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.
(“Facts about mountains for kids”) This is not a solid definition of mountains, but it is a general statement. Mountains typically have steep, sloping sides and sharp peaks. (“Facts about mountains for kids”) With these sloping sides come different levels to a mountain. The lowest level are the broadleaf forests then the middle slopes that are colder and have conifer trees. The next level of tree growth is called the timberline, then there are alpine plants, and finally at the very top there is nothing but snow covered rocks. (Simon, Seymour. pg.23 ) With every different level, there comes different plant and wildlife. The elevation also determines the human population, because the higher up the mountain you go the less oxygen; therefore, you will probably feel dizzy and short of breath. (Simon, Seymour pg. 25) Humans can climb mountains such as Everest, but few to none live there full time because of the reduction of oxygen. Mountains influence environments and are important to
Every cold Alberta winter, or dry summer, makes me long for the East Coast. When I grow tired of the brown dirty hills of Alberta, I can close my eyes and picture being back in New Brunswick, bright green meadows and clear rivers. I miss how the fog creeps into your yard in the early mornings, the bittersweet smell of the sea that never could be washed out, I miss the feeling of home. As a child, my family and I would road trip, traveling East to the sea. I remember how the vastness of Alberta would change into the golden prairies of Saskatchewan, then shift into the forested hills of Ontario, and finally the calm rocky shores of New Brunswick. I remember the house we lived in, white paint peeling off the sides of the house, a Canadian and Arcadian flag flying on the porch (put there by my historian of a cousin), floral green wallpaper clashing with antique, mismatched furniture. That house has been in my family for generations, each of our stories have been told, beautiful new memories have been made there. I miss it so much. I miss the beach side bonfires, sparks drifting so far away they became stars, the rainy marketplace days, coming home and smelling like fish. The Alberta cold makes my heartache, I want to go home. My home is a comfortable old cabin, where I grew to not be scared of a
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
It was simply amazing hiking out there, the mountains covered in tall trees that dug into the rocky soil, the beautiful sky, when visible. Even in the midst of strenuous exercise I still en...
The early settlers of Flat Rock envisioned a place for summer relief and relaxation, but were quickly enchanted by the sheer beauty and originality of the land, that growth and permanency were inevitable. Flat Rock is not only a place of personal desire, but it is a place that I am fortunate enough to call home. In a house that sits atop a mountain overlooking the town of Flat Rock and mountain ranges beyond, lives my family and as the years pass by our connection to the land only grows.
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
Most times in life we don’t appreciate what we have, but in some rare cases people do appreciate what they have because they don’t realize that there is anything better. In the poem “I Grew Up” by Lenore Keeshig-Tobias that is exactly what she is trying to put forth to the readers. Lenore Keeshig-Tobias is describing her love towards the native reserves and all the great memories she had their as a child. Born in 1950 Wiarton, Ontario, she was the eldest of ten children and a member of the Chippewa of the Nawash First Nation on the Bruce Peninsula. Much of Keeshig-Tobias’ work draws upon the realities of native life and
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
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.
Will it really be mine—this mountain? Daddy says it will be one day. He loved the mountain, its long, lingering dawns. But he frowned, squinting off at the hills with night still huddled in their folds. Now it won’t ever be mine. (Victoria
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)
I was the first person to ski off of the chairlift that day; arriving at the summit of the Blackcomb Mountain, nestled in the heart of Whistler, Canada. It was the type of day when the clouds seemed to blanket the sky, leaving no clue that the sun, with its powerful light, even existed anymore. It was not snowing, but judging by the moist, musty, stale scent in the air, I realized it would be only a short time before the white flakes overtook the mountain. As I prepared myself to make the first run, I took a moment to appreciate my surroundings. Somehow things seemed much different up here. The wind, nonexistent at the bottom, began to gust. Its cold bite found my nose and froze my toes. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my face, forcing me to zip my jacket over my chin. It is strange how the gray clouds, which seemed so far above me at the bottom, really did not appear that high anymore. As I gazed out over the landscape, the city below seemed unrecognizable. The enormous buildings which I had driven past earlier looked like dollhouses a child migh...
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.
It’s a beautiful morning, as my group of friends and I wake up, we hear the pounding and the thrashing of the water slamming on the moss covered granite rock, I go down the eroded leaf covered pathway to fetch water just like I would do every morning, the sun had just begun to rise, the mixture of scarlet red, orange, and a bleach-like yellow beaming against the hurried water of the river that led into the waterfall shone like flakes of gold floating on top of the whitening water. The serene environment of the surrounding rocks overlooking the waterfall, the ambience of water clashing against the granite, and the aroma of the white pine filling the forest is an awe inspiring experience to all who dare make their way down the narrow and lengthy
Fortunately, I wake every morning to the most beautiful sun lit house. I sit on my porch sipping coffee, while I drink in an atmosphere that steals my breath away. Rolling hills lay before me that undulate until they crash into golden purple mountains. Oh how they are covered in spectacular fauna, ever blooming foliage, and trees that are heavy with pungent fruit. Green it is always so green here at my house. Here where the air lays heavy and cool on my skin as does the striking rays of the sun upon my cheeks. I know in my soul why I choose to be here every day. Pocketed in all the nooks and crannies of these valleys and hills are stately homes, rich with architecture resplendent. Diversity is the palate here; ...