To enter into that rugged landscape that was the Australian bush on a dry summer evening. As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the landscape, I reluctantly join my friends for a camping trip in the bush. To put my feet upon the dead and wilted grass, my hands in my pocket, and make my way to the campsite. The scent of eucalyptus fills the air as we continue walking, and the laughs of a kookaburra slowly die down. My legs felt like they were going to snap off any minute now, we had been walking for hours, and even the sun got a rest before I did. My head hurts from the anticipation of the journey, making me uneasy and resentful. Followed by numerous, “Are we there yet?”, and “I’m tired”. This is what I most dearly despise …show more content…
“This isn’t so bad, huh?" My friend said that. "Not particularly, it's good to get out into nature, I suppose." Well, let's hope nothing bad happens here." In the dead of night, a distant rumble breaks the stillness, sending shivers down my spine. I open my tent, the air is thick, bitter, and choking with smoke, the acrid scent burning my nose as the roar of flames draws nearer. Panic consumes my heart as I realize the bushfire is upon us, destroying everything in its path. The flames danced to life and fanned me by the hot winds that whispered. As the fire crept closer, panic spread like wildfire. I left my tent, the birds took to the sky, their frantic calls echoing through the bush. Leaving me in fear. But just as despair threatened to extinguish me and my friends. As the flames engulf our campsite, chaos reigns. Fear and desperation drive us to action, but it's too late. The searing heat sears my skin, “AHHH IT BURNS” I whine, waking everyone up. The scorching embers branding me with regret as I realize the folly of my decision to stay with those I despise out of fear of being alone. Mate 3: "What's that noise?" It sounds like... a fire." Me: "It is 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
Being in the wild is a great experience, it opens doors and bridges inside one’s mind. It allows people to be inspired, to find hope. It gives people a sense of direction and helps people conquer challenges that they never thought they would achieve. The example left behind by a young man named Christopher McCandless in Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer demonstrates how living on the road and surviving off the land can prove to be a pilgrimage and help enlighten others to go out in search of their own philosophical ideals. Whether it is being away from home and travel all across America, not settling down in one place, but staying long enough in one place and have an affect on someone else, or being with your family hiking up a mountain and be able to look at the scenery that nature brought forth.
When the day came to leave I was woken at the crack of dawn. I was keen to get to Blackpool as swiftly as possible, not only for the football that was ahead of us but also for the famous Pleasure Beach. The coach picked us up at around 8 am and in we crammed into an already full coach. The journey down was full of laughter and friendly joking from the parents. That day, it was particularly hot and inside the coach a number of people were becoming uncomfortable. I was unaffected by the warmth inside the coach, with my earphones in I relaxed and paid more attention to the vast countryside we were passing through. The vivid scenery blew me away, with colossal hills to calm rivers that we met on the journey.
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
In “Tracks”, Curron explores the harshness of the Australian desert and the impact it has on the personas welfare. Similar to Lawson stories, Curron uses long shots of the landscape portray similar features such as barrenness, desolation, bleakness stunted trees and no water to be seen. This distinctively visual scene provides the responder with evidence that the Australian environment is a harsh and dry place to live in. The close up of Davidsons face demonstrates the physical effects that the Australian desert has on her, as the audience can evidently see her face and lips are sunburnt and peeling, which is a physical impact from the environment. The slow motion scene of Davidson walking through the desert emphasises the impact the environment has on her mental welfare. As a result of the hot and inhabitable environment, she is shown to be delirious, fragile and in a weakened mental state. Australian environment on an individual’s physical and mental
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...
I was curled up in my warm blankets listening to the wind throw a tantrum outside. I thought about how much I hate wind, hoping that it would die down by the time I had to head out for school. I think suddenly thought about tents and sleeping bags on the sideway. I wondered how they were doing at that moment. I wondered if they were warm and how they were faring in the wind. I wondered how they ended up there and who’s to blame. I wondered why there wasn’t an easy solution. The next morning, as the bus approached the camp, instead of counting the tents and sleeping bags, I tried to look at their faces and reflect on how they got
Boom. Breath. Boom. Breath. Each step sounded like a war drum banging in my ears. The harmonious rhythm of my steps consistent with my breath continued on and on as I made my way up the side of the cliff in the middle of these Colorado woods. The sweltering heat was hindering my vision, and I began to feel dizzy. The worst part is, I am all alone.
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.
A Narrow Road to the Deep North by Matsuo Bashou, is a well-known travel piece by an incredible poet, but because of its use of poetry feels less like a travel piece and more like a snapshot of the human experience through a journey. This journey is a search for spiritual enlightenment, although, along the way, Bashou captures human emotion through his poetry, as he experiences loneliness, wanderlust, worries of failure, insignificance among nature’s grandeur and spiritual rebirth. Beyond the physical travel itself, Bashou’s poetry gives us a glimpse into the complex emotions a human can experience through travel, by presenting the reader with images that evoke specific emotional responses. Bashou solidifies the readers’ understanding of his
The Fire “C’mon, it’ll only take you a second,” he said. I can still remember the look on his face; he looked like a puppy begging for a treat. My red-haired neighbor was three years older than me; he had a sprinkle of freckles across his cheeks and a certain charm in his voice. “Ben, I don’t know about this. I don’t want to get into trouble,” I, being ever cautious, was always reluctant to participate in Ben’s adventures.
Walking, there is no end in sight: stranded on a narrow country road for all eternity. It is almost dark now. The clouds having moved in secretively. When did that happen? I am so far away from all that is familiar. The trees are groaning against the wind’s fury: when did the wind start blowing? Have I been walking for so long that time hysterically slipped away! The leaves are rustling about swirling through the air like discarded post-it notes smashing, slapping against the trees and blacktop, “splat-snap”. Where did the sun go? It gave the impression only an instant ago, or had it been longer; that it was going to be a still and peaceful sunny day; has panic from hunger and walking so long finally crept in? Waking up this morning, had I been warned of the impending day, the highs and lows that I would soon face, and the unexpected twist of fate that awaited me, I would have stayed in bed.
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
We all grabbed our lawn chairs and cozied up next to the roaring red fire. I always sat a little too close, enough to where the fire burnt a hole straight through my favorite pair of flip-flops, assuring me to never make that mistake again. S’mores was all of our favorite bed time snack time and a perfect way to end the night. Every time I would roast my marshmallow until it became slightly brown, mushy, and not too hot in the center; then I 'd put it between two graham crackers and extra pieces of chocolate. One too many s’mores and a belly like later I laid back in my chair and listened as Nancy told us stories. Before going to bed Nancy told us about her favorite past times here as a child and how just like the little girl we saw fishing, she was also afraid of fishing. She told us stories about how much the campground has evolved since she was a child and how every year she promises to take us here and to keep it a tradition. At bedtime Alicia and I crawl into our tents and snuggle up in our warm sleeping bags. We talked to each other about how sad we felt that it was almost the end of summer, and how nervous we felt to start our freshman year of high school. However, our conversations ended when Nancy yelled at as from the other tent to keep quiet and go to bed. I’d fallen asleep that night to the sound of the fire crackling out and the crickets chirping
I awoke to the sun piercing through the screen of my tent while stretching my arms out wide to nudge my friend Alicia to wake up. “Finally!” I said to Alicia, the countdown is over. As I unzip the screen door and we climb out of our tent, I’m embraced with the aroma of campfire burritos that Alicia’s mom Nancy was preparing for us on her humungous skillet. While we wait for our breakfast to be finished, me and Alicia, as we do every morning, head to the front convenient store for our morning french vanilla cappuccino. On our walk back to the campsite we always take a short stroll along the lake shore to admire the incandescent sun as it shines over the gleaming dark blue water. This has become a tradition that we do every