Thinking Like a Mountain 2-27-17 Hannah Garner For this essay I went and sat in the woods behind my house in Fayetteville, Alabama. I live on a six acre property in rural Talladega County. I have no neighbors, so I thought that this would be a great place to sit and “think like a mountain”. There is a large hill in my back yard so i went and sat the top of it like Leopold did on the top of the rimrock in the chapter Thinking Like a Mountain. I sat and read the chapter while I was sitting there, and after reading I noticed more about the mountain and the woods than what I did when i first walked outside to come and sit. As I sat in the leaves under the trees on top of this hill in my backyard the first thing that I noticed was the smell, then the sounds. After I those …show more content…
The smell of where I was sitting had a moist mud-like dirt smell. I could hear various noises around me, but one noise stuck out to me. I heard squirrels running across the dead leaves under the trees. I really enjoyed listening to them run and play under the trees on top of the hill. After listening and watching the squirrels play I looked around and listened some more. I then heard the pecking of what I assume is a woodpecker but couldn't ever seem to find where it was perched. In the process of looking for the woodpecker I came across dandelions in the grass at the bottom of the hill. after scanning the beautiful landscape around me. I started to think back to the chapter in the book. I tried to looked at my land the way that Leopold was look at that rimrock where he had killed those wolves. I started to think what if there was no squirrels or woodpeckers? Are they the reasons we see dandelions all over our property? If they weren't here would we still have dandelions? As these questions ran through my head I feel like I started to think like the mountain was thinking because like in the book my hill in my backyard has been there probably way before all
The night was tempestuous and my emotions were subtle, like the flame upon a torch. They blew out at the same time that my sense of tranquility dispersed, as if the winds had simply come and gone. The shrill scream of a young girl ricocheted off the walls and for a few brief seconds, it was the only sound that I could hear. It was then that the waves of turmoil commenced to crash upon me. It seemed as though every last one of my senses were succumbed to disperse from my reach completely. As everything blurred, I could just barely make out the slam of a door from somewhere alongside me and soon, the only thing that was left in its place was an ominous silence.
“ I wonder what this family thought about when their mortgage finally outgrew their crops, and thus gave the signal for their eviction. Many thoughts, like flying grouse, leave no trace of their passing, but some leave clues that outlast the decades. He who, is some unforgotten April, planted this liliac must have thought pleasantly of blooms for all the Aprils to come. She who used this washboard, its corrugations worn thin with many Mondays, may have wished for a cessation of all Mondays, and soon.” (Leopold
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
Dillard’s use of images, words and figurative and lyrical language in her description of mountain together create a sense of motion and vitality, as if the landscape she depicts is actively alive, shaping and forming itself before her. The vitality of this particular landscape, as observed during her moment of transcendence, perhaps suggests that such life may only be observed but at rare and ...
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 arrival of winter was well on its way. Colorful leaves had turned to brown and fallen from the branches of the trees. The sky opened to a new brightness with the disappearance of the leaves. As John drove down the country road he was much more aware of all his surroundings. He grew up in this small town and knew he would live there forever. He knew every landmark in this area. This place is where he grew up and experienced many adventures. The new journey of his life was exciting, but then he also had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach of something not right.
Outside of the Ingram’s house – on one hot and humid Spring evening, late in the season in this Big Apple suburb called Nanuet – the unforcast and oppressive heat of the wilted afternoon had yet to relinquish the atmosphere from its smothering grip: Viciously humid for the human beings attempting to attend to their responsibilities; Viciously humid for the their canine and feline companions relegated to a daytime life out-of-doors; Viciously humid, too, for all of the flighted avian creatures calling home the dwindling woods and forests in this county of Rockland. Once a pleasant balance of woodland and suburban homes, nearly all of the county’s hamlets were now almost exclusively the latter.
• Thinking Like a Mountain describes the intricate network of a mountain’s ecosystem and the consequences of disturbing their balances, such as through wolf overhunting. Escudilla is the name of the mountain that bounds Arizona’s horizons, former home of the Old Bigfoot – the grizzly bear, whose unnecessary hunt to make the area “safe for cows.” • The Green Lagoons describes the Colorado Delta, explored by the author while it was still untarnished by man. Leopold described it as a hundred miles of desolation many different passages to take. Stories of a jaguar hunted the Delta, yet was not seen.
The Mountaintop is set in a typical motel room. This particular setting is modeled after the
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.
The author’s thesis is the idea that a mountain can be looked at as having emotions and feelings of its surroundings. The author uses many ways of proving this theory. “She [the volcano] lay and watched her forests being cut and her elk being hunted… it was time to teach the White Man’s Children a lesson”(p.175). In the quote the author makes the volcano look to have some kind of way of dealing with the problem t...
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.
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.
I looked up at the black sky. I hadn't intended to be out this late. The sun had set, and the empty road ahead had no streetlights. I knew I was in for a dark journey home. I had decided that by traveling through the forest would be the quickest way home. Minutes passed, yet it seemed like hours and days. The farther I traveled into the forest, the darker it seemed to get. I was very had to even take a breath due to the stifling air. The only sound familiar to me was the quickening beat of my own heart, which felt as though it was about to come through my chest. I began to whistled to take my mind off the eerie noises I was hearing. In this kind of darkness I was in, it was hard for me to believe that I could be seeing these long finger shaped shadows that stretched out to me. I had this gut feeling as though something was following me, but I assured myself that I was the only one in the forest. At least I had hoped that I was.
He told me about different kinds of metamorphosis and how other creatures lived in the water that I couldn't see without a fancy magnifying glass. By the creek, my mind was free to wonder. I remember sitting on a mossy rock and watching birds; I used to pretend I was one. As my body lay still, my imagination would take flight. High above, looking down on this stream from the pale blue heavens, the wind whistled over my face and the sun warmed my body. When my eyes flickered open, it was usually time to go home. Sometimes I even did. I was always up for a challenge. My neighbor and I used to jump from rock to rock in a kind of improvised hopscotch obstacle course that tested our balance and agility against one another. He was four years older and I had to practice every morning when he was at school. On the rare occasions that I outdid him, I wore a goofy smirk for the rest of the day. The creek was a frontier. The stream extended far into the depths of the woods. I thought that if I wondered too far into its darkness, I might be consumed by it and never heard from again. Gradually overcoming my fears, I embarked on expeditions and drafted extensive maps using my father's old compass, a sheet of paper, and a few colored pencils. As my body grew in height and weight, my boundaries grew in extent and breadth. Years later, I happened to be walking to a friend's house by way of the creek. It occurred to me that what was once an expedition was now merely a shortcut. Although I had left this stream behind, I found others: New questions and freedoms, new challenges and places to explore. But this creek would remain foremost in my memory, whatever stream, river, or ocean I might