Over the years I've met a lot of people who have trekked from Mexico to Canada on the Pacific Crest Trail. Indeed, we have employed at least four guides since I've been here who have made the journey. The trail's length and the endurance it takes to hike it are things to be admired. The trail stretches 2,663 miles and most people take five months to hike it. Strayed walked 1,100 miles on a 100-day expedition, which is nothing to scoff at.
But what I found truly engaging about Wild was not the adventure travel narrative. Instead it was the journey within the journey. As such, it didn't matter that she hadn't hiked the whole trail. That's not what the book was about.
It didn't matter that everything from my cheap knock-off sandals to my high-tech-by-1995-standard boots and backpack would have been foreign to them (the trail's founders), because what mattered was utterly timeless. It was the thing that compelled them to fight for the trail against all odds, and it was the thing that drove me and every other long distance hiker onward on the most miserable days. It had nothing to do with gear or footwear or backpacking fads or philosophies of any particular era or even getting from point A to point B.
It had only to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel that way. That's what Montgomery knew, I supposed. And what Clarke knew and Rogers and what thousands of people who preceded and followed them knew. It was what I knew before I even really did, before I could have known how truly hard and glorious the PCT would be, how profoundly the trail would both shatter and shelter me.
There are dozens of beautiful and heartbreaking moments in Wild. We cry for Cheryl's mother. We cry for Cheryl's ex-husband who tries to deal with her grief, but can't handle it when the grief turns to adultery. We cry for a horse that has to be put down and is done so sloppily. We cry for Cheryl's drug abuse. And finally we cry for Cheryl... We want her to survive, not just the trail, but her grief. We want her to learn what she needs to learn from the wilderness, and we want her to bring her knowledge back with her.
I went into the women's restroom. As I brushed my teeth before a flourescently lit mirror above a bank of sinks, a woman said, "I like your feather," and pointed to it on my pack.
"Thanks," I said, our eyes meeting in the mirror. She was pale and brown-eyed with a bumpy nose and a long braid down her back; dressed in a tie-dyed T-shirt and a pair of patched up cutoff jeans and Birkenstock sandals. "My friend gave it to me," I mumbled as toothpaste dribbled out of my mouth. It seemed like forever since I'd talked to a woman.
"It's got to be a corvid," she said, reaching over to touch it delicately with one finger. "It's either a raven or a crow, a symbol of the void," she added, in a mystical tone.
"The void?" I'd asked, crestfallen.
"It's a good thing," she said. "It's the place where things are born, where they begin. Think about how a black hole absorbs energy and then releases it as something new and alive."
The wilderness is the void, and the adventures that we take there are what shape us. This is implied throughout the cannon of outdoor literature; but few books take us simultaneously so deeply into the crucible of the backcountry as well as into that of the human heart. Wild is a funny, adventurous and heart-wrenching tale that reminds us of something that we already know. That wilderness and our adventures there can heal us and give us hope.
--Jason D. Martin