Wild, Cheryl Strayed
I read parts of Wild sitting in the passenger seat of my mom's car, driving back to Oregon from a visit to see her parents in the Sierra Nevada. We took I-5 and reminisced about road trips when I was a girl, getting lost trying to find a place to stop for a picnic at Castle Crags. The drive took longer than I thought it would, and I grew impatient to get back to Portland. Still, as we passed signs for the Pacific Crest Trail, I couldn't help but think that perhaps slowing down, not speeding up, would be a wise course; Strayed certainly benefited from her months of contemplation with Monster, a few good books, and the West's wilds spread before her.