Cheryl Strayed's Wild Is a 2nd Skin for the Soul

Cheryl Strayed is a motherfucking heart surgeon. Her new memoir, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, is the wound. But it's also the healing, and it's also the raw, muscular pulse of human triumph.

I've followed Strayed's work for a while, in her Dear Sugar incarnations and elsewhere, so the themes of Wild are familiar. Strayed's mourning over the too-early death of her mother from cancer. The brief affair with heroin. The many brief affairs with men that led to the slow disintegration of her first marriage. The people she called “family” falling away despite her attempts to keep them together. The peculiar wanting and lust that undercut her many griefs, so frank they feel almost oppressive in their evocation.

“The wanting was a wilderness and I had to find my own way out of the woods,” she writes early on. Yet despite my knowledge of Strayed's major life plots, they took on a different feel when told through the lens of an agonizing, sun-scorched and snow-blown hike from the Mojave Desert to Washington state on the Pacific Crest Trail. 

Strayed, who appears tonight at Book Passage in the Ferry Building, was not an experienced hiker when, at 26, she took a really long walk to put her life back together — 1,100 miles, to be exact. Throughout her (mis)adventures with rattlesnakes, bears, waking up covered in frogs, and losing her shoes off the side of a mountain, Strayed's journey is deeply resonant and symbolic, from the monstrously heavy pack that was “my burden to bear, of my very own ludicrous making” to the new name she gives herself after divorcing her husband: “I saw the power of the darkness. Saw that, in fact, I had strayed and that I was a stray and that from the wild ­places my straying had brought me, I knew things I couldn't have known before.”

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