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Wild: A Journey from Lost to Found by Cheryl Strayed – review

I n this hugely entertaining book, Cheryl Strayed takes the redemptive nature of travel – a theme as old as literature itself – and makes it her own. For three months she hiked 1,100 miles alone along the Pacific Crest Trail, a continuous wilderness undulating from Mexico to Canada over nine mountain ranges – the Laguna to the Cascades. She did it, she says, "in order to save myself".

An American raised in rural Minnesota, Strayed lost her beloved mother when she was 22. An abusive father had long ago vanished, and in the wake of their bereavement, Strayed's siblings and stepfather scattered and her marriage to a rather wonderful man collapsed as a result of her serial infidelities ("I'd smashed up my marriage over sex"). She was waitressing, servicing a student debt for a degree she failed to complete (she reckoned she would pay off the debt when she was 43), and then came Planet Heroin. In the wake of her divorce, she invented a new name for herself: Strayed. Because she had strayed. Four years after her mother's death, still "unmoored by sorrow", she packed a rucksack and flew to California. "Hiking the PCT," she writes, "was my way back to the person I used to be."

On her epic trek, this novice hiker faced temperatures of 100 degrees in the shade on the Modoc plateau and record snowfalls in the high sierras, not to mention bears, rattlesnakes and failed waterholes. The terrain was rarely easy: "Sometimes," writes Strayed, "it seemed that the Pacific Crest Trail was one long mountain I was ascending." Her boots died (she had already lost most of her toenails) and she made "duct-tape bootees" out of a pair of sandals while waiting for fresh boots to arrive in the middle of nowhere in a courier's box. When a branch snapped in the night outside her lonely tent, she made herself say out loud, "I am not afraid." For weeks she does not wash or wear knickers and, as a result, a shower at a lonely campsite turns into "an almost holy experience". The seasons change, and so does the landscape, but these pages contain little in the way of topographical description. It is the inner landscape that captures this unusual author.

The story of her past, and in particular her mother's harrowing death, unspools as a counter-narrative alongside the blisters and the bulky backpack she calls Monster. (The mother, clearly an extraordinary and inspiring figure, looms over this book like a ghost.) Wild follows Strayed's painful first steps as she averaged nine miles a day and learned how to use her gear (or didn't), to the happy weeks when her muscles were like ropes and she was lean, bronzed and hairy-legged. At staging posts on the trail – not towns but straggly outposts of civilisation – she picked up resupply boxes she had mailed to herself. Each contained $20, along with books, freeze-dried food and a clean T-shirt (she packed lacy underwear in the last box). At one point she describes herself as "hot, angry, sick of myself". I recognised that. How very sick of oneself one gets on the road.

Mostly, Strayed saw no one, but she is good on the peculiar intimacy one strikes up on chance encounters in strange parts, and the camaraderie on the trail, when freeze-dried noodles, Elastoplast and news of fresh snowfalls are exchanged in long nights around the camp fire. I enjoyed those passages immensely. Similarly, she writes well about the relationship one has with books when alone and travelling, though I was inevitably influenced in her favour by the fact that her writers are mine, notably Faulkner and Flannery O'Connor. The latter would have admired Cheryl Strayed. In the evenings, after making camp, she sat with a pot of noodles gripped between her knees, spooning food in one hand and holding a book in the other, reading by the light of her miner's headlamp as the sky darkened. "I grew stronger," she writes as the weeks unfold. In short, she read herself out of a hole. And what are books for, if not that?

Wild tracks the physical changes as a body gets turned inside out in three months, and more interestingly, the prose reveals Strayed's return to sanity. Body image is a component of this last transformation. The author refers at several points to issues with weight that dogged her past, and to her confused attitude to her own physical appearance. At one point, at a PCT campsite, she sees herself in a cracked mirror for the first time in many weeks, and ends up "wondering whether I was a babe or a gargoyle". Many women will recognise that particular experience, and might take heart from the resolution Strayed finds in the course of her trip.

Sex is a leitmotif: Strayed likes it, and had packed condoms. Men are sized up as soon as they walk into the campsite and on to the page. About two-thirds of the way through the book, congress finally occurs, spreadeagled against a boulder on a beach, with honey and sand involved. Sex is one of the last taboos in women's travel writing, and I have noticed that male reviewers tend not to like it. They know, I hope, where they can stick their dislike, and well done Cheryl Strayed.

Despite the Wagnerian tempests that led to the journey, a quiet dignity inhabits the heart of this book, as Strayed takes on the Mojave desert and the wind-twisted foxtail pines at the foot of Mount Washington. There are longueurs in the story and stylistic infelicities in the prose. But she lobs in lots of yeasty direct speech to keep the book, like the journey, on the road. I can't wait for the film.

Strayed is 44 now: one senses that it has taken her this long to understand the true meaning of the journey – or perhaps she had to wait for certain people to die. At any rate, she is happily married with two children, her demons at bay, and her book, a New York Times bestseller, was taken up by Oprah (you can watch a Strayed  slideshow on the Oprah website). Towards the end of Wild , approaching journey's end at the Bridge of the Gods over the benighted Columbia River, the author writes: "I felt fierce and humble and gathered up inside, like I was safe in the world now." Lucky her.

Sara Wheeler's new book, O My America! Second Acts in a New World, will be published in March by Jonathan Cape

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Cheryl Strayed

#1 New York Times Bestseller A Best Nonfiction Book of 2012: The Boston Globe , Entertainment Weekly A Best Book of the Year: NPR, St. Louis Dispatch , Vogue Winner of the Barnes & Noble Discover Award Now a major motion picture starring Reese Witherspoon and Laura Dern 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.

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Praise for WILD:

“Spectacular . . . Gripping . . . A breathtaking adventure tale and a profound meditation on the nature of grief and survival . . . A literary and human triumph.” —Dani Shapiro, 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 “One of the most original, heartbreaking and beautiful American memoirs in years.” —Michael Schaub, National Public Radio “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.” — The Seattle Times “Cinematic. . . . A rich, riveting story. . . . Our verdict: A.” — Entertainment Weekly “Sexy, uplifting . . . Fierce and funny . . . Strayed hammers home her hard-won sentences like a box of nails. 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. . . . Riveting.” —Dwight Garner, The New York Times “Stunning . . . An incredible journey, both inward and outward.” —Garth Stein, author of The Art of Racing in the Rain “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.” — The Boston Globe “Dazzlingly beautiful.” — Los Angeles Times “Devastating and glorious . . . It is voice—billowing with energy, precise—that carries Wild . . . 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.” —Melanie Rehak, 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.” — The Washington Post “A big, brave, break-your-heart-and-put-it-back-together-again kind of book. Strayed is a courageous, gritty, and deceptively elegant writer. She walked the Pacific Crest Trail to find forgiveness, came back with generosity—and now she shares her reward with us. I snorted with laughter, I wept uncontrollably . . . A beautifully made, utterly realized book.” —Pam Houston, author of Contents May Have Shifted “Strayed reminds us of what it means to be fully alive, even in the face of catastrophe, physical and psychic hardship, and loss.” —Mira Bartók, author of The Memory Palace “A vivid, touching, and ultimately inspiring account of a life unraveling, and of the journey that put it back together.” — Wall Street Journal “Wild is the kind of candid vision quest-like memoir that you don’t come across often. It’s full of revelatory moments that will sometimes crush your heart and sometimes leave you breathlessly inspired. It’s a book that many will fall in love with. It’s a book that will love you back,” —Kevin Sampsell, author of A Common Pornography . “Arresting . . . So many heal-myself memoirs are available that initially I hesitated about [Wild]. Then I considered the source: Cheryl Strayed, the author of a lyric yet tough-minded first novel [called] Torch—a Great Lakes Book Award finalist . . . Wild [is] Strayed’s account of her 1,100-mile solo hike along the Pacific Crest Trail, from the Mojave Desert to Washington State. Shattered at 26 by her mother’s death, her family’s fragmenting, and the end of her marriage, Strayed upped and decided to do something way out of the realm of her experience; here she confronts snowstorms and rattlesnakes even as she confronts her personal pain. Wish I had her guts!” —Barbara Hoffert, LibraryJournal.com “No one can write like Cheryl Strayed. Wild is one of the most unflinching and emotionally honest books I've read in a long time. It is about forgiveness and grief and bravery and hope. It is unforgettable.” —Ann Hood, author of The Knitting Circle “Cheryl Strayed can sure tell a story. In Wild, she describes her journey from despair to transcendence with honesty, humor, and heart-cracking poignancy. This is a great book.” —Mary Pipher, author of Reviving Ophelia and Seeking Peace “Cheryl Strayed is one of the most exciting writers I’ve come across in a long time.” —Hope Edelman, author of The Possibility of Everything and Motherless Daughters “Smart, funny, and often sublime, Wild has something for everyone—a fight for survival in the wilderness, a bad girl’s quest for redemption—all in the hands of a brilliant and evocative writer.” —Chelsea Cain, author of The Night Season and Heartsick "A candid, inspiring narrative of the author’s brutal physical and psychological journey through a wilderness of despair to a renewed sense of self," — Kirkus Reviews , starred review (12/19/2011).

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Read an excerpt.

THE TEN THOUSAND THINGS My 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 the ceiling 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 absence didn’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: , 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—” 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. 2 SPLITTING If 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 branches and 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 on the 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. Excerpted from Wild by Cheryl Strayed. Copyright © 2012 by Cheryl Strayed. Excerpted by permission of Vintage, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Book Review of Wild by Cheryl Strayed

• Covered Subject 4.0
• Cover Art 4.0
• Organization 4.0
• Writing 4.0

Personally Purchased Affiliate Link

Quick Review

• The story follows our main character, Cheryl Strayed, throughout as expected with a memoir.
• Set on the Pacific Cost Trail, which is a scenic hiking trail spanning from the bottom of California to the top of Washington in the United States.
• I did not have too many strong emotional reactions to this story throughout, which I was surprised by as I really enjoyed and connected to the movie. I think if I had read the book before watching the movie I would feel more strongly.
• I feel that the story has a slow pace, especially the third part, and I was waiting for the next non-climatic event after event to happen. However I still found the writing to be really good, it’s just that I wasn’t as interested or engaged as I had expected to be.
• Only Cheryl, the main character, is a whole and fully developed character. All other’s lack a lot of dimension, but that is because it is not their story or the kind of story to develop other characters. For example, her ex-husband Paul is not described in any detail and remains a two-dimensional character on the page.

If I had to describe this book in two words: adventurous and interesting.

**SERIOUS SPOILERS** Click black text to reveal spoilers.

**Trigger and Content Warnings**

This book discusses sensitive subjects that some readers may find triggering. Please take care of yourself. Triggers and content warnings in this story include but are not limited to:

• Animals (snakes, bear, bull, bugs, etc.)
• Animal death
• Blood and Gore (human and animal)
• Death (parent, friend and animal)
• Drug use and abuse (alcohol, heroin , marijuana, root drug)
• Homelessness
• Occult (brief mentions of Bigfoot)
• Pregnancy (abortion)
• Relationship Issues
• Toxic Relationships

Yeahhh…there’s a lot in this book. Read more about Trigger and Content Warnings .

In Depth Review

Fox metaphor, hardships and kindness.

During her hike Cheryl faces so many setbacks it’s a wonder that she ever really get’s to the end:

• Having to take rides that take her miles back that she’d already hiked, bypasses, and paths gone wrong.
• Oscillating weather including record snowfalls and temperatures in the 100s.
• So many rattlesnakes, bears, a bull, ants, mountain lion tracks and even a frog attack.
• People who threaten to call the police on her.
• Battered feet and the loss of most of her toe nails (mostly due to poorly fitting boots but at one point she also pulls them off herself!).
• Looses her poorly fitting boots.
• Thinking about her family including her ex-husband Paul, her brother, her step-father Eddie, her mother and her mother’s horse, Lady.
• Processing how dysfunctionally her family handled her mother’s death and the heart breaking circumstances surrounding it.
• Dealing with the guilt of cheating on her husband (which is actually very common thing to happen during grief).
• Running out of water, a clogged filter, and having her water freeze.
• Sketchy men.
• An active mine.
• Misplaced money.
• Rain soaked supplies.
• Suffering, just a lot of suffering.

Besides a few differences like this and all the details the movie couldn’t possibly include, I found the movie very true to the book overall.

Ending the Journey

Gilmore girls and wild tie-in.

I was a SUPER FREAK for Gilmore Girls back when it was on, and watched it RELIGIOUSLY. I could NOT be interrupted. I think a lot of book lovers really loved this show, and I was no exception. I actually rewatched the series in its entirety in anticipation for the reboot, Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life .

In the Fall episode Lorelai goes “wild” and follows in the footsteps of Cheryl Strayed and sets off to go camping, full monster pack in tow. However in true Lorelai fashion, she doesn’t actually get any hiking done but does have her “ah-ha” moment. The way this episode portrays the thru-hiker is fricken’ hilarious, but obviously just a character. I really enjoyed this mini-series reboot, it had all the things to love about the Gilmore Girls – the witty banter, the characters, continued plot lines, and new twists. The only significant person missing of course was Edward Hermann, RIP.

SUPER NOTE: STOP EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW!! I just learned in researching for this article that they thought about A FREAKIN’ SEASON 2 of Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life. Are you freakin’ kidding me?! All of the excite if that actually happens. Rory pregnant? Ugh.

Reoccurring Themes

In this book I actually noticed a few reoccurring themes (yay me!) that I felt were significant to the plot and to Cheryl’s character development:

• Cheryl wants to deal with her problems and “find herself” while also simultaneously trying to slip away from life or escape it, at least temporarily.
• Another reoccurring theme I noticed is that the people Cheryl meets often comment on how remarkable it is that she’s hiking the PCT alone. However people and woman do it alone every year. In fact, according to my research one third to half of all hikers on the PCT are female through the years. Maybe it was less common in 1995 (statistics didn’t go that far back for gender)?
• Cheryl realized that on her travels she encountered almost exclusively kind and giving people (besides those two men) and that the world was filled with good people. As she comes to this realization, as if on cue a man offers her and her friends a cabin for the night to stay and dry out in. I don’t think that everyone has this kind of experience.
• Cheryl explores her relationship with men throughout this story and near the end finds that she can be complete within herself.
• Throughout the books Cheryl also explores her relationship with her mother and her breakup with her husband Paul, experiencing a wide range of feelings, emotions and thoughts. I feel that these parts of the book are the most beautifully written, heart-felt and wrenching, especially about her mother. But it’s not until the end of the story that she really dives in deep and fully realizes all that has passed and all that it meant to her.

eBook Review

The beginning of the book has a map of the Pacific Coast Trail, dedication, an author’s note, and a prologue. The book is sectioned into five parts and nineteen chapters. There are no illustrations besides the map.

In the eBook version that I have and read along side the audiobook there are some extra parts at the end (I’m not sure if these are in the physical copy of the book or not). The first section is “Books Burned on the PCT” followed by the section “Wild By Cheryl Strayed Reading Group Guide”. These are notes and questions that can be used for discussion in book clubs. I think this part is very interesting and illuminating – for example Cheryl seems to candidly address if her lack of shame is a flaw or a strength by posing it as a question. The back of the book also has your standard acknowledgements, suggested reading, about the author, and more by this author sections.

Audiobook Review

• The audiobook version of Wild is narrated by Bernadette Dunne, who from my research appears to mainly be an audiobook narrator.
• I found Bernadette’s narration soothing and relaxing. She reads with an American accent.
• There is no true voicing of characters but it’s easy to tell when someone else is talking.
• I found the pace of the reading a bit slow.
• Overall I enjoyed the narration and it still sounded good at higher speeds.
• 13:02:36 in length.

NOTE: I borrowed the audiobook edition from my local library and own an eBook copy.

Favorite Quotes

“Every now and then I could see myself—truly see myself—and a sentence would come to me, thundering like a god into my head, and as I saw myself then in front of that tarnished mirror what came was the woman with the hole in her heart. That was me. That was why I’d longed for a companion the night before. That was why I was here, naked in a motel, with this preposterous idea of hiking alone for three months on the PCT.” Cheryl Strayed

Musical Suggestions

I enjoyed this book while listening to the playlist “ Travel Instrumentals – Uplifting ” on Spotify by Joshua Naranjo.

Learn More About Wild

• Watch the Wild book trailer .
• Watch the official Wild movie trailer .
• Watch a Wild movie interview with Reese Witherspoon, Laura Dern and Cheryl Strayed.
• Watch “ Interview Cheryl Strayed Reese Witherspoon WILD “.
• Visit the author Cheryl Strayed website and read more about the book, including praise, a reading guide, and a long book excerpt.
• Follow the author Cheryl Strayed on Goodreads .
• Visit the narrator Bernadette Dunne’s website .
• Read “ Lorelai Goes “Wild”: Book or Movie ” on Gilmore News.
• Read “ Why “Wild” Played Such A Big Role In “Gilmore Girls: A Year In The Life” ” on BuzzFeed.
• Find my short review on Goodreads .

This page may contain affiliate links and if you make a purchase I will earn a small commission fee. I only endorse books, products, services, or content that I have used myself and wouldn’t hesitate to purchase again or recommend to a friend. If you purchase anything that I’ve used here, I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I do! Read the full disclosure .

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Hi! My name is Arden, and I like to keep things simple but lux.

Join my reading adventures on Goodreads or follow me on Spotify or Instagram .

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Book Review: Wild by Cheryl Strayed

By: Author Laura

Posted on Published: 7th May 2018  - Last updated: 12th January 2024

Categories Book Reviews , Books

After reading this Wild book review, you’ll know exactly why everyone raves about Cheryl Strayed’s journey of self-discovery along the Pacific Crest Trail!

Wild Book Summary

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 humour,  Wild  powerfully captures the anxieties and pleasures of one young woman forging ahead against all odds on a journey that maddened, strengthened, and ultimately healed her

Wild Book Review

I recently discovered that I can borrow audiobooks from my local library via an app on my phone, which has completely revolutionised my reading and I’m finally making some headway on my reading challenge for the year! 

Wild by Cheryl Strayed is the first book I downloaded and whilst it took a few minutes to get used to the American accent, I really got stuck into it and finished it in no time.

RELATED: Scribd App Review : Audiobooks, e-books and more

After the sudden death of her mother and a string of extramarital affairs, Cheryl is lost. Wild , a true story, is the simple tale of a woman walking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), trying to get her life back on track.

She’s incredibly unprepared but sets off on this three month long journey all by herself and learns a heck of a lot about herself, strangers, strength, family and more.

Admittedly, I was drawn to this story because people raved about the Reese Witherspoon film adaptation when it came out, but I was worried it was going to be incredibly clichéd. I thought it was silly that people read this book and suddenly felt the need to go and “find themselves”.

But then I read it and, you guessed it , all I wanted to do was pull my hiking boots on, walk off into the distance and just spend some time with… me.

Cheryl Strayed’s story is both heartbreaking and inspiring. She alternates between telling you about her journey on the PCT and the significant events in her life that brought her to the trail. We learn about her family’s suffering and how she acted out by sleeping with lots of men, leading to the breakdown of her marriage.

She was living a life of self-destruction and she doesn’t try to hide that or sugarcoat it in any way. Her behaviour was reprehensible, which distanced me from past Cheryl, but drew me closer to present Cheryl. Her story is raw and real and whilst nothing hugely “exciting” happens to her on the trail, this slow burner will keep you hooked from start to finish. 

Cheryl doesn’t spare the gory details of how tough a three-month solo hike is – especially for someone who has never been backpacking before – and you’ll follow her on her journey as she loses her toenails one by one.

Her story is riddled with misfortune but she writes about it in such a matter of fact way that you can’t help but warm to her. At times, she’s even downright hilarious.

She optimistically packs some condoms for this solo hike and then realises that she’s barely washed, she’s covered in scrapes and cuts, and definitely hasn’t shaved her legs or lady parts. There’s no way she’s going to be getting down and dirty with anyone she meets along the trail!

Wild is entirely written in the first person and the focus is very much on Cheryl’s own spiritual journey. Yet I felt like I got to know all the secondary characters very well as Cheryl narrated her life story.

There’s her loving ex-husband Paul, who was a real stand up guy from beginning to end. After hearing about all she did to him and her experiences with other men, I wanted to shake her and scream “he’s a keeper!”

We’re also introduced to her tough best friend Lisa, who is determined for Cheryl to get back on the straight and narrow. She helps from afar throughout her time on the PCT by sending her letters and boxes of supplies to all her stops. 

Of course, there’s also her mother, whose passing kicked off this entire journey. We learn all about what happened to her from the moment she’s diagnosed with cancer to the moment she passes away, including the drama with her siblings along the way.

I most loved reading about Cheryl’s interactions with other Americans, either fellow hikers on the PCT or strangers at the pit stops she’d make every so often. I marvelled at the kindness of these strangers and can’t help wonder what it would be like to hike the PCT today, when we live in an increasingly closed-minded society.

Would people be quite so welcoming?

The real Cheryl Strayed walked the PCT way back in 1995 (the year I was born!), and I can’t help but feel the experience must be very, very different today.

All in all, Wild by Cheryl Strayed is a story that took me by surprise and exceeded expectations by far. It’s an inspiring tale that will both make you want to stay at home and hold your loved ones close but also run into the wild with nothing but a few essentials on your back.

I’d highly recommend this to anyone thinking of going hiking or solo travelling, it might just help you pluck up the courage to actually set off. I’d also recommend this to people who are comfortable where they are right now, this might inspire you to get up and try something new.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Buy Wild by Cheryl Strayed:  Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Waterstones | Blackwells

Watch Wild online now here

If you liked this post, you might also like: 15 Best Self-Discovery Books to Read The Life Changing Magic of Not Giving a F**k by Sarah Knight The Girlboss Workbook by Sophia Amoruso How to Be Both by Ali Smith Losing It by Helen Lederer Ghosts by Dolly Alderton 10 Empowering Life Lessons I Learnt from I Feel Pretty

Editor of What’s Hot?

Saturday 2nd of June 2018

Whoah whoah whoah...we can borrow audiobooks via our phone? This sounds awesome and I'm going to contact my library right now to see if I can do that. Thanks!

Yeah Lifestyle

Wild by Cheryl sounds like an interesting book to be reading, I am so glad that your Library also offers services to download audio book via an app to help encourage more people to read.

https://www.yeahlifestyle.com

Jenni Grainger

I’ve seen the film advertised but not watched it. It sounds like a really interesting read. It’s fab that you can get library books through an app now isn’t it. I do like a paperback though still x

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Wild : Book summary and reviews of Wild by Cheryl Strayed

Summary | Reviews | More Information | More Books

From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail

by Cheryl Strayed

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Published Mar 2012 336 pages Genre: Biography/Memoir Publication Information

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About this book

Book summary.

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.

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"Starred Review. A candid, inspiring narrative of the author's brutal physical and psychological journey through a wilderness of despair to a renewed sense of self." - Kirkus Reviews "Starred Review. Her account forms a charming, intrepid trial by fire, as she emerges from the ordeal bruised but not beaten, changed, a lone survivor." - Publishers Weekly "This book is less about the PCT and more about Strayed's own personal journey, which makes the story's scope a bit unclear. However, fans of her novel will likely enjoy this new book." - Library Journal

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Cheryl Strayed Author Biography

Photo: Joni Kabana

Cheryl Strayed's award-winning stories and essays have appeared in more than a dozen magazines, including the New York Times Magazine, Allure, Elle , and Nerve . Widely anthologized, her creative nonfiction has been selected twice for The Best American Essays , and Joyce Carol Oates singled her out for the opening piece in The Best New American Voices 2003 . Raised in Minnesota, Strayed has worked as a political organizer for women's advocacy groups and was an outreach worker at a sexual violence center in Minneapolis. She holds an MFA from the Syracuse University Graduate Creative Writing Program. She lives in Portland, Oregon. Since 2010, Cheryl has also been responsible for The Rumpus (therumpus.net) "Dear Sugar" column.

Author Interview Link to Cheryl Strayed's Website

Other books by Cheryl Strayed at BookBrowse

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Book Review: Wild by Kristin Hannah

Title:  Wild

Author:  Kristin Hannah

Published:  July 28th 2020

Publisher:  Pan Macmillan

Pages:  400

Genres:   Fiction, Contemporary

RRP:  $32.99

Rating:  4.5 stars

From the  New York Times  number one bestselling author of  The Nightingale  and  The Great Alone,  Kristin Hannah, comes  Wild , a remarkable story about the resilience of the human spirit, the triumph of hope, and the promise of new beginnings.

In the rugged Pacific Northwest of the United States lies the Olympic National Forest – a vast expanse of impenetrable darkness and impossible beauty. From deep within this mysterious land, a six-year-old girl appears. Speechless and alone, she offers no clue as to her identity, no hint of her past.

Having retreated to her hometown after a scandal left her career in ruins, child psychiatrist Dr. Julia Cates begins working with the extraordinary little girl. Naming her Alice, Julia is determined to free her from a prison of unimaginable fear and isolation, and discover the truth about Alice’s past. The shocking facts of Alice’s life test the limits of Julia’s faith and strength, even as she struggles to make a home for Alice – and find a new one for herself.

** Published in the US as  Magic Hour  **

First published in 2006 as The Magic Hour , Wild by Kristin Hannah has seen a recent re-release. My copy is 2020 Macmillan edition. The story of a fragile young girl who mysteriously emerges from the forest with no family, Wild is an intriguing domestic drama. With the help of a disgraced child psychologist, secrets and heartbreaking revelations come to light concerning this little girl’s past. Wild was another highly riveting tale from the New York Times bestselling author.

Trekking to the Pacific North West region in the US, Wild unveils the astonishing story of a little girl who emerges unaccompanied from the Olympic National Forest, a place of rugged beauty and depth. This child appears with only a wolf as company and is deemed mute to her lack of interaction with those who come into contact with her. Huge questions surround this girl. As the local townsfolk battle to uncover the girl’s identity and her past, this proves to be a perplexing case. The local law enforcement realise they are in over their heads with this strange situation. One local officer calls on her sister, a renowned child psychologist, to assist with this baffling case. Doctor Julia works tirelessly to try and unlock the secrets of the little girl’s past. Julia nicknames the girl Alice and slowly they begin to take some steps towards uncovering Alice’s true identity, along with her tragic past. As the bond between doctor and patient grows, this proves to be a case that will test all involved in order to attain a just resolution.

Since the global success of her novel The Nightingale Kristin Hannah has amassed a legion of fans. It is great to see this author gain such worthy recognition, as I consider Hannah one of my own favorite authors. Thanks to this success, we have seen some of Hannah’s older titles re-released with new covers and fresh titles, as is the case with Wild . Previously released in 2006 as The Magic Hour , Macmillan has rebadged this compelling story for new readers to discover. Wild was a book I couldn’t draw myself away from. It was riveting from start to finish, offering moments of heartbreak, sentiment and mystery.

The principal mystery of this tale revolves around the remarkable discovery of a young girl of approximately six years old, who emerges from a dense forest, with only a wolf as company. It seems quite unbelievable, but we learn through the author’s background work on this book that there have been a number of cases of ‘wild’ children, left to fend for themselves in unpopulated areas across the world. I found this quite fascinating. I also thought it was a fantastic opener and overall concept for a novel. The way in which Hannah sets the scene and the early intrigue surrounding this girl’s true identity is what enticed me to turn page after page of Wild at fairly breakneck speed. I found my enjoyment in this tale was sustained throughout, my only criticism of Wild would be the fast resolution and the questions I had concerning the nitty gritty details of how the wild girl came to remain in the forest.

There is a side focus on tenuous sisterly relations in Wild . We have Doctor Julia facing a career crisis when she is called in by her law enforcement sister to assist with the wild girl case. I enjoyed the dynamics and issues that arose between the two sisters as the story progressed. We are also given an insight into a number of other supporting characters and their personal impact on the case at hand. I enjoyed these interactions. In addition, we are privy to two separate romances that spark between the two sisters in the novel, which offsets the mystery focus of the tale.

The most fascinating aspect of Wild has to be the young wild girl herself – nicknamed Alice by Doctor Julia. I worked alongside Julia with my educational framework, trying to diagnose this young girl. With Julia, I questioned the possibility of Alice being mute, autistic or impacted by trauma. Either way, it is both eye opening and heartbreaking. The development and progression Alice takes towards assimilating into society, along with her slow steps in reaching out for human contact was touching. It was interesting to be able to develop some theories on what happened to Alice. In the end the final turn events did seem plausible, but I did have some lingering thoughts on the scenario presented.

Wild is a story of connection, disconnection, hope, bravery, mystery, revelations and belonging. Kristin Hannah has produced another emotional contemporary drama with this release.

Wild by Kristin Hannah was published on 28th July 2020 by Pan Macmillan. Details on how to purchase the book can be found here.

To learn more about the author of  Wild, Kristin Hannah, visit  here.

Book Review: Little Disasters by Sarah Vaughan

POPSUGAR READING CHALLENGE 2020: The Yankee Widow by Linda Lael Miller

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INTO THE WILD

by Jon Krakauer ‧ RELEASE DATE: Jan. 1, 1996

A wonderful page-turner written with humility, immediacy, and great style. Nothing came cheap and easy to McCandless, nor...

The excruciating story of a young man on a quest for knowledge and experience, a search that eventually cooked his goose, told with the flair of a seasoned investigative reporter by Outside magazine contributing editor Krakauer (Eiger Dreams, 1990). 

Chris McCandless loved the road, the unadorned life, the Tolstoyan call to asceticism. After graduating college, he took off on another of his long destinationless journeys, this time cutting all contact with his family and changing his name to Alex Supertramp. He was a gent of strong opinions, and he shared them with those he met: "You must lose your inclination for monotonous security and adopt a helter-skelter style of life''; "be nomadic.'' Ultimately, in 1992, his terms got him into mortal trouble when he ran up against something—the Alaskan wild—that didn't give a hoot about Supertramp's worldview; his decomposed corpse was found 16 weeks after he entered the bush. Many people felt McCandless was just a hubris-laden jerk with a death wish (he had discarded his map before going into the wild and brought no food but a bag of rice). Krakauer thought not. Admitting an interest that bordered on obsession, he dug deep into McCandless's life. He found a willful, reckless, moody boyhood; an ugly little secret that sundered the relationship between father and son; a moral absolutism that agitated the young man's soul and drove him to extremes; but he was no more a nutcase than other pilgrims. Writing in supple, electric prose, Krakauer tries to make sense of McCandless (while scrupulously avoiding off-the-rack psychoanalysis): his risky behavior and the rites associated with it, his asceticism, his love of wide open spaces, the flights of his soul.

Pub Date: Jan. 1, 1996

ISBN: 0-679-42850-X

Page Count: 320

Publisher: Villard

Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Oct. 15, 1995

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SEEN & HEARD

by Elie Wiesel & translated by Marion Wiesel ‧ RELEASE DATE: Jan. 16, 2006

The author's youthfulness helps to assure the inevitable comparison with the Anne Frank diary although over and above the...

Elie Wiesel spent his early years in a small Transylvanian town as one of four children. 

He was the only one of the family to survive what Francois Maurois, in his introduction, calls the "human holocaust" of the persecution of the Jews, which began with the restrictions, the singularization of the yellow star, the enclosure within the ghetto, and went on to the mass deportations to the ovens of Auschwitz and Buchenwald. There are unforgettable and horrifying scenes here in this spare and sombre memoir of this experience of the hanging of a child, of his first farewell with his father who leaves him an inheritance of a knife and a spoon, and of his last goodbye at Buchenwald his father's corpse is already cold let alone the long months of survival under unconscionable conditions. 

Pub Date: Jan. 16, 2006

ISBN: 0374500010

Page Count: 120

Publisher: Hill & Wang

Review Posted Online: Oct. 7, 2011

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 15, 2006

BIOGRAPHY & MEMOIR | HOLOCAUST | HISTORY | GENERAL BIOGRAPHY & MEMOIR | GENERAL HISTORY

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by Elie Wiesel ; edited by Alan Rosen

by Elie Wiesel ; illustrated by Mark Podwal

by Elie Wiesel ; translated by Marion Wiesel

THE PURSUIT OF HAPPYNESS

From mean streets to wall street.

by Chris Gardner with Quincy Troupe ‧ RELEASE DATE: June 1, 2006

Well-told and admonitory.

Young-rags-to-mature-riches memoir by broker and motivational speaker Gardner.

Born and raised in the Milwaukee ghetto, the author pulled himself up from considerable disadvantage. He was fatherless, and his adored mother wasn’t always around; once, as a child, he spied her at a family funeral accompanied by a prison guard. When beautiful, evanescent Moms was there, Chris also had to deal with Freddie “I ain’t your goddamn daddy!” Triplett, one of the meanest stepfathers in recent literature. Chris did “the dozens” with the homies, boosted a bit and in the course of youthful adventure was raped. His heroes were Miles Davis, James Brown and Muhammad Ali. Meanwhile, at the behest of Moms, he developed a fondness for reading. He joined the Navy and became a medic (preparing badass Marines for proctology), and a proficient lab technician. Moving up in San Francisco, married and then divorced, he sold medical supplies. He was recruited as a trainee at Dean Witter just around the time he became a homeless single father. All his belongings in a shopping cart, Gardner sometimes slept with his young son at the office (apparently undiscovered by the night cleaning crew). The two also frequently bedded down in a public restroom. After Gardner’s talents were finally appreciated by the firm of Bear Stearns, his American Dream became real. He got the cool duds, hot car and fine ladies so coveted from afar back in the day. He even had a meeting with Nelson Mandela. Through it all, he remained a prideful parent. His own no-daddy blues are gone now.

Pub Date: June 1, 2006

ISBN: 0-06-074486-3

Publisher: Amistad/HarperCollins

Kirkus Reviews Issue: March 15, 2006

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• BOOK REVIEW
• 05 April 2024

Wild women and restoring public trust: Books in brief

• Andrew Robinson 0

Andrew Robinson’s many books include Lost Languages: The Enigma of the World’s Undeciphered Scripts and Einstein on the Run: How Britain Saved the World’s Greatest Scientist . He is based in London.

You can also search for this author in PubMed   Google Scholar

Troy Tassier Johns Hopkins Univ. Press (2024)

An adage in epidemiology states that, if you’ve seen one epidemic, you’ve seen one epidemic. However, argues economist Troy Tassier in his thoughtful history, in almost every epidemic, the rich escape and survive while the poor stay and suffer. Take the London plague of 1625 — the wealthy fled, food prices soared and the poor starved, until eventually King Charles I taxed the rich refugees. To avoid future epidemic catastrophes, nations must support “universal access to high-quality health care” and “living wages for all workers”.

Dirk Van Hulle & Mark Nixon Bodleian Library Publishing (2024)

The Bodleian Library in Oxford, UK, stores draft manuscripts, including one of philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1921). The last line translates to “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent”, followed by his handwritten “Schluss!” (‘The End!’). Another, ‘The Mole & the Water Rat’ by writer Kenneth Grahame, was published as The Wind in the Willows (1908). Both are illustrated in this varied book about how authors compose and revise, by historian Dirk Van Hulle and literature researcher Mark Nixon.

Alpa Shah William Collins (2024)

India is a democracy, but between 2018 and 2020, its government imprisoned, so far without trial, 16 Indian academics, lawyers, poets and journalists, notable for defending human rights. It accused them — on fraudulent evidence — of being Maoist terrorists plotting to kill Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi. The case is a “bellwether for the collapse of democracy in India”, argues anthropologist Alpa Shah, in her deeply researched and frequently shocking account of how Hindu nationalism has created “an Indian form of fascism”.

Philippa Forrester Bloomsbury Wildlife (2024)

A prime-time TV presenter and producer of science documentaries, Philippa Forrester holds degrees in English literature and ecology. In 2015, she moved from the United Kingdom to Wyoming, where she encountered wolves, grizzly bears and moose, before returning home. In this personal and readable account of women working in nature over several centuries, Forrester calls herself “a hybrid of scientist and storyteller”, belonging to no “wild” female archetype — neither a practical “nurturer” nor a spiritual “crazy crone”.

Daniel Freeman William Collins (2024)

There needs to be a public discussion about trust, argues Daniel Freeman, the world’s leading paranoia researcher: on both “the forces that undermine it, and the measures we can take to restore it”. Some 1–3% of the population have severe paranoia. Such mistrust might be why conspiracy theories flourished during the COVID-19 pandemic. But there is hope, Freeman concludes, if world leaders work together, as US president Ronald Reagan and Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev did during the cold war.

doi: https://doi.org/10.1038/d41586-024-01025-4

Competing Interests

The author declares no competing interests.

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Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail (Oprah's Book Club 2.0) Kindle Edition

• Print length 338 pages
• Language English
• Sticky notes On Kindle Scribe
• Publisher Vintage
• Publication date March 20, 2012
• File size 3734 KB
• Page Flip Enabled
• Word Wise Enabled
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Editorial Reviews

Amazon.com review, from author cheryl strayed.

I wrote the last line of my first book, Torch, and then spent an hour crying while lying on a cool tile floor in a house on a hot Brazilian island. After I finished my second book, Wild, I walked alone for miles under a clear blue sky on an empty road in the Oregon Outback. I sat bundled in my coat on a cold patio at midnight staring up at the endless December stars after completing my third book, Tiny Beautiful Things . There are only a handful of other days in my life--my wedding, the births of my children--that I remember as vividly as those solitary days on which I finished my books. The settings and situations were different, but the feeling was the same: an overwhelming mix of joy and gratitude, humility and relief, pride and wonder. After much labor, I'd made this thing. A book. Though it wasn't technically that yet.

The real book came later--after more work, but this time it involved various others, including agents, publishers, editors, designers, and publicists, all of whose jobs are necessary but sometimes indecipherable to me. They're the ones who transformed the thousands of words I'd privately and carefully conjured into something that could be shared with other people. "I wrote this!" I exclaimed in amazement when I first held each actual, physical book in my hands. I wasn't amazed that it existed; I was amazed by what its existence meant: that it no longer belonged to me.

Two months before Wild was published I stood on a Mexican beach at sunset with my family assisting dozens of baby turtles on their stumbling journey across the sand, then watching as they disappeared into the sea. The junction between writer and author is a bit like that. In one role total vigilance is necessary; in the other, there's nothing to do but hope for the best. A book, like those newborn turtles, will ride whatever wave takes it.

It's deeply rewarding to me when I learn that something I wrote moved or inspired or entertained someone; and it's crushing to hear that my writing bored or annoyed or enraged another. But an author has to stand back from both the praise and the criticism once a book is out in the world. The story I chose to write in Wild for no other reason than I felt driven to belongs to those who read it, not me. And yet I'll never forget what it once was, long before I could even imagine how gloriously it would someday be swept away from me.

From Booklist

About the author.

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 of the WBUR podcast Dear Sugar Radio, co-hosted with Steve Almond; and Torch, her debut novel. Her books have been translated into forty languages, and her essays and other writings have appeared in numerous publications.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

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• ASIN ‏ : ‎ B005IQZB14
• Publisher ‏ : ‎ Vintage; 1st edition (March 20, 2012)
• Publication date ‏ : ‎ March 20, 2012
• Language ‏ : ‎ English
• File size ‏ : ‎ 3734 KB
• Text-to-Speech ‏ : ‎ Enabled
• Screen Reader ‏ : ‎ Supported
• Enhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled
• X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Enabled
• Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled
• Sticky notes ‏ : ‎ On Kindle Scribe
• Print length ‏ : ‎ 338 pages
• Page numbers source ISBN ‏ : ‎ 0307476073
• #99 in Adventure Travel (Kindle Store)
• #348 in Travel (Kindle Store)
• #428 in Pacific West United States Travel Books

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Cheryl strayed.

Cheryl Strayed is the author of the #1 New York Times bestseller Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, which has sold more than 4 million copies worldwide and was made into an Oscar-nominated major motion picture. Her book Tiny Beautiful Things is currently being adapted for a Hulu television show that will be released in early 2023. In 2016, Tiny Beautiful Things was adapted as a play that has been staged in theaters around the world. Strayed is also the author of the critically acclaimed debut novel, Torch, and the collection Brave Enough, which brings together more than one hundred of her inspiring quotes. Her award-winning essays and short stories have been published in The Best American Essays, the New York Times, the Washington Post Magazine, Vogue, Salon, and elsewhere. She has hosted two hit podcasts, Sugar Calling and Dear Sugars. She lives in Portland, Oregon.

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In ‘Clear,’ a Planned Eviction Leads to Two Men’s Life-Changing Connection

In Carys Davies’s latest novel, a financially struggling pastor is dispatched to a remote island to evict its lone resident.

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CLEAR , by Carys Davies

Carys Davies’s work is often interested in imagining the worldview of characters whose cultures and languages are destroyed by colonialism. It’s a daring and necessary undertaking: When language itself is extinguished and culture allowed to disappear, we cannot mourn except through imagination. Davies’s books — which include the novels “The Mission House” and “West” — attend to individual characters and brief events but the stakes are high.

In her new novel, “Clear,” the lost language is Norn, spoken on the Shetland Islands for several centuries. The islands were subject to the Clearances in the 19th century, when landlords violently evicted whole communities from Scottish land.

Davies’s imagined Norn speaker is Ivar, the last person left of a small island community after his father and brothers died at sea, and his mother, sister and neighbors died or departed for better lives on more populated isles. Before their numbers diminished, the islanders paid rent to their landlord by bartering hand-knitting, feathers, seaweed and farm labor, tending to the island’s livestock. But now that Ivar is alone, he can’t pay. For years the collection agent has not visited, but the novel opens with the end of this era. The wealthy family that owns the island has decided that the land must be cleared, and so their agent employs a penurious pastor, John Ferguson, to travel to the land and evict Ivar.

John is ambivalent about the job, though relieved to be earning a good sum for the assignment. Like so many foot soldiers of empire, he can see the ethical problems of his task but he needs the money. He has left the established church over a matter of principle and needs to finance a breakaway group, and he has also recently married Mary, a lively and curious woman whom he wants to support. Mary approves of his religious calling but is dubious about this moneymaking mission.

John arrives on the island, and, exploring on his first morning there, falls off a cliff. The story is simple after that: Ivar finds and cares for John; as John heals, he and Ivar become close; John postpones the brutal act that is his purpose on the island; and then Mary comes in search of her missing husband.

But the storytelling is sophisticated and playful, swooping back across decades to Mary’s childhood and John’s vocation, and among different points of view. We leap between John’s and Ivar’s voices on the island, to Mary now and in the past, and, at the moment of John’s accident, into a second-person voice and a glorious, anachronistic aerial view unknown to the 19th-century gaze: “If you’d been up in the island above the sky that morning with the gannets … you would have seen his tiny black figure leaving the Baillie house and making its way across patches of pink thrift and lush green pasture.”

This is a novel of aftermath, the island’s lifeways over and its community gone. It’s a “Robinson Crusoe” in reverse, where, rather than inventing imperial capitalism, the man alone on the island thinks outside modern structures of knowledge and power. There’s no nostalgia, just playful attention to time and place.

“Clear” is deeply interested in language and particularly in words for the natural world. John cannot distinguish different fogs and mists for which Ivar has terms. “He still couldn’t differentiate, for example, between the great number of words that to him seemed to denote ‘a rough sea.’ Nor could he separate a gob from a gagl , a degi from a dyapl, a dwog from a diun .” John’s alienated gaze misses what matters for survival; his theological scholarship doesn’t help here.

Davies has done her research and these are real words in a real dead language. “Clear” contemplates fictional resuscitations, opening itself, and its readers, to the ghosts of lost ideas through John’s dawning understanding and love of Ivar’s words. The novel is bold and inevitably not flawless — the ending gestures toward an unconvincing resolution — but if you like wild writing and high-stakes thinking in small, polished form, you’ll like this.

CLEAR | By Carys Davies | Scribner | 193 pp. | $24

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