The Mountain Of Old “A Editorial of The Old Mountain” Soft fragranced wind blows through my hair and tingles all of my wondrous senses, the greens, browns, and grey’s float through my view. I am home, in the loving nurturing place called the Big Horn Mountains, it’s where I was raised. This place even before I was born was a get away from city life for my family, and that tradition just grew stronger when I was alive. Some of my earliest memories as a child were up in the mountains at our secluded little two bedroom cabin off the main road from Deer Haven Lodge. Things were fantastic, activities such as tag, and hide-and-go-seek were child’s play and stuff back from the city life , in the mountain there were real games. Games like Hunter and Caveman, where our imaginations took us places that our city lives would have only been able to accomplish in dreams. Life was a breeze and I was a leave ever flowing throughout its billowing, but soon there was cause for change. As a grew older in this life that was like a dream, I slowly became more aware of the change that was taking place in the lovely place that I loved. Soon things were changing so fast that the next generation of my family, probably will be prohibited to have the freedoms in the wilderness that I had growing up. This pains me dearly to say this, for the way things are starting to go, I might not have my special place at all, and neither will my descendents . Initially, memories show that my mountain of the past was beautiful tranquil and above all else, completely quite. There was no weekend traffic of a few families, “Camping” in the Big Horns, they all went other places, leaving our little mountain all to its own. This peace was cau... ... middle of paper ... ...ter, still a burn marks the land where it laid. Even though it was for the best of the mountain, it still hits me deep every time that I am now able to see through the entire forest from by Cabin steps, and view everything that used to be shrouded in trees, sun bleached from the sudden appearance of light. The mountains have been a huge part in my growing up, with lessons learned, and imaginations thriving. Whether it be from the huge pile of trees that with their cutting, uncovered the mysteries of the forest and with them went my youth. Or the mountain that is now becoming ran down because of carelessness of its newfound visitors, and so is the forests around it. Clearly, you can see how the Big Horns are essential to a fun filled childhood with fond memories, so be quick, otherwise it may be to late for the future generations to come.
Change is one of the tallest hurdles we all must face growing up. We all must watch our relatives die or grow old, our pets do the same, change school or employment, and take responsibility for our own lives one way or another. Change is what shapes our personalities, it molds us as we journey through life, for some people, change is what breaks us. Watching everything you once knew as your reality wither away into nothing but memory and photographs is tough, and the most difficult part is continuing on with your life. In the novel Ceremony, author Leslie Silko explores how change impacted the entirety of Native American people, and the continual battle to keep up with an evolving world while still holding onto their past. Through Silko’s
The drive to cross the Kentucky border had taken hours and hours of strenuous patience to finally arrive in another state. The view was by far country like as hints of cow manure could be smelled far from a distance. We drive through small towns, half the size of our hometown of Glen Ellyn had been the biggest town we've seen if not smaller. The scenery had overwhelmed us, as lumps of Earth from a great distance turned to perfectly molded hills, but as we got closer and closer to our destination the hills no longer were hills anymore, instead the hills had transformed to massive mountains of various sizes. These mountains surrounded our every view as if we had sunken into a great big deep hole of green pastures. Our path of direction was seen, as the trails of our road that had followed for numerous hours ended up winding up the mountainous mountains in a corkscrew dizzy-like matter.
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.
Katori Hall's play, The Mountaintop, illustrates the internal conflicts of Martin Luther King Jr. as he is forced to question his spirituality and legacy when coming face to face with his guardian angel. Throughout the play, Martin Luther King Jr., played by Bowman Wright, continues to demonstrate the following themes, such as perceived concepts of heroism versus the practical flaws of the every individual, morality, and the civil rights movement. While the play mainly revolves around the developing dream of Martin Luther King Jr, the course of actions displayed by Camae, the guardian angel, portrayed by actress Patrese D. McClain convey themes such as facing both the beauty within the darkness of reality, the providing further
Throughout history, culture is articulated in a plethora of manners: music, food, and literature, to name a few. Nonetheless, the novel has arguably proved to be the most excellent and effective vehicle for expressing culture, and this is certainly true when considering Appalachian culture. Novels such as Cold Mountain, Fair and Tender Ladies, Farewell, I’m Bound to Leave You, All Over but the Shoutin’, and Clay’s Quilt work to highlight a number of themes and aspects of Appalachian culture. However, perhaps the most indisputable recurring theme throughout these novels is the characters’ nostalgia for times past. This yearning manifests itself differently for each individual character, and on occasion, one character may experience many
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
I wasn’t even outside but I could feel the warm glow the sun was projecting all across the campsite. It seemed as if the first three days were gloomy and dreary, but when the sun on the fourth day arose, it washed away the heartache I had felt. I headed out of the trailer and went straight to the river. I walked to the edge, where my feet barely touched the icy water, and I felt a sense of tranquility emanate from the river. I felt as if the whole place had transformed and was back to being the place I loved the most. That day, when we went out on the boat, I went wakeboarding for the first time without my grandma. While I was up on the board and cutting through the wake of the boat, it didn’t feel like the boat was the one pulling and guiding me, it felt like the river was pushing and leading me. It was always nice to receive the reassurance from my grandma after wakeboarding, but this time I received it from my surroundings. The trees that were already three times the size of me, seemed to stand even taller as I glided past them on the river. The sun encouraged me with its brightness and warmth, and the River revitalized me with its powerful currents. The next three days passed by with ease, I no longer needed to reminisce of what my trips used to be like. Instead, I could be present in the moment, surrounded by the beautiful natural
I think of the mountain called ‘White Rocks Lie Above In a Compact Cluster’ as it were my own grandmother. I recall stories of how it once was at that mountain. The stories told to me were like arrows. Elsewhere, hearing that mountains name, I see it. Its name is like a picture. Stories go to work on you like arrows. Stories make you live right. Stories make you replace yourself. (38)
Being invited to a friend’s house the other day, I began to get excited about the journey through the woods to their cabin. The cabin, nestled back in the woods overlooking a pond, is something that you would dream about. There is a winding trail that takes you back in the woods were their cabin sits. The cabin sits on top of a mountain raised up above everything, as if it was sitting on the clouds.
I am jarred out of a relaxing sleep by a voice yelling my name in a loud whisper, and a light burning through my eyelids. Groggily, I open my eyes to see my father standing in the doorway to my messy room. He tells me that I need to get going, that it is 3:00 a.m., and I'm burning daylight. I find my clothes and get dressed. The whole time I wonder why I get up this early to visit the rugged outdoors. I want to go back to bed, but I know my dad will be back in to make sure I am getting ready, in a little bit. Instead, I put my boots and my wide-brimmed, black cowboy hat on, and walked out to catch the horses. The horses are all excited because it is dark and they are not that cooperative. My dad and I get them saddled and in the trailer, and go back into the house to get our lunch, water, and a cup of coffee. Now, we can head for the high country.
The fleeting changes that often accompany seasonal transition are especially exasperated in a child’s mind, most notably when the cool crisp winds of fall signal the summer’s end approaching. The lazy routine I had adopted over several months spent frolicking in the cool blue chlorine soaked waters of my family’s bungalow colony pool gave way to changes far beyond the weather and textbooks. As the surrounding foliage changed in anticipation of colder months, so did my family. My mother’s stomach grew larger as she approached the final days of her pregnancy and in the closing hours of my eight’ summer my mother gently awoke me from the uncomfortable sleep of a long car ride to inform of a wonderful surprise. No longer would we be returning to the four-story walk up I inhabited for the majority of my young life. Instead of the pavement surrounding my former building, the final turn of our seemingly endless journey revealed the sprawling grass expanse of a baseball field directly across from an unfamiliar driveway sloping in front of the red brick walls that eventually came to be know as home.
Everything seems like it’s falling out of place, it’s going too fast, and my mind is out of control. I think these thoughts as I lay on my new bed, in my new room, in this new house, in this new city, wondering how I got to this place. “My life was fine,” I say to myself, “I didn’t want to go.” Thinking back I wonder how my father felt as he came home to the house in Stockton, knowing his wife and kids left to San Diego to live a new life. Every time that thought comes to my mind, it feels as if I’m carrying a ten ton boulder around my heart; weighing me down with guilt. The thought is blocked out as I close my eyes, picturing my old room; I see the light brown walls again and the vacation pictures of the Florida and camping trip stapled to them. I can see the photo of me on the ice rink with my friends and the desk that I built with my own hands. I see my bed; it still has my checkered blue and green blanket on it! Across from the room stands my bulky gray television with its back facing the black curtain covered closet. My emotions run deep, sadness rages through my body with a wave of regret. As I open my eyes I see this new place in San Diego, one large black covered bed and a small wooden nightstand that sits next to a similar closet like in my old room. When I was told we would be moving to San Diego, I was silenced from the decision.
The ruckus from the bottom of the truck is unbearable, because of the noise and excessive shaking. As we slowly climbed the mountain road to reach our lovely cabin, it seemed almost impossible to reach the top, but every time we reached it safely. The rocks and deep potholes shook the truck and the people in it, like a paint mixer. Every window in the truck was rolled down so we could have some leverage to hold on and not loose our grip we needed so greatly. The fresh clean mountain air entered the truck; it smelt as if we were lost: nowhere close to home. It was a feeling of relief to get away from all the problems at home. The road was deeply covered with huge pines and baby aspen trees. Closely examining the surrounding, it looks as if it did the last time we were up here.
Walking through the woods never fails to clear my mind. After spending all day sitting in a stale classroom, filled with stress, confusion, and overwhelming responsibilities, taking a long stroll through the familiar woods behind my grandmother’s house lifts any worries that could ever weigh me down. I never wander through aimlessly. I always follow the trail of grass that has been deliberately cut down shorter than the rest, making it easier to tread through to the small creek at the end of the trail. The entire journey through the woods behind my grandmother’s house, there and back, first took on a whole new importance in my life during my junior year of high school.
One would think the highlight of the trip was the concert, however, one could not be any more wrong. The highlight was literally the highest point in the trip. Inching our way up Pike’s Peak to an elevation of 14,115 miles (“About Pike’s Peak”) proved to be quite the adventure. I will never forget how a number of mundane occurrences created such a wonderful memory: my mother’s dislike of heights, my father’s horrible driving, the scenery, and the arrival to the