We stood on the porch of the small cabin that housed the rangers stationed at the camp. The water came streaming down from the roof, pouring in from all sides of the cabin, flooding the camp in a matter of minutes. The mud was cold, and covered everything, finding ways to seep into our boots and socks, past our jackets, soaking us and chilling us to the bone. A large rush of water came spilling down the mountains on both sides as well as from the already saturated meadow behind us. The dry streambed that ran along the side of the camp was no longer visible. What had been a 7-foot wide, 5-foot deep culvert had quickly turned into a fast moving, muddy river. The water coming down from the top of the mountains behind the culvert was simply going …show more content…
The first person to come across after me was Jacob Otagee. Jacob was one of the youngest scouts in the group, and was much smaller than most of us. He worked hard, but by the end of the day, you could see his energy was quickly fading. On top of all of this, Jacob had issues with his gear, especially his boots. A good pair of boots is extremely important, and unfortunately for Jacob, the soles on his had begun to come apart, being held on with duct tape. Everything went fine as Jacob made his way across the first half of the stream. It was a few feet past the middle, when Jacob took a bad step and slipped on a rock submerged under the water. He lost his footing, and within half a second, he had gone down. The water, which had been at his waist, was now at his chest. The force of the water was crushing against him, and the added pressure was pulling hard against me, as I put all of my weight against it, trying to hold him against the water. In those terrifying fractions of a second, I felt myself slipping, and thought I was not going to be able to hold on. I could see the fear in Jacob’s eyes as he scrambled to regain his balance. He knew what would happen if he was pulled downstream. After what seemed like a very long time, Jacob was able to wade closer to shore, and I reached out, grabbed his arm, and pulled him up onto the
The world around us if full of many wonders, some world renown and appreciated, or some immaculate and taken for granted, such as the Mississippi River. In the passage from Rising Tide: The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How it Changed America, author John M. Barry communicates his fascination with the Mississippi River by analyzing its complex mechanics and describing its enchanting nature. Through the primary application of two rhetorical strategies—logos and pathos—the author services his argument with intelligence and intuition while chartering his passion and zeal for the Mississippi River.
It was our fifth day in the Philmont Scout Reservation in New Mexico, the halfway point of the trek. I as the Crew Leader was responsible for the other 11 members of the crew, including 4 adults. I was in charge, and amazingly the adults rarely tried to take over, although they would strongly advise me what to do in some situations. Phil, with the exception of me, the oldest scout and the Chaplain for the trip, was my second. Together we dealt with problems of making sure everyone carried the right amount of stuff in their pack to who had to cook and cleanup each day. The trip had gone well so far, no injuries, and the worst problem had been a faulty backpack. As I walked I thought about the upcoming campsite. Supposedly this one had running water from a solar powered pump—so had the last night’s site but the tank was too low to use for anything but cooking because the of how cloudy it had been of late. But today was bright and shinny, and hot, so I didn’t think there would be a problem.
We hit a down hill point so we grabbed drift wood. It would save man power and be faster to sled down. The rest helped Landon out the most because he was the smallest so he didn 't have energy left to use. But this refreshed him so we could keep going. Time was not on are side. The only thing keeping us alive was the fact that if we got out we would be the first ones ever to make it out not dead. It was about the hottest point in the day now and we had to find shade or we would get to dehydrated and die. We drank all the water we had just to fine out that we had a under ground stream below
The smaller convict snatched the glasses, without a word, to scan for any hostiles. The ten foot, low head dam was almost impossible to see coming down river. Rarely a summer went by that this fact was not discovered by novice, pleasure boaters until it was too late. Most boats were trapped against the dam, although a few had gone over. There had been some deaths over the years, the back wash below the dam trapped both boats and bodies.
The cold gray light cast faint shadows onto the bike path that wound along the coast of Lake Huron and through scattered pine forest and picnic areas. Gusting wind blew around little piles of leaves, as the path made its way through an open area next to the great lake. Whitecaps and the larger swells from the lake occasionally broke up and over the small retaining wall that separated the path from the menacing water. The little boy on his bike pedaled as fast as he could through these stretches, and imagined one of the waves reaching up and over the wall, plucking him up and carrying him out into the vast expanse. He fought to keep down his panic as he rode for what had been hours through the ominous weather which, besides being cold and wet, included occasional flashes of lightning and the low menacing growl of distant
I dumbly watched, stunned by the scene that was painted before me. And without warning, I witnessed the same image, but coming from the opposite direction, near the West Woods. I didn’t want to believe what was about to occur on a farm such as mine, but eventually I came to the realization that the future events were inevitable, and about to rewrite those books that I’ve heard tell about our nation’s history.
...we found the bodies, yet the crashing blue-green water spins me into a reality that is worlds away from the sight of stiff men. I'm not sure if this is healing or forgetfulness; all I can be certain of is the bite of the water on my skin and the dropping sun. I stare at my hand under the surface of the water, fascinated by how far away it looks and by the deep blue color of my fingernails. That hand isn't a part of my body, how can it be, it is deep in the water, opening and closing experimentally as water crashes on top of it. I want to leave it there, forever feeling the numbing water, forever fighting the currents that would wash it out to the Pacific Ocean. But then my arm moves, lifts my hand, and I realize it is mine, as are my legs and toes and wet matted hair. And the water keeps falling, pounding, rushing and I just stand there, staring, watching, waiting.
“Come on, “ my counselor Emily screamed from shore. The quick rapids made it very difficult to dig our paddles into the river. My cabin was stopping to eat lunch on our Tuesday canoeing trip. On Saturday, we had traveled down to Brownstown, Indiana for a week full of friends, fun, and God. My church stayed at a retreat center called Pyoca. Every year on Tuesday, we would go on a canoeing or rafting trip depending on the water levels. Emily, Annabelle, my canoeing partner, and I sat along the sand bank waiting for other canoes to come in. Many other groups slowly went by, while we patiently waited for other groups to come in. I was so hungry, I couldn’t wait. Canoeing had zapped all of my energy, and had made me really hungry. I began to quickly wade out into the river, so I could help the other canoes come in faster. Someone screamed, “Be careful” from the bank. Nate Epple, a counselor of
Despair and sadness filled the camp like a glass of water about to fill over
We followed a footpath that had been trodden out by a herd of slow chewing cows that were, let’s say a lot messy. It wandered along in turns and easy angles, twisting off and up to the top of a small knoll, rambled down again between fringes of bee-hung clover that gleamed in the morning dew, then it cut sidewise across a meadow. Here its edges blurred. It widened and seemed to pause, suggesting a scenic summit and then it went on again and came at last to the wood. But after reaching the shadow of the first pine, it veered sharply in a wide arc as if, for the first time, it knew where it was headed, and past around a creek which had been dammed up to form a swimming
As I inched my way toward the cliff, my legs were shaking uncontrollably. I could feel the coldness of the rock beneath my feet when my toes curled around the edge in one last futile attempt at survival. My heart was racing like a trapped bird, desperate to escape. Gazing down the sheer drop, I nearly fainted; my entire life flashed before my eyes. I could hear stones breaking free and fiercely tumbling down the hillside, plummeting into the dark abyss of the forbidding black water. The trees began to rapidly close in around me in a suffocating clench, and the piercing screams from my friends did little to ease the pain. The cool breeze felt like needles upon my bare skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. The threatening mountains surrounding me seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment, I felt myself fighting for air. The hot summer sun began to blacken while misty clouds loomed overhead. Trembling with anxiety, I shut my eyes, murmuring one last pathetic prayer. I gathered my last breath, hoping it would last a lifetime, took a step back and plun...
Without delay, I sunk right back in the water. My doubts began coming back to me, making me realize I might of been over my head on this one, but I persisted. I reached surface again and began swimming towards the rightmost shore. It wasn’t the best journey, as I kept bobbing in and out of the water, but I managed to reach the shore. The moment I got stood back on my own feet I stood back on them as a new man; I enjoyed the danger I just experienced, besides drinking a hefty amount of lake
A shrill cry echoed in the mist. I ducked, looking for a sign of movement. The heavy fog and cold storm provided nothing but a blanket, smothering all sight and creating a humid atmosphere. The freezing air continued to whip at my face, relentless and powerful. Our boat, stuck in the boggy water. Again a cry called. Somewhere out there was someone, or something.
Anxiety took over my body as I prepared to jump. The 80 foot waterfall looming atop Turner Falls seemed to be challenging me, beckoning me to come and attempt to plunge from the rock into the waterfall to try to endure the pressure as the water knocked me straight down into the deep waters and jagged rocks which awaited below. I waited with an eager excitement thinking that if I could take this plunge, I would really be able to swim with those I saw as the "big fish." Waiting on that rock I had no idea that the events following my wait would change that jump from being something I so much desired into something I would be grateful to never personally experience.
Her spry, Timberland-clad foot planted itself upon a jagged boulder, motionless, until her calf muscles tightened and catapulted her small frame into the next stride. Then Sara's dance continued, her feet playing effortlessly with the difficult terrain. As her foot lifted from the ground, compressed mint-colored lichen would spring back into position, only to be crushed by my immense boot, struggling to step where hers had been. My eyes fixated on the forest floor, as fallen trees, swollen roots, and unsteady rocks posed constant threats for my exhausted body. Without glancing up I knew what was ahead: the same dense, impenetrable green that had surrounded us for hours. My throat prickled with unfathomable thirst, as my long-empty Nalgene bottle slapped mockingly at my side. Gnarled branches snared at my clothes and tore at my hair, and I blindly hurled myself after Sara. The portage had become a battle, and the ominously darkening sky raised the potential for casualties. Gritting my teeth with gumption, I refused to stop; I would march on until I could no longer stand.