The day of my brother’s graduation party had finally arrived. We prepared all morning by carrying and setting up nearly a dozen tables with stacks upon stacks of chairs. Coolers were then stocked with enough soda, bottled water, and beer to fill a pond. Then the food was laid out, with each person hauling as much as they could carry back and forth, again and again. It was enough to feed an army, I joked.
A few hours later guests started to arrive, and I was drug out of my room to help greet them. It was a cascading waterfall of greetings and congratulations. My front deck, which was an open field just a few hours ago, was now so filled with people; one could hardly see where the crowd stopped. I felt squished and cramped, like an extra sardine shoved into a can that wouldn’t close. I wanted the deck to go back to an open field again, somewhere I could think.
An idea popped into my head, and I bolted from my room. I grabbed my bag, my camera, a small notebook, my favorite black ink pen, a bottle of water, and my phone. I then found my mother through the swarm, told her where I was headed, and then started down the driveway.
I walked past the numerous vehicles parked alongside the narrow, winding road. They reminded me of two trains, with each automobile parked bumper to bumper with the next acting as a separate car, stocked to the brim with coal, or wood, or paper, or anything else.
I followed the road up and over the small familiar hill which I drive over every day on my to and from home and work. The train of cars stopped, and my left opened up to a forest of trees, and my right revealed a small swamp. Another two hills later, I saw what I was looking for.
It was a trail which continued straight ahead of me, instead of cur...
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...a down on the planks of the bench with countless initials carved into it by passersby. I took out my small notebook, and flipped to a blank page. I set it on my lap while I fished my pen out of the bag, and uncapped it.
Finally I looked out at the forest as a whole. When I first went up there when I was little I thought that the view was a painting, and wondered how someone could fit a canvas out there. When I saw the forest, I still saw an artist’s masterpiece, with each pine a careful brushstroke. On that day, it was even truer, with the beautiful open sky shining down on the scene.
I never loved a moment more than that one. I forgot about my pen and paper for far too long. I just sat on the bench and watched the clouds move across the sky, cast their shadows down on the trees below, listened to the insects buzz, and the cars hum as they whizzed by out of my view.
There is a serene moment when reading John Muir “A Windstorm in the forests,” that rushed through me. Which can only be described as a rush of emotions that one might face when returning home after traveling for so long. I feel that this response is so far harder to write than I could have imagined it to be because the forest Muir is describing within his story, within the Sierra Nevada is one that I grew up with. The same ones that I spent my summers and winter breaks at, I feel a slight struggle when trying to describe my response because I didn’t realize how much I miss all of that and how many of my memories are surrounded by that forest. Reading Muir story brought back the images of seeing stretches of land covered in an endless amount
mind of a rare, sunny day when I peeked out the window into the yard.
I opened my eyes and looked up at the yellow sky. What on Earth is going on? Where am I? I slowly stood up. Mud sloughed off my clothes, plopping into the slimy mud that covered the ground. I looked around. There were muddy hills as far as I could see. Above me, the sky shone yellow-orange, as it does on an early summer day. I turned away and saw something in the distance. Squinting, I could make out the shape of a tree. I glanced behind me; there was nothing but miles and miles of thick mud. I sighed. Might as well explore, I thought as I wandered in the direction of the tree.
The story starts off with the narrator showing the reader that he was interested in going home by using phrases such as "Ever since this evening, when against a fading sky I saw geese wedge southward. They were going home". He goes on to mention that his home is beyond the mountains and he is not at home; he wants to be amongst his people and celebrate the night sky. The first comparison is made in the third paragraph of the story, "Here where fall hides in the valleys, and winder never comes down from the mountains. Here where all the trees grow in rows; the palms stand stiffly by the roadsides..."; The narrator is comparing the plants and trees that grow in the city and the trees that grow on the reservation. Clearly, the trees that grow in the city are systematically planted in rows and lack the aspect that makes them unique in any way. He admits that there is still beauty in this order; however, it is the beauty of captivity. The narrator goes on to say "A pine fighting for existence on a windy knoll is much more beautiful". He uses this ...
The view was beautiful from up there. You overlooked the snow covered floor of the canyon. You looked over to see reddish brown rock and the trees that looked to be about two feet tall.
When I found myself on my Feet, I looked about me, and must confess I never beheld a more entertaining Prospect. The Country round appeared like a continued Garden, and the inclosed Fields, which were generally Forty Foot square, resembled so many Beds of flowers. These Fields were intermingled with Woods of half a Stang, and the tallest Trees, as I could judge, appeared to be seven Foot high. I viewed the Town on my left Hand, which looked like the painted Scene of a City in a Theatre.
The time spent there became more about meeting family friends and going to dinners. Almost four years passed before I returned to the memory of getting lost in those woods. It was a week before the start to my junior year of high school, and I was visiting my grandparents in Virginia. One morning, after a very early breakfast and a promise to return promptly, I walked outside toward the woods. I walked aimlessly, remembering the similar trips I used to make in the forest upstate. I saw a young kid, eager to dirty his hands with exploration of the tangible world. I was older now, and my summer had been spent exploring a possible career path by interning at a financial services firm. A sudden thought crept slowly into my mind, piecing itself together before my
Our day began with a walk through the Black Forest because Daniel loves the forest. Black Forest is an area rich with tall trees, green grass, and wildlife. My intent was for Daniel to feel at home, even in this vastly different time. My objective was to find out as much about his life as I could in the limited amount
Dani and I stand in the sun waiting for the “men” to catch up. The view was worth Quill’s whining and navigating through the snow. The breeze catches in the bright green and gold of new Aspen leaves whispering around the lake. The Pine trees scent the air and bask in the sun to steal its warmth from the forest below. The trees are a dark canopy along our path permitting only a few patches of the raised finely mulched trail to a beam or two of sun. Framed like a photo three pencil lead gray peaks rise above a lower sweeping curve of pines. They look close enough to walk over the ridge and touch them. Boulders precariously cling to the side of the mountains. The perfect deep blue early summer sky is the perfect backdrop.
A calm crisp breeze circled my body as I sat emerged in my thoughts, hopes, and memories. The rough bark on which I sat reminded me of the rough road many people have traveled, only to end with something no one in human form can contemplate.
It was finally fall break. I was visiting my grandma for a few days. Well past dinnertime, I pulled up to the white stately home in northern rural Iowa. I parked my car, unloaded my bag and pillow, and crunched through the leaves to the front porch. The porch was just how I had seen it last; to the right, a small iron table and chairs, along with an old antique brass pole lamp, and on the left, a flowered glider that I have spent many a summer afternoon on, swaying back and forth, just thinking.
A State Forest & nbsp; Last autumn, while on a trip, I decided to walk through a State Forest. This huge forest enriches the countryside not far from town and was a place where Indians held hunting rights until recently. Little streams, ancient trees, shaded paths, and hidden places are some of the physical attributes that make the State Forest an enchanting place. & nbsp; I wandered leisurely along the shadowy paths, enjoying the peaceful surroundings. With only the songs of birds for company, I felt completely isolated from the crowds and traffic as I walked over the deep carpet of leaves. It had begun to rain a little when I first started my journey.
The familiarity of the woods, the natural urges my body has to be outside and be active in the setting that most people in today’s society only truly see in movies, if that, reminds me of other ventures into the woods, the citrusy smell of pine mixed with the smells of wild grasses and various flowers create an unmatched bombardment of scents. These scents stimulate the mind in a calming way unlike any medication or music ever could. The aroma of the forest sends chills down my spine, causing you to get the urge to explore and to absorb yourself in to the natural wonders the human body
The sunless sky covered the woods over the treetops which created a canopy over my head. The crimson and auburn foliage was a magnificent sight, as this was the season known as Fall. There was a gentle breeze, creating the single sound of rustling leaves. The leaves appeared as though they were dying to fall out of the tree and join their companions on the forest floor. Together with pine needles and other flora the leaves formed a thick springy carpet for me to walk upon.
"A picture can paint a thousand words." I found the one picture in my mind that does paint a thousand words and more. It was a couple of weeks ago when I saw this picture in the writing center; the writing center is part of State College. The beautiful colors caught my eye. I was so enchanted by the painting, I lost the group I was with. When I heard about the observation essay, where we have to write about a person or thing in the city that catches your eye. I knew right away that I wanted to write about the painting. I don’t know why, but I felt that the painting was describing the way I felt at that moment.