Woman gets married at 19. Woman's mother dies a few years later. She ruins her marriage and becomes a drug addict. In her drug-haze of divorce pain, she decides that hiking the Pacific Coast Trail would be a good idea. But you know, the Pacific Coast Trail is really hard. Blisters, a heavy pack, snow, extreme heat, blisters, leering men, friendships, sex against a rock, Hawaiian screwdrivers, blisters, stunning vistas, bears, rattlesnakes, a fox, a lucky feather, blisters, the same food over and over and over, scenic lakes, up-up-up, down-down-down, the end. Strayed (She chose this last name for herself out of a dictionary. Does that tell you something?) makes a point of making the hike alone: a woman against the mountains. In normal circumstances I applaud a woman making a case for the empowerment of women, but Strayed doesn't succeed there either. She earns the nickname "Hapless Hiker." Men along the way cast sidelong glances at her poorly planned, ill-equipped approach to the trail. I'm not sure that helps our cause. By the end of the trail, her nickname is "The Queen of the PCT" because people along the way grant her special privileges because she's a woman. Sigh. The sticker on the front of my hardcover copy tells me that this book is part of Oprah's Book Club 2.0. I shouldn't be surprised given Oprah's fondness for the "downtrodden woman triumphs over adversity" theme, but in this case it's more a case of "hapless woman somehow miraculously survives her own colossally stupid decisions unscathed." I didn't leave this book feeling inspired or empowered. I didn't laugh. I didn't cry. I shook my head often. I clucked my teeth now and then. I said "Oh, for the love of God" out loud more than once. I can't recommend this book. If you want an entertaining book about a mountain trail walk, I recommend A Walk in the Woods.
Date published: 2012-08-15
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Amazing, intriguing, keeps you reading I think Cheryl is and extraordinary women, and encourages us all to follow our dreams and find our inner self. Absolutely loved the book and could not put it down,
Date published: 2012-08-10
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Journey vs. Character I found Cheryl Strayed's writing to be beautiful and almost poetic in its simplicity and I really enjoyed the journey she took, however, I found Cheryl to be a somewhat unlikeable and unsympathetic character with her nonchalance to some life events mind boggling.
Date published: 2012-08-10
Rated 5 out of 5 by from wonderful You might think that reading about a long hike would be boring but this book is terrific.
Date published: 2012-08-03
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Authentic & inspiring Ultimately this is an inspiring read - towards the end of it I was ready to drag my backpack out of the garage and head up to Killarney, I really was. I still might. Even though her adventure was born of heartache, this book captures that feeling of novelty mixed with challenge that has always been the hallmark of adventure for me. Artful are her descriptions of the landscape she journeys through. I say artful because I was transported into what felt like an authentic vision of where she was as if I were looking at a picture of it. Further, her description of the covert threat she felt from a couple of the men she met on the trail also felt accurate. Her written voice is different from anything I've experienced. I feel the same way reading great literature.
Date published: 2012-07-19
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Good story Although the writer was so poorly prepared for the trip she took, it is amazing that she finished to write this story. Thoroughly enjoyed the book. Strong, determined and gutsy woman.
Date published: 2012-07-02
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Absolutely great read! “Original voices knock you out. And, that is exactly how I felt reading Cheryl Strayed’s new memoir Wild. At its core, the story of a deep and reverential love between mother and daughter, Wild is a searingly honest account of what it means to lose someone and yourself and then make yourself whole again. Strayed loses her mother to a totally unexpected illness. Shocked and devastated by the loss, her life spirals downward as she seeks out increasingly dangerous pursuits to dull her pain. Sensing her own collapse, and the imperative to change course, Strayed sets out on what can only be described as an awe inspiring journey. Over the course of three gruelling months, she hikes The Pacific Crest Trail with nothing but a backpack and her sheer determination to put one foot in front of the other. She faces down pain, hunger, thirst, injury, black bears and rattlesnakes – but she also discovers new levels of joy, accomplishment, courage and extraordinary friendship. Throughout, Strayed moves us seamlessly between present and past – giving us not only never to be forgotten images of her trek but also a moving account of her relationship with her quite remarkable mother. This book, which in fact brims with optimism, is a tour de force … the Mother’s Day book of this year.” “I cannot recall a book that has so genuinely brought me to tears in the early chapters and yet by book’s end, left me both amazed and comforted by one person’s ability to ‘come out the other end’ of what nature and life serves up. I loved it.” – An Indigo Mom
Date published: 2012-05-16
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Cheering for Cheryl all the way! I couldn’t describe it better than the book description, so … “A powerful, blazingly honest memoir: the story of an eleven-hundred-mile solo hike that broke down a young woman reeling from catastrophe—and built her back up again. At twenty-two, Cheryl Strayed thought she had lost everything. In the wake of her mother's death, her family scattered and her own marriage was soon destroyed. Four years later, with nothing more to lose, she made the most impulsive decision of her life: to hike the Pacific Crest Trail from the Mojave Desert through California and Oregon to Washington State—and to do it alone. She had no experience as a long-distance hiker, and the trail was little more than “an idea, vague and outlandish and full of promise.” But it was a promise of piecing back together a life that had come undone. Strayed faces down rattlesnakes and black bears, intense heat and record snowfalls, and both the beauty and loneliness of the trail. Told with great suspense and style, sparkling with warmth and humor, Wild vividly captures the terrors and pleasures of one young woman forging ahead against all odds on a journey that maddened, strengthened, and ultimately healed her.” I loved this book! By the end I was cheering for Cheryl to finish
Date published: 2012-05-11

Extra Content

Read from the Book

THE TEN THOUSAND THINGSMy solo three-month hike on the Pacific Crest Trail had many beginnings. There was the first, flip decision to do it, followed by the second, more serious decision to actually do it, and then the long third beginning, composed of weeks of shopping and packing and preparing to do it. There was the quitting my job as a waitress and finalizing my divorce and selling almost everything I owned and saying goodbye to my friends and visiting my mother’s grave one last time. There was the driving across the country from Minneapolis to Portland, Oregon, and, a few days later, catching a flight to Los Angeles and a ride to the town of Mojave and another ride to the place where the PCT crossed a highway.At which point, at long last, there was the actual doing it, quickly followed by the grim realization of what it meant to do it, followed by the decision to quit doing it because doing it was absurd and pointless and ridiculously difficult and far more than I expected doing it would be and I was profoundly unprepared to do it.And then there was the real live truly doing it.The staying and doing it, in spite of everything. In spite of the bears and the rattlesnakes and the scat of the mountain lions I never saw; the blisters and scabs and scrapes and lacerations. The exhaustion and the deprivation; the cold and the heat; the monotony and the pain; the thirst and the hunger; the glory and the ghosts that haunted me as I hikedbeleven hundred miles from the Mojave Desert to the state of Washington by myself.And finally, once I’d actually gone and done it, walked all those miles for all those days, there was the realization that what I’d thought was the beginning had not really been the beginning at all. That in truth my hike on the Pacific Crest Trail hadn’t begun when I made the snap deci- sion to do it. It had begun before I even imagined it, precisely four years, seven months, and three days before, when I’d stood in a little room at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, and learned that my mother was going to die.I was wearing green. Green pants, green shirt, green bow in my hair. It was an outfit that my mother had sewn—she’d made clothes for me all of my life. Some of them were just what I dreamed of having, others less so. I wasn’t crazy about the green pantsuit, but I wore it anyway, as a penance, as an offering, as a talisman.All that day of the green pantsuit, as I accompanied my mother and stepfather, Eddie, from floor to floor of the Mayo Clinic while my mother went from one test to another, a prayer marched through my head, though prayer is not the right word to describe that march. I wasn’t humble before God. I didn’t even believe in God. My prayer was not: Please, God, take mercy on us.I was not going to ask for mercy. I didn’t need to. My mother was forty-five. She looked fine. For a good number of years she’d mostly been a vegetarian. She’d planted marigolds around her garden to keep bugs away instead of using pesticides. My siblings and I had been made to swallow raw cloves of garlic when we had colds. People like my mother did not get cancer. The tests at the Mayo Clinic would prove that, refut- ing what the doctors in Duluth had said. I was certain of this. Who were those doctors in Duluth anyway? What was Duluth? Duluth! Duluth was a freezing hick town where doctors who didn’t know what the hell they were talking about told forty-five-year-old vegetarian-ish, garlic- eating, natural-remedy-using nonsmokers that they had late-stage lung cancer, that’s what.Fuck them. That was my prayer: Fuckthemfuckthemfuckthem. And yet, here was my mother at the Mayo Clinic getting worn out if she had to be on her feet for more than three minutes. “You want a wheelchair?” Eddie asked her when we came upon a row of them in a long carpeted hall.“She doesn’t need a wheelchair,” I said.“Just for a minute,” said my mother, almost collapsing into one, her eyes meeting mine before Eddie wheeled her toward the elevator.I followed behind, not allowing myself to think a thing. We were finally on our way up to see the last doctor. The real doctor, we kept call- ing him. The one who would gather everything that had been gathered about my mom and tell us what was true. As the elevator car lifted, my mother reached out to tug at my pants, rubbing the green cotton between her fingers proprietarily.“Perfect,” she said.I was twenty-two, the same age she was when she’d been pregnant with me. She was going to leave my life at the same moment that I came into hers, I thought. For some reason that sentence came fully formed into my head just then, temporarily blotting out the Fuck them prayer. I almost howled in agony. I almost choked to death on what I knew before I knew. I was going to live the rest of my life without my mother. I pushed the fact of it away with everything in me. I couldn’t let myself believe it then and there in that elevator and also go on breathing, so I let myself believe other things instead. Such as if a doctor told you that you were going to die soon, you’d be taken to a room with a gleaming wooden desk.This was not so.We were led into an examining room, where a nurse instructed my mother to remove her shirt and put on a cotton smock with strings that dangled at her sides. When my mother had done so, she climbed onto a padded table with white paper stretched over it. Each time she moved, the room was on fire with the paper ripping and crinkling beneath her. I could see her naked back, the small curve of flesh beneath her waist. She was not going to die. Her naked back seemed proof of that. I was staring at it when the real doctor came into the room and said my mother would be lucky if she lived a year. He explained that they would not attempt to cure her, that she was incurable. There was nothing that could have been done, he told us. Finding it so late was common, when it came to lung cancer.“But she’s not a smoker,” I countered, as if I could talk him out of the diagnosis, as if cancer moved along reasonable, negotiable lines. “She only smoked when she was younger. She hasn’t had a cigarette for years.”The doctor shook his head sadly and pressed on. He had a job to do. They could try to ease the pain in her back with radiation, he offered. Radiation might reduce the size of the tumors that were growing along the entire length of her spine.I did not cry. I only breathed. Horribly. Intentionally. And then for- got to breathe. I’d fainted once—furious, age three, holding my breath because I didn’t want to get out of the bathtub, too young to remember it myself. What did you do? What did you do? I’d asked my mother all through my childhood, making her tell me the story again and again, amazed and delighted by my own impetuous will. She’d held out her hands and watched me turn blue, my mother had always told me. She’d waited me out until my head fell into her palms and I took a breath and came back to life.Breathe.“Can I ride my horse?” my mother asked the real doctor. She sat with her hands folded tightly together and her ankles hooked one to the other. Shackled to herself.In reply, he took a pencil, stood it upright on the edge of the sink, and tapped it hard on the surface. “This is your spine after radiation,” he said. “One jolt and your bones could crumble like a dry cracker.”We went to the women’s restroom. Each of us locked in separate stalls, weeping. We didn’t exchange a word. Not because we felt so alone in our grief, but because we were so together in it, as if we were one body instead of two. I could feel my mother’s weight leaning against the door, her hands slapping slowly against it, causing the entire frame of the bath- room stalls to shake. Later we came out to wash our hands and faces, watching each other in the bright mirror.We were sent to the pharmacy to wait. I sat between my mother and Eddie in my green pantsuit, the green bow miraculously still in my hair. There was a big bald boy in an old man’s lap. There was a woman who had an arm that swung wildly from the elbow. She held it stiffly with the other hand, trying to calm it. She waited. We waited. There was a beautiful dark-haired woman who sat in a wheelchair. She wore a purple hat and a handful of diamond rings. We could not take our eyes off her. She spoke in Spanish to the people gathered around her, her family and perhaps her husband.“Do you think she has cancer?” my mother whispered loudly to me. Eddie sat on my other side, but I could not look at him. If I looked at him we would both crumble like dry crackers. I thought about my older sister, Karen, and my younger brother, Leif. About my husband, Paul, and about my mother’s parents and sister, who lived a thousand miles away. What they would say when they knew. How they would cry. My prayer was different now: A year, a year, a year. Those two words beat like a heart in my chest.That’s how long my mother would live.“What are you thinking about?” I asked her. There was a song coming over the waiting room speakers. A song without words, but my mother knew the words anyway and instead of answering my question she sang them softly to me. “Paper roses, paper roses, oh how real those roses seemed to be,” she sang. She put her hand on mine and said, “I used to listen to that song when I was young. It’s funny to think of that. To think about listening to the same song now. I would’ve never known.”My mother’s name was called then: her prescriptions were ready.“Go get them for me,” she said. “Tell them who you are. Tell them you’re my daughter.”I was her daughter, but more. I was Karen, Cheryl, Leif. Karen Cheryl Leif. KarenCherylLeif. Our names blurred into one in my mother’s mouth all my life. She whispered it and hollered it, hissed it and crooned it. We were her kids, her comrades, the end of her and the beginning. We took turns riding shotgun with her in the car. “Do I love you this much?” she’d ask us, holding her hands six inches apart. “No,” we’d say, with sly smiles. “Do I love you this much?” she’d ask again, and on and on and on, each time moving her hands farther apart. But she would never get there, no matter how wide she stretched her arms. The amount that she loved us was beyond her reach. It could not be quantified or contained. It was the ten thousand named things in the Tao Te Ching’s universe and then ten thousand more. Her love was full-throated and all-encompassing and unadorned. Every day she blew through her entire reserve.She grew up an army brat and Catholic. She lived in five different states and two countries before she was fifteen. She loved horses and Hank Williams and had a best friend named Babs. Nineteen and preg- nant, she married my father. Three days later, he knocked her around the room. She left and came back. Left and came back. She would not put up with it, but she did. He broke her nose. He broke her dishes. He skinned her knees dragging her down a sidewalk in broad daylight by her hair. But he didn’t break her. By twenty-eight she managed to leave him for the last time.She was alone, with KarenCherylLeif riding shotgun in her car.By then we lived in a small town an hour outside of Minneapolis in a series of apartment complexes with deceptively upscale names: Mill Pond and Barbary Knoll, Tree Loft and Lake Grace Manor. She had one job, then another. She waited tables at a place called the Norseman and then a place called Infinity, where her uniform was a black T-shirt that said go for it in rainbow glitter across her chest. She worked the day shift at a factory that manufactured plastic containers capable of holding highly corrosive chemicals and brought the rejects home. Trays and boxes that had been cracked or clipped or misaligned in the machine. We made them into toys—beds for our dolls, ramps for our cars. She worked and worked and worked, and still we were poor. We received government cheese and powdered milk, food stamps and medical assistance cards, and free presents from do-gooders at Christmastime. We played tag and red light green light and charades by the apartment mail- boxes that you could open only with a key, waiting for checks to arrive.“We aren’t poor,” my mother said, again and again. “Because we’re rich in love.” She would mix food coloring into sugar water and pretend with us that it was a special drink. Sarsaparilla or Orange Crush or lemonade. She’d ask, Would you like another drink, madam? in a snooty British voice that made us laugh every time. She would spread her arms wide and ask us how much and there would never be an end to the game. She loved us more than all the named things in the world. She was optimistic and serene, except a few times when she lost her temper and spanked us with a wooden spoon. Or the one time when she screamed FUCK and broke down crying because we wouldn’t clean our room. She was kindhearted and forgiving, generous and naïve. She dated men with names like Killer and Doobie and Motorcycle Dan and one guy named Victor who liked to downhill ski. They would give us five-dollar bills to buy candy from the store so they could be alone in the apartment with our mom.“Look both ways,” she’d call after us as we fled like a pack of hungry dogs.When she met Eddie, she didn’t think it would work because he was eight years younger than she, but they fell in love anyway. Karen and Leif and I fell in love with him too. He was twenty-five when we met him and twenty-seven when he married our mother and promised to be our father; a carpenter who could make and fix anything. We left the apartment complexes with fancy names and moved with him into a rented ramshackle farmhouse that had a dirt floor in the basement and four different colors of paint on the outside. The winter after my mother married him, Eddie fell off a roof on the job and broke his back. A year later, he and my mom took the twelve-thousand-dollar settlement he received and with it bought forty acres of land in Aitkin County, an hour and a half west of Duluth, paying for it outright in cash.There was no house. No one had ever had a house on that land. Our forty acres were a perfect square of trees and bushes and weedy grasses, swampy ponds and bogs clotted with cattails. There was nothing to dif- ferentiate it from the trees and bushes and grasses and ponds and bogs that surrounded it in every direction for miles. Together we repeatedly walked the perimeter of our land in those first months as landowners, pushing our way through the wilderness on the two sides that didn’t border the road, as if to walk it would seal it off from the rest of the world, make it ours. And, slowly, it did. Trees that had once looked like any other to me became as recognizable as the faces of old friends in a crowd, their branches gesturing with sudden meaning, their leaves beckoning like identifiable hands. Clumps of grass and the edges of the now-familiar bog became landmarks, guides, indecipherable to everyone but us.We called it “up north” while we were still living in the town an hour outside of Minneapolis. For six months, we went up north only on weekends, working furiously to tame a patch of the land and build a one-room tarpaper shack where the five of us could sleep. In early June, when I was thirteen, we moved up north for good. Or rather, my mother, Leif, Karen, and I did, along with our two horses, our cats and our dogs, and a box of ten baby chicks my mom got for free at the feed store for buying twenty-five pounds of chicken feed. Eddie would continue driving up on weekends throughout the summer and then stay come fall. His back had healed enough that he could finally work again, and he’d secured a job as a carpenter during the busy season that was too lucrative to pass up.KarenCherylLeif were alone with our mother again—just as we’d been during the years that she’d been single. Waking or sleeping that summer, we were scarcely out of one another’s sight and seldom saw anyone else. We were twenty miles away from two small towns in opposite directions: Moose Lake to the east; McGregor to the northwest. In the fall we’d attend school in McGregor, the smaller of the two, with a population of four hundred, but all summer long, aside from the occasional visitor— far-flung neighbors who stopped by to introduce themselves—it was us and our mom. We fought and talked and made up jokes and diversions in order to pass the time.Who am I? we’d ask one another over and over again, playing a game in which the person who was “it” had to think of someone, famous or not, and the others would guess who it was based on an infinite number of yes or no questions: Are you a man? Are you American? Are you dead? Are you Charles Manson?We played it while planting and maintaining a garden that would sustain us through the winter in soil that had been left to its own devices throughout millennia, and while making steady progress on the con- struction of the house we were building on the other side of our property and hoped to complete by summer’s end. We were swarmed by mosqui- toes as we worked, but my mother forbade us to use DEET or any other such brain-destroying, earth-polluting, future-progeny-harming chemical. Instead, she instructed us to slather our bodies with pennyroyal or peppermint oil. In the evenings, we would make a game of counting the bites on our bodies by candlelight. The numbers would be seventy-nine, eighty-six, one hundred and three.“You’ll thank me for this someday,” my mother always said when my siblings and I complained about all the things we no longer had. We’d never lived in luxury or even like those in the middle class, but we had lived among the comforts of the modern age. There had always been a television in our house, not to mention a flushable toilet and a tap where you could get yourself a glass of water. In our new life as pioneers, even meeting the simplest needs often involved a grueling litany of tasks, rig- orous and full of boondoggle. Our kitchen was a Coleman camp stove, a fire ring, an old-fashioned icebox Eddie built that depended on actual ice to keep things even mildly cool, a detached sink propped against an outside wall of the shack, and a bucket of water with a lid on it. Each component demanded just slightly less than it gave, needing to be tended and maintained, filled and unfilled, hauled and dumped, pumped and primed and stoked and monitored.Karen and I shared a bed on a lofted platform built so close to theStra_9780307592736_3p_all_r1.indd    16    9/7/11    10:47 AM17ceiling we could just barely sit up. Leif slept a few feet away on his own smaller platform, and our mother was in a bed on the floor below, joined by Eddie on the weekends. Every night we talked one another to sleep, slumber-party style. There was a skylight window in the ceiling that ran the length of the platform bed I shared with Karen, its transparent pane only a few feet from our faces. Each night the black sky and the bright stars were my stunning companions; occasionally I’d see their beauty and solemnity so plainly that I’d realize in a piercing way that my mother was right. That someday I would be grateful and that in fact I was grateful now, that I felt something growing in me that was strong and real.It was the thing that had grown in me that I’d remember years later, when my life became unmoored by sorrow. The thing that would make me believe that hiking the Pacific Crest Trail was my way back to the person I used to be.On Halloween night we moved into the house we’d built out of trees and scrap wood. It didn’t have electricity or running water or a phone or an indoor toilet or even a single room with a door. All through my teen years, Eddie and my mom kept building it, adding on, making it better. My mother planted a garden and canned and pickled and froze vegetables in the fall. She tapped the trees and made maple syrup, baked bread and carded wool, and made her own fabric dyes out of dandelions and broccoli leaves.I grew up and left home for college in the Twin Cities at a school called St. Thomas, but not without my mom. My acceptance letter men- tioned that parents of students could take classes at St. Thomas for free. Much as she liked her life as a modern pioneer, my mother had always wanted to get her degree. We laughed about it together, then pondered it in private. She was forty, too old for college now, my mother said when we discussed it, and I couldn’t disagree. Plus, St. Thomas was a three- hour drive away. We kept talking and talking until at last we had a deal: she would go to St. Thomas but we would have separate lives, dictated by me. I would live in the dorm and she would drive back and forth. If our paths crossed on campus she would not acknowledge me unless I acknowledged her first.“All this is probably for nothing,” she said once we’d hatched the plan. “Most likely I’ll flunk out anyway.” To prepare, she shadowed me during the last months of my senior year of high school, doing all the home- work that I was assigned, honing her skills. She replicated my worksheets, wrote the same papers I had to write, read every one of the books. I graded her work, using my teacher’s marks as a guide. I judged her a shaky student at best.She went to college and earned straight As.Sometimes I hugged her exuberantly when I saw her on campus; other times I sailed on by, as if she were no one to me at all.We were both seniors in college when we learned she had cancer. By then we weren’t at St. Thomas anymore. We’d both transferred to the University of Minnesota after that first year—she to the Duluth campus, I to the one in Minneapolis—and, much to our amusement, we shared a major. She was double majoring in women’s studies and history, I in women’s studies and English. At night, we’d talk for an hour on the phone. I was married by then, to a good man named Paul. I’d married him in the woods on our land, wearing a white satin and lace dress my mother had sewn.After she got sick, I folded my life down. I told Paul not to count on me. I would have to come and go according to my mother’s needs. I wanted to quit school, but my mother ordered me not to, begging me, no matter what happened, to get my degree. She herself took what she called a break. She only needed to complete a couple more classes to graduate, and she would, she told me. She would get her BA if it killed her, she said, and we laughed and then looked at each other darkly. She’d do the work from her bed. She’d tell me what to type and I’d type it. She would be strong enough to start in on those last two classes soon, she absolutely knew. I stayed in school, though I convinced my professors to allow me to be in class only two days each week. As soon as those two days were over, I raced home to be with my mother. Unlike Leif and Karen, who could hardly bear to be in our mother’s presence once she got sick, I couldn’t bear to be away from her. Plus, I was needed. Eddie was with her when he could be, but he had to work. Someone had to pay the bills.I cooked food that my mother tried to eat, but rarely could she eat. She’d think she was hungry and then she’d sit like a prisoner staring down at the food on her plate. “It looks good,” she’d say. “I think I’ll be able to eat it later.”I scrubbed the floors. I took everything from the cupboards and put new paper down. My mother slept and moaned and counted and swallowed her pills. On good days she sat in a chair and talked to me.There was nothing much to say. She’d been so transparent and effu- sive and I so inquisitive that we’d already covered everything. I knew that her love for me was vaster than the ten thousand things and also the ten thousand things beyond that. I knew the names of the horses she had loved as a girl: Pal and Buddy and Bacchus. I knew she’d lost her virginity at seventeen with a boy named Mike. I knew how she met my father the next year and what he seemed like to her on their first few dates. How, when she’d broken the news of her unwed teen pregnancy to her parents, her father had dropped a spoon. I knew she loathed going to confession and also the very things that she’d confessed. Cursing and sassing off to her mom, bitching about having to set the table while her much younger sister played. Wearing dresses out the door on her way to school and then changing into the jeans she’d stashed in her bag. All through my childhood and adolescence I’d asked and asked, making her describe those scenes and more, wanting to know who said what and how, what she’d felt inside while it was going on, where so-and-so stood and what time of day it was. And she’d told me, with reluctance or relish, laughing and asking why on earth I wanted to know. I wanted to know. I couldn’t explain.But now that she was dying, I knew everything. My mother was in me already. Not just the parts of her that I knew, but the parts of her that had come before me too.It wasn’t long that I had to go back and forth between Minneapolis and home. A little more than a month. The idea that my mother would live a year quickly became a sad dream. We’d gone to the Mayo Clinic on Feb- ruary 12. By the third of March, she had to go to the hospital in Duluth, seventy miles away, because she was in so much pain. As she dressed to go, she found that she couldn’t put on her own socks and she called me into her room and asked me to help. She sat on the bed and I got down on my knees before her. I had never put socks on another person, and it was harder than I thought it would be. They wouldn’t slide over her skin. They went on crooked. I became furious with my mother, as if she were purposely holding her foot in a way that made it impossible for me. She sat back, leaning on her hands on the bed, her eyes closed. I could hear her breathing deeply, slowly.“God damn it,” I said. “Help me.”My mother looked down at me and didn’t say a word for several moments.“Honey,” she said eventually, gazing at me, her hand reaching to stroke the top of my head. It was a word she used often throughout my childhood, delivered in a highly specific tone. This is not the way I wanted it to be, that single honey said, but it was the way it was. It was this very acceptance of suffering that annoyed me most about my mom, her unending optimism and cheer.“Let’s go,” I said after I’d wrestled her shoes on.Her movements were slow and thick as she put on her coat. She held on to the walls as she made her way through the house, her two beloved dogs following her as she went, pushing their noses into her hands and thighs. I watched the way she patted their heads. I didn’t have a prayer anymore. The words fuck them were two dry pills in my mouth.“Bye, darlings,” she said to the dogs. “Bye, house,” she said as she followed me out the door.It hadn’t occurred to me that my mother would die. Until she was dying, the thought had never entered my mind. She was monolithic and insurmountable, the keeper of my life. She would grow old and still work in the garden. This image was fixed in my mind, like one of the memo- ries from her childhood that I’d made her explain so intricately that I remembered it as if it were mine. She would be old and beautiful like the black-and-white photo of Georgia O’Keeffe I’d once sent her. I held fast to this image for the first couple of weeks after we left the Mayo Clinic, and then, once she was admitted to the hospice wing of the hospital in Duluth, that image unfurled, gave way to others, more modest and true. I imagined my mother in October; I wrote the scene in my mind. And then the one of my mother in August and another in May. Each day that passed, another month peeled away.On her first day in the hospital, a nurse offered my mother morphine, but she refused. “Morphine is what they give to dying people,” she said. “Morphine means there’s no hope.”But she held out against it for only one day. She slept and woke, talked and laughed. She cried from the pain. I camped out during the days with her and Eddie took the nights. Leif and Karen stayed away, making excuses that I found inexplicable and infuriating, though their absencedidn’t seem to bother my mom. She was preoccupied with nothing but eradicating her pain, an impossible task in the spaces of time between the doses of morphine. We could never get the pillows right. One after- noon, a doctor I’d never seen came into the room and explained that my mother was actively dying.“But it’s only been a month,” I said indignantly. “The other doctor told us a year.”He made no reply. He was young, perhaps thirty. He stood next to my mother, a gentle hairy hand slung into his pocket, looking down at her in the bed. “From this point on, our only concern is that she’s comfortable.”Comfortable, and yet the nurses tried to give her as little morphine as they could. One of the nurses was a man, and I could see the outline of his penis through his tight white nurse’s trousers. I wanted desperately to pull him into the small bathroom beyond the foot of my mother’s bed and offer myself up to him, to do anything at all if he would help us. And also I wanted to take pleasure from him, to feel the weight of his body against me, to feel his mouth in my hair and hear him say my name to me over and over again, to force him to acknowledge me, to make this matter to him, to crush his heart with mercy for us.When my mother asked him for more morphine, she asked for it in a way that I have never heard anyone ask for anything. A mad dog. He did not look at her when she asked him this, but at his wristwatch. He held the same expression on his face regardless of the answer. Sometimes he gave it to her without a word, and sometimes he told her no in a voice as soft as his penis in his pants. My mother begged and whimpered then. She cried and her tears fell in the wrong direction. Not down over the light of her cheeks to the corners of her mouth, but away from the edges of her eyes to her ears and into the nest of her hair on the bed.She didn’t live a year. She didn’t live to October or August or May. She lived forty-nine days after the first doctor in Duluth told her she had cancer; thirty-four after the one at the Mayo Clinic did. But each day was an eternity, one stacked up on the other, a cold clarity inside of a deep haze.Leif didn’t come to visit her. Karen came once after I’d insisted she must. I was in heartbroken and enraged disbelief. “I don’t like seeing her this way,” my sister would offer weakly when we spoke, and then burst into tears. I couldn’t speak to my brother—where he was during those weeks was a mystery to Eddie and me. One friend told us he was stay- ing with a girl named Sue in St. Cloud. Another spotted him ice fishing on Sheriff Lake. I didn’t have time to do much about it, consumed as I was each day at my mother’s side, holding plastic pans for her to retch into, adjusting the impossible pillows again and again, hoisting her up and onto the potty chair the nurses had propped near her bed, cajoling her to eat a bite of food that she’d vomit up ten minutes later. Mostly, I watched her sleep, the hardest task of all, to see her in repose, her face still pinched with pain. Each time she moved, the IV tubes that dangled all around her swayed and my heart raced, afraid she’d disturb the nee- dles that attached the tubes to her swollen wrists and hands.“How are you feeling?” I’d coo hopefully when she woke, reaching through the tubes to smooth her flattened hair into place.“Oh, honey,” was all she could say most times. And then she’d look away.I roamed the hospital hallways while my mother slept, my eyes darting into other people’s rooms as I passed their open doors, catching glimpses of old men with bad coughs and purpled flesh, women with bandages around their fat knees.“How are you doing?” the nurses would ask me in melancholy tones. “We’re holding up,” I’d say, as if I were a we. But it was just me. My husband, Paul, did everything he could to make me feel less alone. He was still the kind and tender man I’d fallen for a few years before, the one I’d loved so fiercely I’d shocked every- one by marrying just shy of twenty, but once my mother started dying, something inside of me was dead to Paul, no matter what he did or said. Still, I called him each day from the pay phone in the hospital during the long afternoons, or back at my mom and Eddie’s house in the evenings. We’d have long conversations during which I’d weep and tell him every- thing and he would cry with me and try to make it all just a tiny bit more okay, but his words rang hollow. It was almost as if I couldn’t hear them at all. What did he know about losing anything? His parents were still alive and happily married to each other. My connection with him and his gloriously unfractured life only seemed to increase my pain. It wasn’t his fault. Being with him felt unbearable, but being with anyone else did too. The only person I could bear to be with was the most unbearable person of all: my mother.In the mornings, I would sit near her bed and try to read to her. I had two books: The Awakening, by Kate Chopin, and The Optimist’s Daughter, by Eudora Welty. These were books we’d read in college, books we loved. So I started in, but I could not go on. Each word I spoke erased itself in the air.It was the same when I tried to pray. I prayed fervently, rabidly, to God, any god, to a god I could not identify or find. I cursed my mother, who’d not given me any religious education. Resentful of her own repres- sive Catholic upbringing, she’d avoided church altogether in her adult life, and now she was dying and I didn’t even have God. I prayed to the whole wide universe and hoped that God would be in it, listening to me. I prayed and prayed, and then I faltered. Not because I couldn’t find God, but because suddenly I absolutely did: God was there, I realized, and God had no intention of making things happen or not, of saving my mother’s life. God was not a granter of wishes. God was a ruthless bitch.The last couple of days of her life, my mother was not so much high as down under. She was on a morphine drip by then, a clear bag of liquid flowing slowly down a tube that was taped to her wrist. When she woke, she’d say, “Oh, oh.” Or she’d let out a sad gulp of air. She’d look at me, and there would be a flash of love. Other times she’d roll back into sleep as if I were not there. Sometimes when my mother woke she did not know where she was. She demanded an enchilada and then some apple- sauce. She believed that all the animals she’d ever loved were in the room with her—and there had been a lot. She’d say, “That horse darn near stepped on me,” and look around for it accusingly, or her hands would move to stroke an invisible cat that lay at her hip. During this time I wanted my mother to say to me that I had been the best daughter in the world. I did not want to want this, but I did, inexplicably, as if I had a great fever that could be cooled only by those words. I went so far as to ask her directly, “Have I been the best daughter in the world?”She said yes, I had, of course.But this was not enough. I wanted those words to knit together in my mother’s mind and for them to be delivered, fresh, to me.I was ravenous for love.My mother died fast but not all of a sudden. A slow-burning fire when flames disappear to smoke and then smoke to air. She didn’t have time to get skinny. She was altered but still fleshy when she died, the body of a woman among the living. She had her hair too, brown and brittle and frayed from being in bed for weeks.From the room where she died I could see the great Lake Superior out her window. The biggest lake in the world, and the coldest too. To see it, I had to work. I pressed my face sideways, hard, against the glass, and I’d catch a slice of it going on forever into the horizon.“A room with a view!” my mother exclaimed, though she was too weak to rise and see the lake herself. And then more quietly she said: “All of my life I’ve waited for a room with a view.”She wanted to die sitting up, so I took all the pillows I could get my hands on and made a backrest for her. I wanted to take her from the hospital and prop her in a field of yarrow to die. I covered her with a quilt that I had brought from home, one she’d sewn herself out of pieces of our old clothing.“Get that out of here,” she growled savagely, and then kicked her legs like a swimmer to make it go away.I watched my mother. Outside the sun glinted off the sidewalks and the icy edges of the snow. It was Saint Patrick’s Day, and the nurses brought her a square block of green Jell-O that sat quivering on the table beside her. It would turn out to be the last full day of her life, and for most of it she held her eyes still and open, neither sleeping nor waking, intermittently lucid and hallucinatory.That evening I left her, though I didn’t want to. The nurses and doctors had told Eddie and me that this was it. I took that to mean she would die in a couple of weeks. I believed that people with cancer lingered. Karen and Paul would be driving up together from Minneapolis the next morning and my mother’s parents were due from Alabama in a couple of days, but Leif was still nowhere to be found. Eddie and I had called Leif ’s friends and the parents of his friends, leaving pleading messages, asking him to call, but he hadn’t called. I decided to leave the hospital for one night so I could find him and bring him to the hospital once and for all.“I’ll be back in the morning,” I said to my mother. I looked over at Eddie, half lying on the little vinyl couch. “I’ll come back with Leif.”When she heard his name, she opened her eyes: blue and blazing, the same as they’d always been. In all this, they hadn’t changed.“How can you not be mad at him?” I asked her bitterly for perhaps the tenth time.“You can’t squeeze blood from a turnip,” she’d usually say. Or, “Cheryl, he’s only eighteen.” But this time she just gazed at me and said, “Honey,” the same as she had when I’d gotten angry about her socks. The same as she’d always done when she’d seen me suffer because I wanted something to be different than it was and she was trying to convince me with that single word that I must accept things as they were.“We’ll all be together tomorrow,” I said. “And then we’ll all stay here with you, okay? None of us will leave.” I reached through the tubes that were draped all around her and stroked her shoulder. “I love you,” I said, bending to kiss her cheek, though she fended me off, in too much pain to endure even a kiss.“Love,” she whispered, too weak to say the I and you. “Love,” she said again as I left her room.I rode the elevator and went out to the cold street and walked along the sidewalk. I passed a bar packed with people I could see through a big plate-glass window. They were all wearing shiny green paper hats and green shirts and green suspenders and drinking green beer. A man inside met my eye and pointed at me drunkenly, his face breaking into silent laughter.I drove home and fed the horses and hens and got on the phone, the dogs gratefully licking my hands, our cat nudging his way onto my lap. I called everyone who might know where my brother was. He was drinking a lot, some said. Yes, it was true, said others, he’d been hanging out with a girl from St. Cloud named Sue. At midnight the phone rang and I told him that this was it.I wanted to scream at him when he walked in the door a half hour later, to shake him and rage and accuse, but when I saw him, all I could do was hold him and cry. He seemed so old to me that night, and so very young too. For the first time, I saw that he’d become a man and yet also I could see what a little boy he was. My little boy, the one I’d half mothered all of my life, having no choice but to help my mom all those times she’d been away at work. Karen and I were three years apart, but we’d been raised as if we were practically twins, the two of us equally in charge of Leif as kids.“I can’t do this,” he kept repeating through his tears. “I can’t live without Mom. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”“We have to,” I replied, though I couldn’t believe it myself. We lay together in his single bed talking and crying into the wee hours until, side by side, we drifted off to sleep.I woke a few hours later and, before waking Leif, fed the animals and loaded bags full of food we could eat during our vigil at the hospital. By eight o’clock we were on our way to Duluth, my brother driving our mother’s car too fast while U2’s Joshua Tree blasted out of the speakers. We listened intently to the music without talking, the low sun cutting brightly into the snow on the sides of the road.When we reached our mother’s room at the hospital, we saw a sign on her closed door instructing us to check in at the nurse’s station before entering. This was a new thing, but I assumed it was only a procedural matter. A nurse approached us in the hallway as we walked toward the station, and before I spoke she said, “We have ice on her eyes. She wanted to donate her corneas, so we need to keep the ice—”“What?” I said with such intensity that she jumped.I didn’t wait for an answer. I ran to my mother’s room, my brother right behind me. When I opened the door, Eddie stood and came for us with his arms outstretched, but I swerved away and dove for my mom. Her arms lay waxen at her sides, yellow and white and black and blue, the needles and tubes removed. Her eyes were covered by two surgical gloves packed with ice, their fat fingers lolling clownishly across her face. When I grabbed her, the gloves slid off. Bouncing onto the bed, then onto the floor.I howled and howled and howled, rooting my face into her body like an animal. She’d been dead an hour. Her limbs had cooled, but her belly was still an island of warm. I pressed my face into the warmth and howled some more.I dreamed of her incessantly. In the dreams I was always with her when she died. It was me who would kill her. Again and again and again. She commanded me to do it, and each time I would get down on my knees and cry, begging her not to make me, but she would not relent, and each time, like a good daughter, I ultimately complied. I tied her to a tree in our front yard and poured gasoline over her head, then lit her on fire. I made her run down the dirt road that passed by the house we’d built and then ran her over with my truck. I dragged her body, caught on a jagged piece of metal underneath, until it came loose, and then I put my truck in reverse and ran her over again. I took a miniature baseball bat and beat her to death with it, slow and hard and sad. I forced her into a hole I’d dug and kicked dirt and stones on top of her and buried her alive. These dreams were not surreal. They took place in plain, ordinary light. They were the documentary films of my subconscious and felt as real to me as life. My truck was really my truck; our front yard was our actual front yard; the miniature baseball bat sat in our closet among the umbrellas.I didn’t wake from these dreams crying. I woke shrieking. Paul grabbed me and held me until I was quiet. He wetted a washcloth with cool water and put it over my face. But those wet washcloths couldn’t wash the dreams of my mother away.Nothing did. Nothing would. Nothing could ever bring my mother back or make it okay that she was gone. Nothing would put me beside her the moment she died. It broke me up. It cut me off. It tumbled me end over end.It took me years to take my place among the ten thousand things again. To be the woman my mother raised. To remember how she said honey and picture her particular gaze. I would suffer. I would suffer. I would want things to be different than they were. The wanting was a wilderness and I had to find my own way out of the woods. It took me four years, seven months, and three days to do it. I didn’t know where I was going until I got there.It was a place called the Bridge of the Gods.2SPLITTINGIf I had to draw a map of those four-plus years to illustrate the time between the day of my mother’s death and the day I began my hike on the Pacific Crest Trail, the map would be a confusion of lines in all directions, like a crackling Fourth of July sparkler with Minnesota at its inevitable center. To Texas and back. To New York City and back. To New Mexico and Arizona and Nevada and California and Oregon and back. To Wyoming and back. To Portland, Oregon, and back. To Port- land and back again. And again. But those lines wouldn’t tell the story. The map would illuminate all the places I ran to, but not all the ways I tried to stay. It wouldn’t show you how in the months after my mother died, I attempted—and failed—to fill in for her in an effort to keep my family together. Or how I’d struggled to save my marriage, even while I was dooming it with my lies. It would only seem like that rough star, its every bright line shooting out.By the time I arrived in the town of Mojave, California, on the night before I began hiking the PCT, I’d shot out of Minnesota for the last time. I’d even told my mother that, not that she could hear. I’d sat in the flowerbed in the woods on our land, where Eddie, Paul, my siblings, and I had mixed her ashes in with the dirt and laid a tombstone, and explained to her that I wasn’t going to be around to tend her grave any- more. Which meant that no one would. I finally had no choice but to leave her grave to go back to the weeds and blown-down tree branchesand fallen pinecones. To snow and whatever the ants and deer and black bears and ground wasps wanted to do with her. I lay down in the mother ash dirt among the crocuses and told her it was okay. That I’d surren- dered. That since she died, everything had changed. Things she couldn’t have imagined and wouldn’t have guessed. My words came out low and steadfast. I was so sad it felt as if someone were choking me, and yet it seemed my whole life depended on my getting those words out. She would always be my mother, I told her, but I had to go. She wasn’t there for me in that flowerbed anymore anyway, I explained. I’d put her some- where else. The only place I could reach her. In me.The next day I left Minnesota forever. I was going to hike the PCT.It was the first week of June. I drove to Portland in my 1979 Chevy Luv pickup truck loaded with a dozen boxes filled with dehydrated food and backpacking supplies. I’d spent the previous weeks compil- ing them, addressing each box to myself at places I’d never been, stops along the PCT with evocative names like Echo Lake and Soda Springs, Burney Falls and Seiad Valley. I left my truck and the boxes with my friend Lisa in Portland—she’d be mailing the boxes to me throughout the summer—and boarded a plane to Los Angeles, then caught a ride to Mojave with the brother of a friend.We pulled into town in the early evening, the sun dipping into the Tehachapi Mountains a dozen miles behind us to the west. Mountains I’d be hiking the next day. The town of Mojave is at an altitude of nearly 2,800 feet, though it felt to me as if I were at the bottom of something instead, the signs for gas stations, restaurants, and motels rising higher than the highest tree.“You can stop here,” I said to the man who’d driven me from LA, gesturing to an old-style neon sign that said white’s motel with the word television blazing yellow above it and vacancy in pink beneath. By the worn look of the building, I guessed it was the cheapest place in town. Perfect for me.“Thanks for the ride,” I said once we’d pulled into the lot. “You’re welcome,” he said, and looked at me. “You sure you’re okay?” “Yes,” I replied with false confidence. “I’ve traveled alone a lot.” I got out with my backpack and two oversized plastic department store bags full of things. I’d meant to take everything from the bags and fit it into my backpack before leaving Portland, but I hadn’t had the time. I’d brought the bags here instead. I’d get everything together in my room.“Good luck,” said the man.I watched him drive away. The hot air tasted like dust, the dry wind whipping my hair into my eyes. The parking lot was a field of tiny white pebbles cemented into place; the motel, a long row of doors and win- dows shuttered by shabby curtains. I slung my backpack over my shoul- ders and gathered the bags. It seemed strange to have only these things. I felt suddenly exposed, less exuberant than I had thought I would. I’d spent the past six months imagining this moment, but now that it was here—now that I was only a dozen miles from the PCT itself—it seemed less vivid than it had in my imaginings, as if I were in a dream, my every thought liquid slow, propelled by will rather than instinct. Go inside, I had to tell myself before I could move toward the motel office. Ask for a room.“It’s eighteen dollars,” said the old woman who stood behind the counter. With rude emphasis, she looked past me, out the glass door through which I’d entered moments before. “Unless you’ve got a com- panion. It’s more for two.”“I don’t have a companion,” I said, and blushed—it was only when I was telling the truth that I felt as if I were lying. “That guy was just dropping me off.”“It’s eighteen dollars for now, then,” she replied, “but if a companion joins you, you’ll have to pay more.”“A companion won’t be joining me,” I said evenly. I pulled a twenty- dollar bill from the pocket of my shorts and slid it across the counter to her. She took my money and handed me two dollars and a card to fill out with a pen attached to a bead chain. “I’m on foot, so I can’t do the car section,” I said, gesturing to the form. I smiled, but she didn’t smile back. “Also—I don’t really have an address. I’m traveling, so I—”“Write down the address you’ll be returning to,” she said. “See, that’s the thing. I’m not sure where I’ll live afterwards because—” “Your folks, then,” she barked. “Wherever home is.” “Okay,” I said, and wrote Eddie’s address, though in truth my connection to Eddie in the four years since my mother died had become so pained and distant I couldn’t rightly consider him my stepfather any- more. I had no “home,” even though the house we built still stood. Leif and Karen and I were inextricably bound as siblings, but we spoke and saw one another rarely, our lives profoundly different. Paul and I had finalized our divorce the month before, after a harrowing yearlong separation. I had beloved friends whom I sometimes referred to as family, but our commitments to each other were informal and intermittent, more familial in word than in deed. Blood is thicker than water, my mother had always said when I was growing up, a sentiment I’d often disputed. But it turned out that it didn’t matter whether she was right or wrong. They both flowed out of my cupped palms.“Here you are,” I said to the woman, sliding the form across the coun- ter in her direction, though she didn’t turn to me for several moments. She was watching a small television that sat on a table behind the coun- ter. The evening news. Something about the O. J. Simpson trial.“Do you think he’s guilty?” she asked, still looking at the TV.“It seems like it, but it’s too soon to know, I guess. We don’t have all the information yet.”“Of course he did it!” she shouted.When she finally gave me a key, I walked across the parking lot to a door at the far end of the building, unlocked it and went inside, and set my things down and sat on the soft bed. I was in the Mojave Desert, but the room was strangely dank, smelling of wet carpet and Lysol. A vented white metal box in the corner roared to life—a swamp cooler that blew icy air for a few minutes and then turned itself off with a dramatic clatter that only exacerbated my sense of uneasy solitude.I thought about going out and finding myself a companion. It was such an easy thing to do. The previous years had been a veritable feast of one-and two-and three-night stands. They seemed so ridiculous to me now, all that intimacy with people I didn’t love, and yet still I ached for the simple sensation of a body pressed against mine, obliterating everything else. I stood up from the bed to shake off the longing, to stop my mind from its hungry whir: I could go to a bar. I could let a man buy me a drink. We could be back here in a flash.Just behind that longing was the urge to call Paul. He was my ex- husband now, but he was still my best friend. As much as I’d pulled away from him in the years after my mother’s death, I’d also leaned hard into him. In the midst of my mostly silent agonizing over our marriage, we’d had good times, been, in oddly real ways, a happy couple.The vented metal box in the corner turned itself on again and I went to stand before it, letting the frigid air blow against my bare legs. I was dressed in the clothes I’d been wearing since I’d left Portland the night before, every last thing brand-new. It was my hiking outfit and in it I felt a bit foreign, like someone I hadn’t yet become. Wool socks beneath a pair of leather hiking boots with metal fasts. Navy blue shorts with important-looking pockets that closed with Velcro tabs. Under- wear made of a special quick-dry fabric and a plain white T-shirt over a sports bra.They were among the many things I’d spent the winter and spring saving up my money to buy, working as many shifts as I could get at the restaurant where I waited tables. When I’d purchased them, they hadn’t felt foreign to me. In spite of my recent forays into edgy urban life, I was easily someone who could be described as outdoorsy. I had, after all, spent my teen years roughing it in the Minnesota northwoods. My fam- ily vacations had always involved some form of camping, and so had the trips I’d taken with Paul or alone or with friends. I’d slept in the back of my truck, camped out in parks and national forests more times than I could count. But now, here, having only these clothes at hand, I felt sud- denly like a fraud. In the six months since I’d decided to hike the PCT, I’d had at least a dozen conversations in which I explained why this trip was a good idea and how well suited I was to the challenge. But now, alone in my room at White’s Motel, I knew there was no denying the fact that I was on shaky ground.“Perhaps you should try a shorter trip first,” Paul had suggested when I told him about my plan during one of our should-we-stay-together-or- get-divorced discussions several months before.“Why?” I’d asked with irritation. “Don’t you think I can hack it?”“It isn’t that,” he said. “It’s only that you’ve never gone backpacking, as far as I know.”“I’ve gone backpacking!” I’d said indignantly, though he was right: I hadn’t. In spite of all the things I’d done that struck me as related to backpacking, I’d never actually walked into the wilderness with a back- pack on and spent the night. Not even once.I’ve never gone backpacking! I thought with a rueful hilarity now. I looked suddenly at my pack and the plastic bags I’d toted with me from Portland that held things I hadn’t yet taken from their packaging. My backpack was forest green and trimmed with black, its body composed of three large compartments rimmed by fat pockets of mesh and nylon that sat on either side like big ears. It stood of its own volition, sup- ported by the unique plastic shelf that jutted out along its bottom. That it stood like that instead of slumping over onto its side as other packs did provided me a small, strange comfort. I went to it and touched its top as if I were caressing a child’s head. A month ago, I’d been firmly advised to pack my backpack just as I would on my hike and take it on a trial run. I’d meant to do it before I left Minneapolis, and then I’d meant to do it once I got to Portland. But I hadn’t. My trial run would be tomorrow—my first day on the trail.I reached into one of the plastic bags and pulled out an orange whis- tle, whose packaging proclaimed it to be “the world’s loudest.” I ripped it open and held the whistle up by its yellow lanyard, then put it around my neck, as if I were a coach. Was I supposed to hike wearing it like this? It seemed silly, but I didn’t know. Like so much else, when I’d purchased the world’s loudest whistle, I hadn’t thought it all the way through. I took it off and tied it to the frame of my pack, so it would dangle over my shoulder when I hiked. There, it would be easy to reach, should I need it.Would I need it? I wondered meekly, bleakly, flopping down on the bed. It was well past dinnertime, but I was too anxious to feel hungry, my aloneness an uncomfortable thunk that filled my gut.“You finally got what you wanted,” Paul had said when we bade each other goodbye in Minneapolis ten days before.“What’s that?” I’d asked.“To be alone,” he replied, and smiled, though I could only nod uncer- tainly.It had been what I wanted, though alone wasn’t quite it. What I had to have when it came to love was beyond explanation, it seemed. The end of my marriage was a great unraveling that began with a letter that arrived a week after my mother’s death, though its beginnings went back further than that.The letter wasn’t for me. It was for Paul. Fresh as my grief was, I still dashed excitedly into our bedroom and handed it to him when I saw the return address. It was from the New School in New York City. In another lifetime—only three months before, in the days before I learned my mother had cancer—I’d helped him apply to a PhD program in political philosophy. Back in mid-January, the idea of living in New York City had seemed like the most exciting thing in the world. But now, in late March—as he ripped the letter open and exclaimed that he’d been accepted, as I embraced him and in every way seemed to be celebrating this good news—I felt myself splitting in two. There was the woman I was before my mom died and the one I was now, my old life sitting onthe surface of me like a bruise. The real me was beneath that, pulsing under all the things I used to think I knew. How I’d finish my BA in June and a couple of months later, off we’d go. How we’d rent an apartment in the East Village or Park Slope—places I’d only imagined and read about. How I’d wear funky ponchos with adorable knitted hats and cool boots while becoming a writer in the same romantic, down-and-out way that so many of my literary heroes and heroines had.All of that was impossible now, regardless of what the letter said. My mom was dead. My mom was dead. My mom was dead. Everything I ever imagined about myself had disappeared into the crack of her last breath.I couldn’t leave Minnesota. My family needed me. Who would help Leif finish growing up? Who would be there for Eddie in his loneliness? Who would make Thanksgiving dinner and carry on our family traditions? Someone had to keep what remained of our family together. And that someone had to be me. I owed at least that much to my mother.“You should go without me,” I said to Paul as he held the letter. And I said it again and again as we talked throughout the next weeks, my conviction growing by the day. Part of me was terrified by the idea of him leaving me; another part of me desperately hoped he would. If he left, the door of our marriage would swing shut without my having to kick it. I would be free and nothing would be my fault. I loved him, but I’d been impetuous and nineteen when we’d wed; not remotely ready to commit myself to another person, no matter how dear he was. Though I’d had attractions to other men since shortly after we married, I’d kept them in check. But I couldn’t do that anymore. My grief obliterated my ability to hold back. So much had been denied me, I reasoned. Why should I deny myself?My mom had been dead a week when I kissed another man. And another a week after that. I only made out with them and the others that followed—vowing not to cross a sexual line that held some meaning to me—but still I knew I was wrong to cheat and lie. I felt trapped by my own inability to either leave Paul or stay true, so I waited for him to leave me, to go off to graduate school alone, though of course he refused.He deferred his admission for a year and we stayed in Minnesota so I could be near my family, though my nearness in the year that followed my mother’s death accomplished little. It turned out I wasn’t able to keep my family together. I wasn’t my mom. It was only after her death that I realized who she was: the apparently magical force at the center of our family who’d kept us all invisibly spinning in the powerful orbit around her. Without her, Eddie slowly became a stranger. Leif and Karen and I drifted into our own lives. Hard as I fought for it to be otherwise, finally I had to admit it too: without my mother, we weren’t what we’d been; we were four people floating separately among the flotsam of our grief, connected by only the thinnest rope. I never did make that Thanksgiving dinner. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around eight months after my mom died, my family was something I spoke of in the past tense.So when Paul and I finally moved to New York City a year after we had originally intended to, I was happy to go. There, I could have a fresh start. I would stop messing around with men. I would stop grieving so fiercely. I would stop raging over the family I used to have. I would be a writer who lived in New York City. I would walk around wearing cool boots and an adorable knitted hat.It didn’t go that way. I was who I was: the same woman who pulsed beneath the bruise of her old life, only now I was somewhere else.During the day I wrote stories; at night I waited tables and made out with one of the two men I was simultaneously not crossing the line with. We’d lived in New York only a month when Paul dropped out of gradu- ate school, deciding he wanted to play guitar instead. Six months later, we left altogether, returning briefly to Minnesota before departing on a months-long working road trip all across the West, making a wide circle that included the Grand Canyon and Death Valley, Big Sur and San Francisco. At trip’s end in late spring, we landed in Portland and found restaurant jobs, staying first with my friend Lisa in her tiny apartment and then on a farm ten miles outside the city, where—in exchange for looking after a goat and a cat and a covey of exotic game hens—we got to live rent-free for the summer. We pulled the futon from our truck and slept on it in the living room under a big wide window that looked out over a filbert orchard. We took long walks and picked berries and made love. I can do this, I thought. I can be Paul’s wife.But again I was wrong. I could only be who it seemed I had to be. Only now more so. I didn’t even remember the woman I was before my life had split in two. Living in that little farmhouse on the edge of Portland, a few months past the second anniversary of my mother’s death, I wasn’t worried about crossing the line anymore. When Paul accepted a job offer in Minneapolis that required him to return to Minnesota midway through our exotic hen-sitting gig, I stayed behind in Oregon and fucked the ex-boyfriend of the woman who owned the exotic hens. I fucked a cook at the restaurant where I’d picked up a job waiting tables. I fucked a massage therapist who gave me a piece of banana cream pie and a free massage. All three of them over the span of five days.It seemed to me the way it must feel to people who cut themselves on purpose. Not pretty, but clean. Not good, but void of regret. I was trying to heal. Trying to get the bad out of my system so I could be good again. To cure me of myself. At summer’s end, when I returned to Minneapolis to live with Paul, I believed I had. I thought I was different, better, done. And I was for a time, sailing faithfully through the autumn and into the new year. Then I had another affair. I knew I was at the end of a line. I couldn’t bear myself any longer. I had to finally speak the words to Paul that would tear my life apart. Not that I didn’t love him. But that I had to be alone, though I didn’t know why.My mom had been dead three years.When I said all the things I had to say, we both fell onto the floor and sobbed. The next day, Paul moved out. Slowly we told our friends that we were splitting up. We hoped we could work it out, we said. We were not necessarily going to get divorced. First, they were in disbelief—we’d seemed so happy, they all said. Next, they were mad—not at us, but at me. One of my dearest friends took the photograph of me she kept in a frame, ripped it in half, and mailed it to me. Another made out with Paul. When I was hurt and jealous about this, I was told by another friend that this was exactly what I deserved: a taste of my own medicine. I couldn’t rightfully disagree, but still my heart was broken. I lay alone on our futon feeling myself almost levitate from pain.Three months into our separation, we were still in a torturous limbo. I wanted neither to get back together with Paul nor to get divorced. I wanted to be two people so I could do both. Paul was dating a smattering of women, but I was suddenly celibate. Now that I’d smashed up my marriage over sex, sex was the furthest thing from my mind.“You need to get the hell out of Minneapolis,” said my friend Lisa during one of our late-night heartbreak conversations. “Come visit me in Portland,” she said.Within the week, I quit my waitressing job, loaded up my truck, and drove west, traveling the same route I’d take exactly one year later on my way to hike the Pacific Crest Trail.

Bookclub Guide

US1. “The Pacific Crest Trail wasn’t a world to me then. It was an idea, vague and outlandish, full of promise and mystery. Something bloomed inside me as I traced its jagged line with my finger on a map” (p. 4). Why did the PCT capture Strayed’s imagination at that point in her life?2. Each section of the book opens with a literary quote or two. What do they tell you about what’s to come in the pages that follow? How does Strayed’s pairing of, say, Adrienne Rich and Joni Mitchell (p. 45) provide insight into her way of thinking?3. Strayed is quite forthright in her description of her own transgressions, and while she’s remorseful, she never seems ashamed. Is this a sign of strength or a character flaw?4. “I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told” (p. 51). Fear is a major theme in the book. Do you think Strayed was too afraid, or not afraid enough? When were you most afraid for her?5. Strayed chose her own last name: “Nothing fit until one day when the word strayed came into my mind. Immediately, I looked it up in the dictionary and knew it was mine...to wander from the proper path, to deviate from the direct course, to be lost, to become wild, to be without a mother or father, to be without a home, to move about aimlessly in search of something, to diverge or digress” (p. 96). Did she choose well? What did you think when you learned she had assigned this word to herself—that it was no coincidence?6. On the trail, Strayed encounters mostly men. How does this work in her favor? What role does gender play when removed from the usual structure of society?7. What does the reader learn from the horrific episode in which Strayed and her brother put down their mother’s horse?8. Strayed writes that the point of the PCT “had only to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets” (p. 207). How does this sensation help Strayed to find her way back into the world beyond the wilderness?9. On her journey, Strayed carries several totems. What does the black feather mean to her? And the POW bracelet? Why does she find its loss (p. 238) symbolic?10. Does the hike help Strayed to get over Paul? If so, how? And if not, why?11. Strayed says her mother’s death “had obliterated me.... I was trapped by her but utterly alone. She would always be the empty bowl that no one could fill” (p 267). How did being on the PCT on her mother’s fiftieth birthday help Strayed to heal this wound?12. What was it about Strayed that inspired the generosity of so many strangers on the PCT?13. “There’s no way to know what makes one thing happen and not another. . . . But I was pretty certain as I sat there that night that if it hadn’t been for Eddie, I wouldn’t have found myself on the PCT” (p. 304). How does this realization change Strayed’s attitude towards her stepfather?14. To lighten her load, Strayed burns each book as she reads it. Why doesn’t she burn the Adrienne Rich collection?15. What role do books and reading play in this often solitary journey?

Editorial Reviews

“Spectacular. . . . A literary and human triumph.” —The New York Times Book Review"I was on the edge of my seat. . . . It is just a wild ride of a read . . . stimulating, thought-provoking, soul-enhancing." —Oprah Winfrey, on Wild, first selection of her Book Club 2.0“Strayed’s language is so vivid, sharp and compelling that you feel the heat of the desert, the frigid ice of the High Sierra, and the breathtaking power of one remarkable woman finding her way—and herself—one brave step at a time.” —People (4 stars)"An addictive, gorgeous book that not only entertains, but leaves us the better for having read it. . . . Strayed is a formidable talent." —The Boston Globe"One of the most original, heartbreaking, and beautiful American memoirs in years. . . . Awe-inspiring." —NPR Books“Cinematic. . . . A rich, riveting story. . . . Our verdict: A.” —Entertainment Weekly“Pretty much obliterated me. I was reduced, during the book’s final third, to puddle-eyed cretinism. . . . As loose and sexy and dark as an early Lucinda Williams song. It’s got a punk spirit and makes an earthy and American sound. . . . The cumulative welling up I experienced during Wild was partly a response to that too infrequent sight: that of a writer finding her voice, and sustaining it, right in front of your eyes.” —Dwight Garner, The New York Times “Brave seems like the right word to sum up this woman and her book. . . . Strayed’s journey is exceptional.” —San Francisco Chronicle“One of the best books I’ve read in the last five or ten years. . . . Wild is angry, brave, sad, self-knowing, redemptive, raw, compelling, and brilliantly written, and I think it’s destined to be loved by a lot of people, men and women, for a very long time.” —Nick Hornby“Devastating and glorious. . . . By laying bare a great unspoken truth of adulthood—that many things in life don’t turn out the way you want them to, and that you can and must live through them anyway—Wild feels real in many ways that many books about ‘finding oneself’ . . . do not.” —Slate“Incisive and telling. . . . [Strayed] has the ineffable gift every writer longs for of saying exactly what she means in lines that are both succinct and poetic. . . . an inborn talent for articulating angst and the gratefulness that comes when we overcome it.” —The Washington Post“Vivid, touching and ultimately inspiring account of a life unraveling and of the journey that put it back together.” —The Wall Street Journal“Strayed . . . catalogs her epic hike . . . with a raw emotional power that makes the book difficult to put down. . . . In walking, and finally, years later, in writing, Strayed finds her way again. And her path is as dazzlingly beautiful as it is tragic.” —Los Angeles Times“A fearless story, told in honest prose that is wildly lyrical as often as it is dirtily physical.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune “This isn’t Cinderella in hiking boots, it’s a woman coming out of heartbreak, darkness and bad decisions with a clear view of where she has been. . . . There are adventures and characters aplenty, from heartwarming to dangerous, but Strayed resists the temptation to overplay or sweeten such moments. Her pacing is impeccable as she captures her impressive journey.” —The Seattle Times“Strayed’s journey was at least as transcendent as it was turbulent. She faced down hunger, thirst, injury, fatigue, boredom, loss, bad weather, and wild animals. Yet she also reached new levels of joy, accomplishment, courage, peace, and found extraordinary companionship.” —The Christian Science Monitor“Strayed writes a crisp scene; her sentences hum with energy. She can describe a trail-parched yearning for Snapple like no writer I know. . . . It becomes impossible not to root for her.” —The Plain Dealer“Brilliant. . . . Cheryl Strayed emerges from her grief-stricken journey as a practitioner of a rare and vital vocation. She has become an intrepid cartographer of the human heart.” —Houston Chronicle“A deeply honest memoir about mother and daughter, solitude and courage, and regaining footing one step at a time.” —Vogue“This is a big, brave, break-your-heart-and-put-it-back-together-again kind of book. Cheryl Strayed is a courageous, gritty, and deceptively elegant writer. She walked the PCT to find forgiveness, came back with generosity—and now she shares her reward with us. I snorted with laughter, I wept uncontrollably; I don’t even want to know the person who isn’t going to love Wild. This is a beautifully made, utterly realized book.” —Pam Houston, author of Contents May Have Shifted and Cowboys are My Weakness