Last weekend, I finished reading Cheryl Strayed's Wild. I didn't expect to like this book. Whenever lots of people like something, I assume that I won't like it. Sometimes I'm right. Sometimes I'm not.
This time, I was wrong.
This is a beautiful book.
Following Strayed through her journey from grief, mindless promiscuity, and recreational drug use to her ups and downs (literally) on the Pacific Crest Trail as she hiked hundreds of miles by herself was a fascinating trip. There were the moments where she came to terms with the depths of grief from the loss of her mother, and there were the moments of near comic relief that came from her relationship to Monster, her oversized backpack that at first was so heavy she couldn't stand up with it on.
This is such an oversimplification of a life-changing decision. This book has depth and charm and honesty. It has style and grace and humor and tears, and if you still haven't read it, then you are a bigger fool than I was for waiting as long as I did. Read it.