Bill Bryson is probably best known for his travel memoirs, but before "A Walk in the Woods," the only one of his books I'd read was "The Mother Tongue," a delightfully rambling exploration of the English language. I've since read reviews in which people who seem to know what they're talking about claim that "The Mother Tongue" is more entertaining than it is accurate, but of course, language is an eternally complex and controversial subject. I enjoyed Bryson's wit and style, and I figured he probably couldn't go wrong narrating an adventure of his own rather than trying to convey to the reader the complexity of Finnish verb conjugations. After the juicy trainwreck that was Cheryl Strayed's "Wild," I was in the mood for a hiking memoir without the melodrama and psychobabble, something down-to-earth and smart and at least as much about the actual trail as about the author's metaphorical "journey." The deliciously understated title of Bryson's account of his 1996 attempt to tackle the Appalachian Trail promised exactly what I was looking for.
Oh, "A Walk in the Woods" could have been good. It could have been SO GOOD. For the most part, it actually was. The first couple of chapters had me almost shivering with delight at Bryson's curmudgeonly humor and self-deprecating wit, and once, I even laughed out loud. Bryson is the kind of unpretentious, straightforwardly spot-on prose stylist that makes good writing look terrifically easy. Throughout the book, he balances action and description, narrative momentum and entertaining diversions, with a masterful hand. Whatever subject Bryson takes up, be it continental drift or bear attacks or early American amateur botanists or a Pennsylvania coal fire that's burned for over thirty years (over fifty, as of the writing of this review) or the history of the trail itself, becomes instantly and effortlessly fascinating.
What almost ruined "A Walk in the Woods" for me, however, was almost every scene in which Bill Bryson interacts with other human beings. The traveling companion with whom Bryson shares most of his walk, Stephen Katz (a somewhat fictionalized version of his friend Matthew Angerer), is portrayed unflatteringly but ultimately with affection, and the book is dedicated to him. (Angerer has admitted in interviews that he's not thrilled about how Bryson portrays him, but it's a pretty accurate portrayal aside from a few fabricated or exaggerated incidents.) Almost everyone else Bryson meets on the trail, however, becomes an object of mockery. The gentle good humor of the first few chapters quickly turns nasty. It was funny when Bryson listed "loony hillbillies destabilized by gross quantities of impure corn liquor and generations of profoundly unbiblical sex" along with "rattlesnakes and water moccasins and nests of copperheads; bobcats, bears, coyotes, wolves, and wild boar; . . . rabies-crazed skunks, raccoons, and squirrels; merciless fire ants and ravening blackfly; poison ivy, poison sumac, poison oak, and poison salamanders; even a scattering of moose lethally deranged by a parasitic worm" in a catalogue of the trail's potential perils, but it stopped being funny when I realized he actually meant it: Bryson honestly expects the Appalachian woods to be full of violent, inbred stereotypes incarnate.
Look, I'm a bit of a curmudgeon myself. I *love* laughing at human stupidity. Nobody laughs louder than I do when Bill Engvall does his "Here's Your Sign" routine. However, Bryson's need to sneer at the intellectual poverty of nearly everyone he meets says more about him than it does about any of them. Towards the end of the book, he asks a fellow hiker he meets at a guesthouse a question he has to admit is "a trifle" inane, the sort of thing he's spent 250 pages mocking other people for saying, and then he has the gall to describe the manner of her answer as "serenely mindless." (When she and her traveling companion pray over their meal and credit God with helping them keep a positive attitude despite the rigors of the trail, Bryson "made a mental note to lock my door when I went to bed.") The first time Bryson decides to skip a portion of the trail, it's because the citizens of Tennessee are too stupid for his liking. (Even if Tennesseans were as cretinous as Bryson makes them out to be, it's unclear why that should matter when he's spending most of his time in the state *alone in the woods*.) If there's anything Bryson dislikes even more than stupid people, it's fat people. He himself admits at the beginning of the book to being somewhat less than svelte after "years of waddlesome sloth," and at the end that his exertions on the trail left him "slender and fit" for "a brief, proud period," which is implied to be long over. Other fat people, however, including his friend Katz, are just plain ridiculous and disgusting. Bryson professes admiration for a 350-pound man who thru-hiked the trail (which Bryson himself never even seriously attempted), but clearly doesn't admire him enough to refrain from calling him a "human beachball," or dismissing the 53 pounds the man lost as "a trifle, all things considered." Fat women, or any other female who doesn't meet Bryson's standard of attractiveness, who dare to express sexual interest in a man are simply beneath contempt. In perhaps the single meanest anecdote in a book liberally peppered with meanness, Bryson introduces us to "a charmless, gum-popping waitress who declined to be heartened by our wholesome smiles . . . let's call her Betty Slutz." Actually, there's no need to call her anything, since she's never mentioned again after this page - and the misogyny of the insult is purely gratuitous, since her behavior as Bryson describes it is surly, not sexually provocative.
Bryson's apparent delight in fault-finding carries over to the trail itself, although with less petty meanness. Anyone who heads out into the wilderness with a backpack has earned the right to grumble-brag a bit about aches and privations, but Bryson doesn't actually seem to enjoy the hike or really understand why he's doing it, except that he got the notion into his head and can't back out now (why do I get the feeling the fancy camping gear he buys was paid for with a publisher's advance?). He wishes the trail were a bit less wild, less wooded, more in contact with at least the fringes of civilization, even though he's profoundly unimpressed with nearly all of the towns it does pass through. (Most hikers, after several days or weeks in the woods, are nearly ecstatic for a chance to take a shower, eat a hot meal or two, sleep for a night in a proper bed, and listen awhile to the hum of human conversation before heading back out on the trail, but not Bryson: he wants cul-chah and refinement, or something.) He raises some valid criticisms of the National Park Service, but doesn't give them any credit for the things they actually have accomplished. Perhaps most damning, Bryson rails against acid rain and accidentally-imported tree diseases, but he treats Katz's littering, which he actually had the power to do something about, as a big joke.
Perhaps I'm doing a bit of a Bryson myself here, pointing out all the flaws of something I basically enjoyed. If I can't recommend "A Walk in the Woods" wholeheartedly, well, neither do I mean to say you *shouldn't* read it. Most of this book is a pleasure to read, both entertaining and informative, and often very funny. If you're considering a thru-hike (or even a substantial section-hike) of the Appalachian Trail, you'll want to read some accounts by those who have actually hiked the whole way, or made a serious attempt to do so. (Bryson hikes only about two-fifths of the trail; that's no mean accomplishment, especially since more than half that distance he was backpacking hardcore in Georgia, North Carolina, and Virginia, but he skipped or day-hiked nearly everything above the Mason-Dixon line - ironic, considering his utter disdain for the South.) For the armchair traveler, however, it's excellent fun and a journey well worth taking. I wish only that Bill Bryson had been better company along the way.
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Life takes on a neat simplicity, too. Time ceases to have any meaning. When it is dark, you go to bed, and when it is light again you get up, and everything in between is just in between. It’s quite wonderful, really.Highlighted by 2,150 Kindle readers- If there is one thing the AT teaches, it is low-level ecstasy—something we could all do with more of in our lives.Highlighted by 1,921 Kindle readers
- Altogether, it takes about five months, and five million steps, to walk the trail from end to end.Highlighted by 1,241 Kindle readers
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A masterpiece worthy of exulting the venerable Appalachian Trail
Reviewed in the United States on April 3, 2019
I am an avid reader. Yes, folks, I'm that annoying person who reads while standing in line, and even at red lights. I once finished an entire novel sitting in a doctor's waiting room-- but perhaps that says more about the doctor than it does about my reading abilities. haha. I also hold advanced degrees in both English and writing. I know good writing when I read it, and I have also stumbled wearily through books shoved at me from the hands of well meaning friends: "we know you love to read. Read this one and let me know what you think of it." Gah. Please don't be that person to your friends-- the frightful book foister. Please, I beg of you. Don't be that person. Don't make me flee from your presence like unfiled taxes fleeing from the IRS, to avoid said horrible book dumping.Tiresome celebrity biographies, reminiscent of a painful 9th grade essay, sold merely because a famous name is on it . . . let's admit it-- what can they really "tell all" about, when their lives are already a literal (equally wearying) open book? Romance novels, with a close up of a muscular hand clutching a lacy red bustier on the front, which after several dreary pages makes me feel like ripping it, literally, in half, and throwing the book away. Cookbooks-- there are a few decent ones in this "here read this!" genre, but many of them are thrown together to make a sale, and let's face it-- when is the last time you actually made a recipe from an actual cookbook? Exactly. You throw it in the bag for the beach, thumb through a few pages while smearing on sunscreen, and then toss it in the 'ole bookshelf when you get home, where it is destined to live for the rest of readless, purgatorial eternity.A friend recommended "A Walk in the Woods." Sigh, I thought. Another recommendation. I admire the "woods" from a distance, but I fear insects, snakes, vermin, rodents, and even the casual snap of a twig within their clutches. I do not camp. I do not eat camp food. I prefer to have my meals without a side of food poisoning. So you'd be right in thinking that my reaction was something like, "Ugh another referral. I will have less in common with this book than a Protestant would have with the Pope." I started it grudgingly, expecting to do the obligatory dragging of my eyes across the page until it was finally, relievingly, replete.Boy was I in for a surprise.Within the first few pages I surprised myself by chuckling. Then laughing. Then outright, from the gut, throwing back my head and howling. I stayed up until almost 1 AM that first night, devouring chapter after chapter, even though I had to be up early for work the next day. I just couldn't put it down. The writing is refreshingly honest-- at once thoughtful, hilarious, sarcastic, and downright well done. This is not the scribbling of a celebrity trying to sell books. This is the tale of someone who has truly lived a once in a lifetime kind of all-American experience. His observations about the conditions of the trails, the miraculous preservation efforts made by volunteers on the trail for decades, and even his views on life, are inspirational. His descriptions of the kooky characters, the beautiful, sweeping vistas of untouched wilderness that he discovered as he rounded thousands of wearying bends in the never-ending trails . . . it's magic. Pure magic. I can almost close my eyes and see it, so vivid are his descriptions of the meadows, the wildflowers, the soft sighing of the trees in the quiet breeze.I've always said that the best kind of writing contains three elements. First, it is relevant/relate-able to all. It takes an incredible author to take a subject about which I have little interest (camping), and make it relevant and interesting to me, yet he does. Second, it should have humor-- not the "polite chuckle" kind of humor, but a real, genuine, gut laughing kind of humor, hidden delightfully throughout the text, waiting to surprise you like golden treasure where you would least think to look. Third, it should have moments of piercing, beautiful clarity-- moments when you find yourself, for reasons you almost can't explain, blinking back the tears as some particularly poignant thought resonates through your very being.Bill Bryson delivers richly on all three counts. This book ended with my feeling deliciously and completely satiated, in every way. I laughed until my sides were sore, I cried at the honest, beautiful tendrils of his story as it wrapped its beautifully written arms around my heart. I shook my head solemnly with a deep, "Mmmm, yes" at the inspirations recorded within the story as he discovered, not just the beauty of the Appalachian Trail, but the beauty of life, warmth, family, and companionship. Perhaps the beauty of America is that a little bit of the magic resides in the heart of all of us. That's the message here. And it's a darned inspirational one.I haven't done this often, but a few times in my life a book is so wonderful-- so stupendous-- that I just can't bear to end it. So the moment I finish, I move my bookmark back to chapter 1. Not ending-- just starting again.My bookmark is resting in chapter 1 of this one.
Reviewed in the United States on April 3, 2019
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Reviewed in the United States on August 16, 2015
Reviewed in the United States on April 3, 2019
Tiresome celebrity biographies, reminiscent of a painful 9th grade essay, sold merely because a famous name is on it . . . let's admit it-- what can they really "tell all" about, when their lives are already a literal (equally wearying) open book?
Romance novels, with a close up of a muscular hand clutching a lacy red bustier on the front, which after several dreary pages makes me feel like ripping it, literally, in half, and throwing the book away. Cookbooks-- there are a few decent ones in this "here read this!" genre, but many of them are thrown together to make a sale, and let's face it-- when is the last time you actually made a recipe from an actual cookbook? Exactly. You throw it in the bag for the beach, thumb through a few pages while smearing on sunscreen, and then toss it in the 'ole bookshelf when you get home, where it is destined to live for the rest of readless, purgatorial eternity.
A friend recommended "A Walk in the Woods." Sigh, I thought. Another recommendation. I admire the "woods" from a distance, but I fear insects, snakes, vermin, rodents, and even the casual snap of a twig within their clutches. I do not camp. I do not eat camp food. I prefer to have my meals without a side of food poisoning. So you'd be right in thinking that my reaction was something like, "Ugh another referral. I will have less in common with this book than a Protestant would have with the Pope." I started it grudgingly, expecting to do the obligatory dragging of my eyes across the page until it was finally, relievingly, replete.
Boy was I in for a surprise.
Within the first few pages I surprised myself by chuckling. Then laughing. Then outright, from the gut, throwing back my head and howling. I stayed up until almost 1 AM that first night, devouring chapter after chapter, even though I had to be up early for work the next day. I just couldn't put it down. The writing is refreshingly honest-- at once thoughtful, hilarious, sarcastic, and downright well done. This is not the scribbling of a celebrity trying to sell books. This is the tale of someone who has truly lived a once in a lifetime kind of all-American experience. His observations about the conditions of the trails, the miraculous preservation efforts made by volunteers on the trail for decades, and even his views on life, are inspirational. His descriptions of the kooky characters, the beautiful, sweeping vistas of untouched wilderness that he discovered as he rounded thousands of wearying bends in the never-ending trails . . . it's magic. Pure magic. I can almost close my eyes and see it, so vivid are his descriptions of the meadows, the wildflowers, the soft sighing of the trees in the quiet breeze.
I've always said that the best kind of writing contains three elements. First, it is relevant/relate-able to all. It takes an incredible author to take a subject about which I have little interest (camping), and make it relevant and interesting to me, yet he does. Second, it should have humor-- not the "polite chuckle" kind of humor, but a real, genuine, gut laughing kind of humor, hidden delightfully throughout the text, waiting to surprise you like golden treasure where you would least think to look. Third, it should have moments of piercing, beautiful clarity-- moments when you find yourself, for reasons you almost can't explain, blinking back the tears as some particularly poignant thought resonates through your very being.
Bill Bryson delivers richly on all three counts. This book ended with my feeling deliciously and completely satiated, in every way. I laughed until my sides were sore, I cried at the honest, beautiful tendrils of his story as it wrapped its beautifully written arms around my heart. I shook my head solemnly with a deep, "Mmmm, yes" at the inspirations recorded within the story as he discovered, not just the beauty of the Appalachian Trail, but the beauty of life, warmth, family, and companionship. Perhaps the beauty of America is that a little bit of the magic resides in the heart of all of us. That's the message here. And it's a darned inspirational one.
I haven't done this often, but a few times in my life a book is so wonderful-- so stupendous-- that I just can't bear to end it. So the moment I finish, I move my bookmark back to chapter 1. Not ending-- just starting again.
My bookmark is resting in chapter 1 of this one.
A masterpiece worthy of exulting the venerable Appalachian Trail
Reviewed in the United States on April 3, 2019
I am an avid reader. Yes, folks, I'm that annoying person who reads while standing in line, and even at red lights. I once finished an entire novel sitting in a doctor's waiting room-- but perhaps that says more about the doctor than it does about my reading abilities. haha. I also hold advanced degrees in both English and writing. I know good writing when I read it, and I have also stumbled wearily through books shoved at me from the hands of well meaning friends: "we know you love to read. Read this one and let me know what you think of it." Gah. Please don't be that person to your friends-- the frightful book foister. Please, I beg of you. Don't be that person. Don't make me flee from your presence like unfiled taxes fleeing from the IRS, to avoid said horrible book dumping.Reviewed in the United States on April 3, 2019
Tiresome celebrity biographies, reminiscent of a painful 9th grade essay, sold merely because a famous name is on it . . . let's admit it-- what can they really "tell all" about, when their lives are already a literal (equally wearying) open book?
Romance novels, with a close up of a muscular hand clutching a lacy red bustier on the front, which after several dreary pages makes me feel like ripping it, literally, in half, and throwing the book away. Cookbooks-- there are a few decent ones in this "here read this!" genre, but many of them are thrown together to make a sale, and let's face it-- when is the last time you actually made a recipe from an actual cookbook? Exactly. You throw it in the bag for the beach, thumb through a few pages while smearing on sunscreen, and then toss it in the 'ole bookshelf when you get home, where it is destined to live for the rest of readless, purgatorial eternity.
A friend recommended "A Walk in the Woods." Sigh, I thought. Another recommendation. I admire the "woods" from a distance, but I fear insects, snakes, vermin, rodents, and even the casual snap of a twig within their clutches. I do not camp. I do not eat camp food. I prefer to have my meals without a side of food poisoning. So you'd be right in thinking that my reaction was something like, "Ugh another referral. I will have less in common with this book than a Protestant would have with the Pope." I started it grudgingly, expecting to do the obligatory dragging of my eyes across the page until it was finally, relievingly, replete.
Boy was I in for a surprise.
Within the first few pages I surprised myself by chuckling. Then laughing. Then outright, from the gut, throwing back my head and howling. I stayed up until almost 1 AM that first night, devouring chapter after chapter, even though I had to be up early for work the next day. I just couldn't put it down. The writing is refreshingly honest-- at once thoughtful, hilarious, sarcastic, and downright well done. This is not the scribbling of a celebrity trying to sell books. This is the tale of someone who has truly lived a once in a lifetime kind of all-American experience. His observations about the conditions of the trails, the miraculous preservation efforts made by volunteers on the trail for decades, and even his views on life, are inspirational. His descriptions of the kooky characters, the beautiful, sweeping vistas of untouched wilderness that he discovered as he rounded thousands of wearying bends in the never-ending trails . . . it's magic. Pure magic. I can almost close my eyes and see it, so vivid are his descriptions of the meadows, the wildflowers, the soft sighing of the trees in the quiet breeze.
I've always said that the best kind of writing contains three elements. First, it is relevant/relate-able to all. It takes an incredible author to take a subject about which I have little interest (camping), and make it relevant and interesting to me, yet he does. Second, it should have humor-- not the "polite chuckle" kind of humor, but a real, genuine, gut laughing kind of humor, hidden delightfully throughout the text, waiting to surprise you like golden treasure where you would least think to look. Third, it should have moments of piercing, beautiful clarity-- moments when you find yourself, for reasons you almost can't explain, blinking back the tears as some particularly poignant thought resonates through your very being.
Bill Bryson delivers richly on all three counts. This book ended with my feeling deliciously and completely satiated, in every way. I laughed until my sides were sore, I cried at the honest, beautiful tendrils of his story as it wrapped its beautifully written arms around my heart. I shook my head solemnly with a deep, "Mmmm, yes" at the inspirations recorded within the story as he discovered, not just the beauty of the Appalachian Trail, but the beauty of life, warmth, family, and companionship. Perhaps the beauty of America is that a little bit of the magic resides in the heart of all of us. That's the message here. And it's a darned inspirational one.
I haven't done this often, but a few times in my life a book is so wonderful-- so stupendous-- that I just can't bear to end it. So the moment I finish, I move my bookmark back to chapter 1. Not ending-- just starting again.
My bookmark is resting in chapter 1 of this one.
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