Personal Narrative - A Journey

But the thick fog above my head reminds me that this probably will not happen. I try to take the ominous fog off my mind and continue examining the land. We walk past the dry creek bed of Brizzolara Creek and it becomes obvious we have not had a significant amount of rainfall in months. A fellow hiker points out several deer on the canyon side, the first sign of wildlife. I can hear birds chirping in the distance but cannot see any because of the dense fog.

As we walked to the deer, I realized I had not made a good selection on which shoes to wear while hunting. My boots that were water proof the last time I had been hunting were not water proof this time. I could feel my shoes taking on water from the melting snow. My socks were damp and my toes were cold. I trudged on despite the circumstances, complaining frequently, not about my cold feet, but about not being given a chance to take a shot at the deer, I called.

The title just simply says "The White Doe." It does not say "The White Doe that was Spotted by a man Working in the Woods and Decides to Follow but falls into a Stream." So until the reader actually reads the poem, he or she will not really know what the poem will be about. The title contributes to the overall effect of the poem because the white doe is the subject of poetry in the poem. Theme: What the poet is trying to tell the world is that just because someone throws something a way does not mean one can take it from the garbage and keep it as his or her own.

When bucks are in a rut they will make scrapes on little trees or bushes and use their antlers to make scrapes on the ground like moving leaves around, they do this to mark their territory. So other bucks don't come into their territory and take their does away. The approximate size of the land the deer stay on is about a mile square all the time. Unless they get spooked by something or someone. Deer stay in a mile square because that is their terriory.

Because we got tot the trail head around 10pm we decided to stop at the three mile mark where there was a pretty good sized campsite right along side the Hoh river. We ran into some deer that were not happy we were there and they did not seem scared of us to say the least. We ignored them anyway and set up camp in the dark and tried to get a fire going. We were still passing around the flask having a good time. Unfortunately no matter how hard we worked to keep the fire going the rain kicked in and prevented the fire from being a fire.

I follow the trail to where it stops at the creek's edge, approaching quietly so as not to disturb any of the wild creatures that has come to enjoy the cool fresh water. I gently cross over the creek using the stones, which show the wear of several previous crossing, so that I can have full view of the creek and the beauty it possesses. I can hear the rush of the water long before I see the falls. As I sit down on the big gray slate rock that has been warmed by the early morning sun, I begin to gulp in the beauty as a starving man would gulp down food. I start my usual ritual of examining the banks of the creek by gazing down the right side of it first.

My pessimism deepened as I listened to my classmates chatter in awe about deer on the hillside and heard our professor mention a toxic waste controversy. One deer stood majestically atop the hill, its dark, shadowy outline nearly transparent in the dense fog, while two others eyed us with less interest than we eyed them. I had seen more deer on a public golf course the day before. One of my classmates began her narrative aloud, adding to the worldly engagements I wished to remove myself from. Moving on, I passed under a stone arch onto a trail where I sat and wrote down my thoughts; drawing ... ... middle of paper ... ...each, looking out to sea.

I also listened for the bells, but the bells did not ring for me. Maybe it was because I was an outsider! I began to follow the meandering stream to Bell Common, which was a strip of thick, rough grassland. I was covered with blackberry bushes heavy with large, ripe berries. I stopped there to feast on as many as I could eat.

It tells me that the beaver pond is near where one white pine shoots 100 feet up out of the tannic water, which means I am close to camp and food and sleep. I get to the pond’s edge, across from the point where my tent sits. There are no trails and the boreal forest is thick with scrub pine and dead-fall. Early afternoon sun brings out the wave of deer flies; I shake my head so that my two braids might hit the little buggers in mid-air. Undeterred, one begins to chew on my shoulder blade and prickers dig into my shins.

It must have fallen out at I was sneaking up to the deer twelve hours ago. I unzipped my bag and squeezed the lamp inside, making sure to not break the clear plastic which covered the bulb; I zipped the bag and was on my way once more. The green and brown of the trees greeted me noiselessly again and the crisp blue sky had again painted a great backdrop for the rest of my trip home on this lonely gravel road.