Into the Woods
There are many factors that can rapidly change the chances of harvesting a whitetail deer: the moon, precipitation, time of day, or wind to name a few. When all of these variables fall into place, the likelihood of getting that shot is dramatically increased. There is one other influence that can greatly change a hunt--patience. I have always struggled with grasping the discipline it takes; if you can find such discipline, it alters the entire game. There is one story in particular that stands out in regards to patience. There is a buck that that has interested me for over 3 years; he has eluded me on many occasions, causing an exceeding amount of frustration and anger. I call him Albert. Albert is a 6 year old mature
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It is a reasonable place to sleep but a horrible place to wake up, so it does not seduce me to stay when the 4:30 A.M. alarm sounds. The aroma of steaming coffee fills the house as “the guys,” as my grandma calls us, file out of their rooms. We all ready ourselves for the morning's hunt by making sandwiches, eliminating scent by showering, and dressing ourselves in the only things that will protect us from the cold and the eyes of our prey. After all preparations are complete, I open the door to the still below freezing temperatures that saturate the early mornings. I can feel the dryness in my nose and can sense the morning dew laying rest on my skin. Loading the truck tests the limits of my cracking bare hands which, on the drive, rest on the blazing hot vents that push air into the cab. The drive to the woods is relatively short, just long enough to strategize the day's hunt and chug down the rest of my sugar rich coffee. Arriving at the broken fence line that borders the woods, everything is silent except for the strong wind slithering through the trees and the lonely hoot of another silent hunter on a branch above. Hiking the steep trail, the woods are seemingly asleep at night. The only abundant sound originates from the crunching leaves under my boots. Visibility is low, with simply a flashlight to peer into the unknown darkness that blankets the forest floor. Once I peak the …show more content…
My mind is allowed to wander through all thought corridors, presenting a sense of peace, similar to a Buddhist monk searching for nirvana. As the minute hand winds forth and the day matures, the creatures of the light begin to emerge from their hideaways. A squirrel to the east patrols the barren undergrowth, while a flock of turkeys to the west scour for food. A tandem of doe walk by seemingly oblivious to my presence; their only interest is a nearby corn field. After scanning the horizon line of the woods, there is still no sign of Albert. My hopes of crossing paths with him today are diminishing
“Entrance to the Woods” is about a man who goes camping in the wilderness one weekend to take a needed vacation from his hectic urban lifestyle. On the trip, the narrator realizes his symbolic place in the woods, as well as the place that mankind has made in the world. He struggles with the negative effects that come from urbanization and the relentless progress for both mankind and nature. Berry’s genius lies in his use of diction to seamlessly use both the natural and activist personas, creating a stance and an image that leads the reader to his own thoughts, which have been manipulated by his perspective. While settling into the woods, his pace gets slower and he becomes aware of his surroundings. The natural world around him helps him realize that man must slow down and pay attention to the harmful effects of quick actions, such as rushing into a war or tearing up precious land for harmful coal mining. As he is able to fully stop and look around, he’s able to think clearly. The distractions of his hectic life are swallowed up by the peaceful calmness of the woods. Berry stat...
Tiredly, I woke up the next morning with it still as dark as night (SM). Packing quickly, I made sandwiches to eat and headed out to the deer stand with my dad (PP). I like where we hunt because it’s an open field surrounded by tall pine trees and marshy land. It’s kind of a long hike to the stand from the road, so when I walked down the road to our stand I took small strides to muffle the crunchy leaves. I wanted to walk as silent as a mouse to increase my chance of that trophy buck, about halfway there I noticed a cool breeze flow down my back, this gave me the chills. My body wracked with exhaustion, because I hunted with a 300 win mag, so by the time we got to the stand my back
The Creature That Opened My Eyes Sympathy, anger, hate, and empathy, these are just a few of the emotions that came over me while getting to know and trying to understand the creature created by victor frankenstein in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. For the first time I became completely enthralled in a novel and learned to appreciate literature not only for the great stories they tell but also for the affect it could have on someones life as cliché as that might sound, if that weren’t enough it also gave me a greater appreciation and understanding of the idiom “never judge a book by its cover.” As a pimply faced, insecure, loner, and at most times self absorbed sophomore in high school I was never one to put anytime or focus when it came time
A thick plume of black smoke and ash hung in the air in a heavy haze, almost completely obscuring the lurid red glow of the waning sun. Below, a cloud of grey plaster dust twisted and writhed amid the sea of debris as intermittent eddies of wind gusted by.
As I crept out of the window around a quarter to midnight, I ran to the barn to saddle Chestnut. I had to be very quiet so the master would not be disturbed. My pockets were filled with potatoes and bread. Although I was hungry and could smell the aroma of the freshly cooked bread from the night before, I knew I needed to lead the horse out with food to keep him in my favor. The horse neighed softly and followed me out to the pasture. Gaining his trust, I hoisted myself on his back and off we trotted. Miles later, I stopped behind an old abandoned barn to rest for the night. As the morning sun began its journey, I noticed something familiar a patch of woods with a frozen lake. If I remembered correctly, my dad’s old master owned these woods. I spent my childhood running
Walking along peacefully, through the woods at Stiehl’s hilltop house. It never gets old. I head down the path, surrounded by tall grass. I come to the little creek at the edge of the woods. I plop down on the edge the water and take a seat on the rocks, listening to the trickle of water, that comes from a spring just a few miles away. Looking for a cool rock to bring back, a sound prickles my ears. The distant howl of coyotes. A little disturbing but impressive all at once. Standing up I hear a squish. Down I look and I realize that it is my feet in the mud that made the noise. Like a little kid again, I start hopping around playfully in the mud making it squish. Along I go, through the peacefulness of the woods once more.
she always used to wish for a way to escape her life. She saw memories
As I saunter onto the school field, I survey the premises to behold people in coats, shielding themselves from winter's blues. The sun isn't out yet, but the place bursting with life and exuberance, with people gliding across the ice covered floor almost cat-like. The field is effervescent and despite the dire conditions, the field seems to have taken on a life of its own. The weather is bad and the ice seems to burn the skin if touched, yet the mood is still euphoric. The bare shrubs and plants about the place look like they've been whipped by Winter himself. The air is frosty and at every breath the sight of steam seems to be present. A cold, cruel northerly wind blows across the playground and creates unrest amongst some. Crack! The crisp sound of leaves is heard, as if of ice splitting and hissing. Squirrels are seen trying to find a point of safety, scurrying about the bare trees that lie around the playground. Mystery and enigma clouds the playing field, providing a sense of anticipation about the place. Who is going to be the person to spoil the moment? To kill the conversation?
The place was cozy and looked like a Lincoln log set. They had a moose head of the fireplace in the living room. The bedrooms were next to each other. After Edward’s dad went to sleep, he went to the kitchen and pulled his hunting knife and wet stone out to sharpen the knife until midnight. He felt the point the next morning and cut the tip of his thumb like it was margarine. They ate the venison from the deer that Edward killed. To Edward, the meat tasted different. The meat had more flavor because of the memory of butchering the innocent animal. He had dreams at night of moving onto a new target. Someone he knew his whole life, but hunting would hold back his bloodlust. He had been practicing shooting a crossbow at a target in the backyard. His father told him that a gun would destroy the meat of anything smaller than a turkey and gave him the crossbow to practice aiming. The bow took a minute to load and if you were walking by the house you could hear the thud of the bolt leaving the crossbow. The day came to go on the hike. The day was clear and was silent compared to the cities where Edward spent most of his life. The hike was two miles downhill to a valley covered in trees. Edward noticed only a few people were walking back with a large motionless bird in the hand. They got to the hunting blind and looked identical as the one at deer hunting but the feeder was closer. They got comfortable in the
The only sound was that of the cold and unforgiving wind gusting violently throughout the seemingly deserted shack. Dark and ominous clouds had begun to cover the already grey sky, giving the cold day an even darker and eerier appearance. The shack was located in the center of a valley surrounded by tall, bare mountains. The remnants of the once majestic forest stood destroyed; the wood decayed and the once tall and mighty trunks of the old tired trees falling to the ground. Suddenly a new sound began to permeate the air, barely noticeable at first until it became so loud and grating that it was the only sound.
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.
As the bushes and brush grew more solid I began to ponder. Will I make it through this forest tonight or will I be taken in by the thick of the mystery? Sounds from sluggish foot steps caused a vibration around me that lead me to stop in my place and listen closely. Could this forest be haunted or was I just over exaggerating? I started to get very nervous by this time. “It will be just fine,” I told myself. I am just imagining things. I continued my journey through the forest but negative thoughts were running through my l...
My dad and I woke up early on that Saturday morning. It was a chilly as I sat in my deer stand, but the forest was alive with activity, the birds were chirping a tune, the squirrels were running along the tree branches, and the breeze blew through the tree branches, making a calming sound. As the day wore on not a single deer had walked close enough for me too get off a shot. As it neared lunch time I packed up my hunting gear and headed back
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.
As I walked I let my eyes close and my feet feel the groove in the gravel. My mind, still asleep, dreamt of breathing. The lining of my father's old coat escaped inside the pockets and caught my fingers, which were numb from the cold. I would have worn gloves but the sun would be unbearable later in the day. The clouds would rise over the mountains and disappear and the birds would slowly become silent as the heat settled in. But for now it was just cold. I tried to warm my neck by breathing down the collar. It smelled like diesel and sweat.