Wild

Sometimes we have no idea what we are capable of...

I read this book at the right time. As I've mentioned before 2015 has been a banner year...for crap. My Grandfather passed away in April or May. It was all kind of a blur. But I do know that two weeks before my mom's best friend's mom, who I had grown up affectionately calling my Grandma Bobbie, had died as well. Fairly suddenly. Almost tragically. We were on the road at the time, for work, and just could not get away for her visitation or celebration of life. I spent the week in Savannah, Georgia curled up in a ball, alternating sobbing with staring out at the large cargo ships on the Savannah River outside my hotel. I hadn't seen her in years, but it hurt like a knife. Her own daughter seemed more composed and would call to sort of talk me off a cliff. I think I was mostly numb when my Grandfather then passed, quite painfully, when we got home.

So, as I said, I read this at about the right time...

I suppose I could have read it earlier in the year. But I couldn't handle it then, I don't think. I instead decided to vigorously start gardening, spending the entire afternoon after my Grandfather's funeral fixing our incredibly small backyard into an even tinier garden plot. I read up on herbology (herbalism, I guess, is the more appropriate term. I blame my time playing World of Warcraft). I wanted to get back to the earth, somehow. My friends, understanding my distress, took me to a cabin for a weekend, and it still amazes me how much it helped. And as a bookend to the year, we went camping again, this time in tents, over a cold, rainy, Halloween weekend.

It was a mess. It was raining and cold when we arrived, already dark outside. And like the unprepared noobs we were, we forgot to make sure our old tent had it's rain fly... it did not. And one of the hooks for the tent rods was broken, and I had to fashion a solution with a spare key ring to even be able to build and stake the tent down. I had only gone camping a few times with my family in my childhood, remembering only vaguely how to set up camp, or build a fire. We had an extra tarp that was about three-sizes too big to keep the rain out the rest of the weekend. The sun didn't come out until the last day as we started to pack up. It wasn't the trip I had imagined; we weren't even an hour from our home. But it was still the trip I needed, all the same.

In short, I had my deepest sympathies for Cheryl Strayed, when I started reading her book that weekend. She was unprepared, so was I. She was finding solace in the elements, and whether I wanted to admit my grief or not, so was I...

When you are out in the wilderness, of any kind or intensity, you have to prioritize. You have to decide what is worth your energy and focus, and in some cases, the small dry space you share with your sleeping bags. You can't quit. I mean, you can. But you won't. You see what you are made of, what you can do when you don't have any other reasonable options.

I could see why a lot of people would NOT like this book. A young woman, whose mother dies, leaving her in shambles, soon divorced, and an addict of both sex and drugs. Reckless. Naive. I could see why that would be frustrating to read. This main character isn't an hero... but I think, she's still worth cheering for. She is the perpetual underdog. A complete mess. But endearing, I think, for it. Perhaps I give her too much credit, charmed the same as the people along the Pacific Crest Trail, whose charity helps her through. But they too are such charming characters that give life to the wilderness of the PCT. I wanted to be out on the trail with her, although I'm certain I would do worse than she did herself. After all, even my roughest camping adventures still require some semblance of a bathroom.

I also admire her perseverance. As a notorious quitter, I probably wouldn't have made it a week on the trail that she traveled for a summer. I may be the age now that she was then, but there is a distinct gap in maturity, or more accurately, will.

And her mourning for her mother? Well, that was especially hard. I'm incredibly close to my mother, and I don't want to imagine what that was like for Strayed. But she makes it so clear what she experienced. But there was still hope and toward the end, clarity. Some semblance of peace. I admit, I almost cried when I saw her mother's name finally. Bobbi. So close to the name of one of the loved ones who left us all this year. A kindred spirit in many ways, too many to name here. And although I haven't hiked a thousand miles, or even a dozen, I'm beginning to hope for the same kind of peace that Strayed finds, and hopefully in time for the bittersweet holiday season.

I read it at the right time, I think.

(Five out of five stars).