The wind blew lazily over the barren landscape. Orange and brown earth rolled as softly as the dunes they comprised. The ground looked as though the sun had melted the top layer of the earth only to sculpt wax like curves and waves over the entire stretch of sand. The sun was barely above the horizon and already the desert floor was sizzling with heat, excitedly waiting for rain that would not come for many more weeks.
A single trail etched its way across the field. Modest footprints, those of a man with a soft step could be seen for only a few minutes before the sands began to shift and hid any trace of passage. If one were quick enough to follow the trail it would seem as though whoever was making this small intrusion in the sand was heading into the heart of the desert; into almost certain death. A death caused by heat or exhaustion, whichever came first. It would seem that way although this would not be the case.
For the maker of that trail had journeyed this way many times before. So many times in fact, that he need not stop and check for landmarks or to rest until night to find his bearing. He knew where he was headed and that was all he needed. He came to rest at the top of a particularly tall dune at mid day. Unshouldering his pack and bundle, he rifled through his back pocket for a meal that had been packed for him by the kind young lady at the inn from three nights ago. Three nights, he thought to himself. Had it already been that long? That meant his journey was almost over.
When he was full enough he rewrapped what was left of the meal and replaced it in his belt pouch. He stood, stretching his old body and remembered what it was like when he was younger to be able to stand quickly without the need to ready his...
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...ecoming a prune."
They both looked at each other and began laughing. The man had fished out a cup and made his way to the water. The water was cool, surprisingly unaffected by the heat coming from the sun. He drank a few cups of it slowly before taking a few steps back, and resting againt the base of the tree. "It is good to see you again, Casore."
"And you as well, Django," the dragon exclaimed. "But as you know I can not let you rest unless you pay the toll for tresspassing into my land."
Django smiled and kicked his shoes off. He wouldn't be going anywhere for a while and the cool sand under the tree felt nice between his toes.
"Very well. If I must, I must," He said with fake sorrow. "Have I ever told you the story of The Boy and his Turtle?"
The dragon thought for a moment. "I do not believe so," he said.
"Good, because it is one of my favorites to tell.
Wiping the sweat from my brow I called a halt to the crew. Phil and I dumped our packs and found a comfy boulder to rest on. I looked back to where the last guys were coming from back down the trail. They had stopped talking a while back and marched slowly along the dirt trail. Phil produced an energy-bar he’d saved from breakfast and began to munch on it as I drained another water bottle. After the refreshing drink I laid back against the rock and stared up at the pine trees. But a moment later, hearing grumble about sore legs, I sat up, grinning, “By the map we only have another couple hours.”
...ot always make progress everyday due to the harshness of the trip. On April sixteenth, they start to go from the Base Camp to Camp One, and this is the real beginning of their journey. Shortly after, they leave for Camp Two, and the trip is going well so far. At over 20,000 feet up, a dead body is seen. People are treated for medical conditions at the second camp, and soon need to keep moving up to the third camp. A storm hit during the journey, right before reaching the fourth camp.
“In an hour and 40 minutes they run more than 15 miles over uneven red clay, dodging small herds of cattle and donkeys laden with sacks of potatoes…The route climbs more that 3,000 feet, from and elevation of slightly more than 6,500 feet at the river to nearly 10,000 at the peak, where oxygen is precious and a cruel wind slices across the face of the hill.” (Layden, par. 2)
I awoke before the first rays of sunlight had passed through the dew-covered trees to the west today. It had rained the evening before, and the smell of wet leaves and grass was still lingering in the air.
Throughout history man has made many journeys, both far and wide. Moses’ great march through the Red Sea and Columbus's traversing the Atlantic are examples of only a couple of men’s great voyages. Even today, great journeys are being made. Terry Fox's run across Canada while fighting cancer is one of these such journeys. In every one of these instances people have had to rise above themselves and overcome immense odds, similar to a salmon swimming upstream to full fill it's life line. Intense drive and extreme fortitude are qualities they needed to posses during their travels.
He then considers the second path. He sees it is less worn and has more grass. The leaves are still untrodden so the paths remain fresh and exciting. It seems that he is the first traveller to pass this way for a while
Food has been a great part of how he has grown up. He was always interested in how food was prepared. He wanted to learn, even if his mother didn’t want him to be there. “I would enter the kitchen quietly and stand behind her, my chin lodging upon the point of the hip. Peering through...
We continued down the infinitely long interstate towards our destination. Thunder clouds continued to rumble in, like an ocean tide rolling closer and closer to the beach front. Within minutes the entire landscape was calm and dark. It looked like a total eclipse of the sun, and the once ...
The sun was coming up over the peaks and we were halfway there when we came to a dirt road. Because the dirt road was on the edge of a mountain, we started up the road very slowly and cautiously. When we got to the base of the mountain we got our packs and started the adventure to the top.
He arrived at his first destination after about an hour of hiking. After a short while he figured he had looked over his new found haven enough, he was ready. He started down the grade with a small arsenal, consisting of a shovel, about ten granola bars, two bottles of power-ade, his snowshoes, and what was left in his hydration bladder in his pack. After descending about two hundred feet he came into the clearing he was hoping to find, it was as smooth as silk, twenty inches of fresh powder under his board. Up ahead he say a small but formidable drop off on the mountain, he knew if he was going to escape this with his dignity he was going to have to work some magic, to his success. The drop was approximately eighteen feet, but he was ready for it, he landed perfectly, it was like a dream the poof of snow exploding out from his impact, and the gentle flakes hitting his face. As he continued down the slope he did not realize that his gentle landing had severely weakened the physical structure of the mountain’s blanket, and that any moment he could bring the mass down upon himself at impossible speeds.
The reader is also told that he might have been helped along the way, so suspicion arises. “...Reduced to a rutted, muddy track…” shows that the trail conditions at times were anything but perfect. ‘Rutted’ and ‘muddy’ describe the Appalachian Trail as an almost tough and hardy trail to trek across. “The trail Shaffer found was nothing like the groomed and orderly corridor that exists today” shows how the Appalachian trail appears to Bryson and portrays to the audience a trail affected by modern societies requirement of health and neatness. 'orderly' and 'groomed' are used to portray an image of a beautiful trail that is set out neatly, far from what Shaffer would have experienced on his travel along the trying trail.
> > > >the place. Stops. Starts. Gashes in the sand. A variable mess of
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.
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.
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.