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On the relationship between man and nature
Management of a hurricane
On the relationship between man and nature
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With an earth-shattering roar, lightning cleaved through the sky and bit viciously into a towering tree. The massive conifer burst into vibrant flames; the only light in the wind-lashed forest. Torrents of rain poured on to it, causing gouts of steam to fill the air. The other trees moaned in the furious wind, as if they mourned the loss of their fellow.
An unfortunate traveler slowly backed away from the tree he had been sheltering under. Raindrops the size of bullets and slabs of sleet slapped onto his back, but were immediately shaken off by his shivering. He cursed his ill-fortune under his breath as he stumbled to the edge of the forest.
A vast field lay beyond the trees. The gale was causing great waves of grass to roll across it. Dotting the plain were small, scorched pits that billowing smoke. The man eyed them warily – there seemed that nothing was safe. He figured he would freeze to death soon enough and ran under a pair of gnarled trees. Streams of rain poured down from the branches and down the trunks – however, it shielded him from the worst of the gale. With a thump, he dropped to the sodden grass. He stuffed his hands into his soaking wet pockets and waited for his trembling to subside.
Light gleamed through the leafy branches as lightning arced through the sky. An annoyed grimace passed the young man’s face as it faded. He slipped off the knapsack he was carrying and poured out about an inch of water from it. A few small spheres plopped onto the grass – 6 of them in a variety of colors. He glowered at one of them – the one with large green spots surrounded by black with red button. There was another crack of lightning, causing the man to flinch. He scooped up the green and black ball as well as a white ball ...
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.... She could defeat those many times larger than her and was well aware of the fact.
Dan stroked her head, trying to calm her furious trembling. Maybe it was because of the frigid weather.
He yelped as something singed his left toes. He fumbled with and finally managed to tear off his boot and toss it into the underbrush. He peered anxiously at his sock – it was seared black, and flaked off at his barest touch.
Dan’s head snapped up – Tetra whimpered and pressed against him, trying to keep him back. The blackness slowly consolidated into forms, but they were only phantasms.
Or so he hoped.
A seared, steaming trail was left in the ground. The grass directly around his had been burned to a crisp, but the trail itself had torn up the ground a good meter down. A crackle of electricity caused Dan’s heart to jump, but it was just Tetra, gathering her energies.
An example of the cycle followed by her father, his father, and his father before him is told when Blunt recalls a major blizzard in December 1964 that trapped the family and some neighbors in their small homestead. She unemotionally describes how her father simply proceeded to go through the motions of keeping the pipes from freezing, calmly accepting the fact that he could do nothing as the storm progressed and he could not prevent loss of a of their livestock. Or how when he first ventured out to check on the animals in their nearby barn and nearly lost his way back in whiteout conditions. Later, when the storm passed, she told of playing amongst the frozen corpses of the cattle, jumping from ribcage to ribcage, daring her older brother and sister to cut off pieces of the animals, all with the calm acceptance that this was so normal, nothing strange about it.
(6) The suddenness of the winter storm caught people by surprise. A roar “like an approaching train” was all the warning the storm gave. (130) The roaring wind and snow brought darkness and dropping temperatures. The people who were inside when the blizzard struck faced a dilemma. Staying inside and doing nothing seemed “heartless,” but going into the storm “on a rescue mission was likely to be fatal to the rescuer and useless to the lost.” (143) The people who were unfortunate enough to be away from home, whether they were at school or working with their livestock, had to make a difficult decision. They could either risk trying to make it home or chance it out and stay where they were. Schoolteachers had to decide whether to send the children home or keep them at the school. If anyone ventured outside, he or she risked frostbite, hypothermia, and likely
I prepared myself for the upcoming adventurous day. I set out along a less-traveled path through the woods leading to the shore. I could hear every rustle of the newly fallen leaves covering the ground. The brown ground signaled the changing of seasons and nature's way of preparing for the long winter ahead. Soon these leaves would be covered with a thick layer of snow. The leaves still clinging to the trees above displayed a brilliant array of color, simultaneously showing the differences of each and the beauty of the entire forest.
The great and disastrous impact of nature against man proves to play a central role as an external conflict in London's short story. The extreme cold and immense amount of snow has a powerful and dangerous hold against the man. The numbing cold proved so chilling that the man could not even spit without the spit freezing. “He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air."(604). That deadly force of nature goes on to further challenge the man, preventing him from continuing his goal. "At a place where there were no signs, where the soft unbroken snow seemed to advertise solidity beneath, the man broke through."(608). At this point in the story, nature overtakes the man, a conflict that directly stops him from achieving his goal, establishing nature as an external conflict providing the man with a struggle.
During this short voyage I saw the lightnings playing on the summit of Mount Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly; and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased. (49)
When the narrator introduced the main character of the story, the man, he made it clear that the man was in a perilous situation involving the elements. The man was faced with weather that was 75 degrees below zero and he was not physically or mentally prepared for survival. London wrote that the cold "did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold."(p.1745) At first when the man started his journey to the camp, he felt certain that he could make it back to camp before dinner. As the trip progressed, the man made mistake after mistake that sealed his fate. The man's first mistake was to step into a pool of water and soak his legs to the knees. This blunder forced the man to build a fire to dry his wet socks and shoes so his feet would not freeze and become frostbitten. When the man began to build a fire he failed to notice that he was doing so under a large, snow laden spruce tree where he was getting his firewood. When the man had a small fire that was beginning to smolder the disturbance to the tree caused the snow to tumble to the ground and extinguish the fire. "It was his own fault or, rather, his mistake. He should not have built the fire under the spruce tree. He should have built it in the open."(1750).
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...
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
Halfway up it was beginning to look doubtful, the wind was picking up and everyone was getting out rain gear to prepare for the storm. I voiced my doubts to Phil and he said we might as well keep going until the lighting got too close. So we did. The thunder grew in volume and the echoes magnified the noise to a dull roar sometimes. Then suddenly it began to ebb. The wind died down and lightening came less frequently. I exchanged relieved looks with Phil after a bit, but kept the pace up--I didn’t want to take chances. Eventually it hit us, but by then it was nothing more then a heavy rain. We kept moving, if slower, and made it over the ridge with no other problems. That night I enjoyed the meal a little more and slept a little deeper realizing how much is important that easily goes unnoticed until something threatens to take it away.
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 snow that was predicted to be several inches by the end of the weekend quickly piled up to around eight inches by that evening. At times, the snow was falling so heavily you could hardly see the streetlights that glistened like beacons in a sea of snow. With the landscape draped in white, the trees hangi...
With stress on my mind and a cookie in my hand, I headed towards the wooded area behind her home. At the beginning of the trail, there was an old rotting tire swing barely hanging onto a low-hanging branch. The extensive amount of muddy puddles and the surrounding damp grass made me hesitant to follow through with my grandmother’s suggestion; the mountain of homework that waited for me back at home convinced me to continue. Trees towered over me, adding to the existing weight of stress that sat upon my shoulders, as I carefully maneuvered around the biggest puddles, beginning to become frustrated. Today was a terrible day to go for a walk, so why would my grandmother suggest this? Shaking my head in frustration, I pushed forward. The trail was slightly overgrown. Sharp weeds stabbed my sides every few steps, and I nearly tripped over a fallen tree branch. As the creek barely came into view, I could feel the humidity making my hair curly and stick to the sides of my face. After stopping to roll up the ends of my worn blue jeans, I neared the end of the trail. Bright sunlight peeked through the branches and reflected off the water. The sun must have come out from behind a cloud, seeing as it now blinded me as I neared the water. A few minutes passed by before I could clearly see
I slowly trudged up the road towards the farm. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against the gate. On it, a big black and white cow stood over the words “Bent Rail Farm”. The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken. Suddenly, the distant roar of an engine shattered the stillness of that Friday afternoon. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. The truck stopped in front of the red-brick farmhouse with the green door and shutters. It was the large milking truck that stopped by every Friday afternoon. I leisurely passed by fields of corn, wheat, barley, and strawberries. The fields stretched from the gradient hills to the snowy mountains. The blasting wind blew like a bellowing blizzard. A river cut through the hilly panorama. The river ubiquitously flowed from tranquil to tempestuous water. Raging river rapids rushed recklessly into rocks ricocheting and rebounding relentlessly through this rigorous river. Leaves danced with the wind as I looked around the valley. The sun was trapped by smoky, and soggy clouds.
Then, slowly at first, but with ever increasing intensity, a small glimmer appeared on the glossy leaves. Through the whispering blades of grass, a brilliant fire arose from the depths turning the lingering water droplets into liquid silver that dripped from expectant leaves and flowed gurgling into shallow puddles, bathing the young trees with the succulent taste of a new day.
Imagine a beautiful evening in Moore, a suburb lying on the outskirts of Oklahoma City. Mom is in the kitchen and the kids are playing in the yard. In a matter of minutes, the sky turns green and large cumulonimbus clouds start to churn. A crackle of thunder sends a chill up your spine, followed by a strong odor of ozone that fills the air as Mother Nature’s fireworks illuminate the dark sky. Large golf ball-sized hail stings your window and a melody of car alarms play in the streets.