So, four years later, in another restless summer with my up-north trip just days away, I turned back to Wild.

BY SEAGER WAKIL

IMAGE BY JASMINE COWAN

I am always trying to find symbolism in everything. My therapist calls this meaning-making, and says that I should relax. I call it trying to find a thrill in the mundanity of life. Regardless of what it’s called, it is, for better or worse, what I do. 

I also love the book Wild. For those who didn’t buy the book after watching the 2014 film adaptation, it is a great story featuring exciting anecdotes about backpacking in the desert and heartbreaking, yet hopeful, reflections on life. To me, obviously, it was inspiring, if not life-changing, to experience this journey second-hand.  

I am, however, too lazy to actually “do Wild.” By “do Wild” I mean go on a cross-country hike that leads to a spiritual awakening, which is what the author, Cheryl Strayed, does in her memoir. 

But last August, when it was time for my annual trip to Algonquin Provincial Park… yeah, do you see where this is going? 

I was going to read Wild–well, re-read it. The first time I read it I was in my first year of university, so it often got fourth billing behind course readings, dorm parties, and watching Gilmore Girls. I brought Wild with me on my first ever Tinder date so I could read it at the bar before he arrived to look really smart and interesting. In a shocking turn of events, he did not care. He came late and talked to me about his bicycle and made me drink a bad IPA. I was so close to finishing the book, expecting to be engulfed in an enlightening climax that would heal my brain forever. Yet, there I was, mindlessly reading the end, hungover on the subway home the next morning. I chucked the book back on my shelf and listened to “Liability” by Lorde for the rest of the day. 

So, four years later, in another restless summer with my up-north trip just days away, I turned back to Wild. With no distractions, I was eager–well, desperate–for Cheryl’s wisdom to help me during my most recent quarter-life crisis. It was a stale suburban summer and I needed something to make me feel alive–or, at the very least, sane. I hoped that a small sliver of my own “wild” could help me the same way it helped Cheryl.  

The bags were packed, and I was on the open road, headed to Algonquin. It’s four hours north of my home. Not too far, but far enough, and with no cell service, which makes it feel even further. Honestly, that’s as much wilderness as I can handle. 

The park was beautiful; its lakes soothing and its forests comforting. I flew in my canoe, gliding across the water like skates over ice. I sat in the sun, renewed by the solar power. I was immersed in the kaleidoscope of colours that only nature could provide. Even after a year of forced isolation, I relished in being alone (well, technically my dad was with me, because obviously I cannot steer a canoe by myself).  

In this natural setting, my main character syndrome was activated. I was going to be just as resilient and reflective as my hero Cheryl… Right?  

On a hike, while trying to stay present in the moment, naturally my mind went everywhere but. 

Am I doing this right? Have I found myself yet? Is it bad that I’m tired after only a mile? 

Did I peak as a teen? Am I now washed up at 23? Does God exist, and, if so, does She think I’m a bad person? Am I incredibly introspective and intuitive, or am I just a narcissist who thinks about himself too much? If this doesn’t work, then what do I do? 

I wish that I’d used some of that insight to spot the root sticking out of the ground right in front of me. By the time I was actually present again in the moment, I was falling down to the ground. 

Once I realized I was intact, but before I could bring myself to stand back up, I caught the view from below. The trees looked even grander as they reached for the bright blue sky, the sun shining through them. My body was sore, but I had to laugh. It took me tripping on a root to bring me back to Earth; out of my mind and onto the ground. With the force of the fall still pulsing through my veins, I was grateful for what I saw from down below.  

That was it. That was when I realized that what I saw as obstacles in my life were actually opportunities. The disappointments, the flaws, and the mistakes have actually all been messages and guideposts; chances to learn, to grow, and to heal.  

I needed to meet the bad to welcome the good. 

Like, for example, did I need to suffer through tweenage acne to learn how to properly wash my face? 

Okay, if that one doesn’t make sense… did I have to get rear-ended to learn how to drive carefully?  

Or did I have to compulsively lie to my therapist so I could finally learn how to be honest with myself? 

Did I need to depend so much on others, losing myself in exchange for their lacklustre love, before I could even begin to like who I am?  

The codependence taught me to be independent. I would settle for anything because I thought I had nothing. But I have learned that I am something. 

Did I need to hear all those negative words before I could speak a kinder language? 

Maybe it took being left behind for me to learn how to look after myself–to raise myself the way I wish I had been, the way I know I deserved to be. 

Maybe it took brutally betraying my own body to witness my own natural resilience. 

Maybe wanting life to end made me desperate to create a life I like. 

I don’t know. Maybe these things didn’t need to happen. Maybe they symbolize nothing. Maybe accidents do happen, and people are selfish, and I make dumb mistakes.  

But maybe this is what I need to do: grab the pieces from the floor, throw them into a box, and gently place it on the shelf. Maybe I need to make sense of my past in order to move on; to adjust my rearview mirror so I can go forward. 

So there, in the middle of Algonquin Park, dirty, sore, and enlightened, I finally got to micro-dose Wild. Was it what I wanted? Was it what I needed? Was it all that I hoped it would be? 

God, it’s exhausting being this dramatic.  

Seager Wakil is a writer based in Toronto and a student in the TV Writing and Producing program. Outside of writing, he is interested in humour, pop culture, and the self. This is his first (and hopefully not last) time being published.

Image: Shores (Jasmine Cowan, 2022)

Edited for publication by Alexandra Georgelos, as part of the Creative Book Publishing program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.