We stood on the porch of the small cabin that housed the rangers stationed at the camp. The water came streaming down from the roof, pouring in from all sides of the cabin, flooding the camp in a matter of minutes. The mud was cold, and covered everything, finding ways to seep into our boots and socks, past our jackets, soaking us and chilling us to the bone. A large rush of water came spilling down the mountains on both sides as well as from the already saturated meadow behind us. The dry streambed that ran along the side of the camp was no longer visible. What had been a 7-foot wide, 5-foot deep culvert had quickly turned into a fast moving, muddy river. The water coming down from the top of the mountains behind the culvert was simply going …show more content…
into one side of it and shooting out the other. The wind was whipping around and whistling down through the valley, and we were afraid to leave the porch for fear of trees collapsing or branches falling. It was the 6th day of our trek at Philmont, and we had stopped for lunch. Philmont Scout Ranch is located near the tiny town of Cimarron, New Mexico, and is just about as wild as it gets. Known in Scouts as “high adventure”, Philmont is a strenuous 12-day backpacking trip, and a rite of passage for senior scouts. My crew, of 12 scouts and 3 adults set out on one of the most challenging routes. As the highest-ranking scout, I served in a leadership-consulting role, helping the elected crew leader to think through decisions and giving advice as needed. The sun finally peeked out from behind the clouds, and we ventured from the porch, inspecting the damaged landscape as we went. We still had a ways to go that night if we were to stay on our trek’s schedule. We had a decision to make: did we continue on that afternoon, which was quickly turning to night, and stick to our itinerary, or did we stay the night at the cabin and make up the extra mileage the next day. It was not an easy decision to make. The itinerary was our safety net. It was the only way that the Philmont base camp had of knowing our location, and if we did not make it to the camp that night, we would be MIA for at least the next 18 hours. In addition, we would be left to make up the extra miles tomorrow, adding to an already arduous day for a grand total of 16 miles. Finally, after debating amongst the crewmembers, votes, and consulting the map, and with my strong suggestion, the crew decided it would be best to push on that night and get to our campsite. We had checked the map, and felt confident that we would be able to finish up the days trek easily. Looking back on this moment, I realized that I had experienced what it was like to make a decision that had serious implications not only for myself but also for others around me, and to be responsible for the safety of the people who depended on me. This is instance marked my transition to adulthood. As we began to walk, we saw around us that the trail we were supposed to be following was covered in anywhere from 3-8 inches of water. Rushing rivers crisscrossing the trail every ¼ mile or so were swollen past their banks and moving fast. We were all strong swimmers, but everyone knew somewhere in the back of their minds that wasn’t going to do jack shit against the power of all that water. Underneath the muddy, boiling surface of the water, lay the unknown. Rocks, branches, fallen trees, debris of all sorts was a given. Everyone knew, although no one acknowledged, that if one of us took a wrong step and fell in, they would be pulled under, bashed against rocks, held under by the debris, and dragged far downstream. We had all heard of scouts that had died at Philmont. It happens every year. No one mentioned it. All of us were experienced scouts, with vast amounts of skills and outdoorsmanship among us, but nothing ever really prepares you for the danger you face in these kind of real-world situations. The danger we were in became more and more apparent as we came to one after another rushing rivers that crisscrossed the trail every ¼ mile or so, swollen past their banks, and moving fast, and were forced to ford them to get the trail on the other side. No one showed much emotion as we were fording. We had a job to do and that was all there was to it. Everyone was quiet, just sparse words when necessary to communicate. About 2 miles down the trail, it began to get muddier. We heard water rushing as we approached, a sure sign of another fording to come, but somehow this one sounded different. As we reached the banks of the river bisecting the trail, we surveyed our surrounding. Above us was a 5-foot drop in the river, creating a large patch of whitewater. A small tree had fallen a few feet upstream from us, creating what is called a “strainer”, where branches under the water trap anything that comes downstream. Downstream from us was another strainer. The water was dark, muddy, and churning up against the banks. There was no way to tell how deep it was. We discussed the best way to ford, and finally settled on using a length rope one of us had as a guideline. The only issue was figuring out how to get the rope across to the other side of the water so that it could be pulled tight and the group could use it to hold until as they waded across. We realized that someone would have to take the loose end of the rope across. I volunteered. I volunteered to cross first, and was able to slowly make my way across.
The first person to come across after me was Jacob Otagee. Jacob was one of the youngest scouts in the group, and was much smaller than most of us. He worked hard, but by the end of the day, you could see his energy was quickly fading. On top of all of this, Jacob had issues with his gear, especially his boots. A good pair of boots is extremely important, and unfortunately for Jacob, the soles on his had begun to come apart, being held on with duct tape. Everything went fine as Jacob made his way across the first half of the stream. It was a few feet past the middle, when Jacob took a bad step and slipped on a rock submerged under the water. He lost his footing, and within half a second, he had gone down. The water, which had been at his waist, was now at his chest. The force of the water was crushing against him, and the added pressure was pulling hard against me, as I put all of my weight against it, trying to hold him against the water. In those terrifying fractions of a second, I felt myself slipping, and thought I was not going to be able to hold on. I could see the fear in Jacob’s eyes as he scrambled to regain his balance. He knew what would happen if he was pulled downstream. After what seemed like a very long time, Jacob was able to wade closer to shore, and I reached out, grabbed his arm, and pulled him up onto the
bank. We were both shaken, and soaking wet, but quickly calmed down. We shared a glance, which communicated much more than I can put in words. I quietly said “You good?” to Jacob. “Yeah, I’m ok”, was the response. We worked together to get the rest of the crew across, with much less excitement, luckily. It was in those split seconds from when Jacob slipped and when I pulled him onto the bank when I grew up. Once we were on the trail that night and realized we would have to ford all these streams, I thought “What the hell did I just get us into? Why did I argue that we should continue?” I felt responsible for putting our entire crew in an extremely dangerous situation. Because of me, we were taking on much more risk, and there was the very real threat that someone would get hurt. All of that was solidified in those moments when Jacob slipped, and I felt his life resting on me, metaphorically, and physically as I felt his weight on the rope. If Jacob went downstream, in part, it was my responsibility. There is no way to prevent risk. You can manage it, and deal with it well, but at the end of the day, the best you can do is to choose which risks you take carefully and hope for the best. Nothing truly prepares you for being responsible for someone else’s life. Next time, I will be ready.
After reading the first chapter of Mark Ferguson’s short story, “A Drowning” I already knew that I would not like the story. It is an example of a lifeguard’s nightmare, finding a drowning victim without a way to save them. The fact that the narrator is painfully reliving the story makes me tense, especially when thinking about dangerous situations that could happen while I am working as a lifeguard and the effects it could have on me. To conclude, the story made me more and more uncomfortable each time the the victim was put in further danger and especially uncomfortable when he never came back up which made the story difficult for me to read.
The narrator of the story also discusses the effects of their water has suddenly became muddy making the Indigenous people change everything from transportation to food to drinking water.
The world around us if full of many wonders, some world renown and appreciated, or some immaculate and taken for granted, such as the Mississippi River. In the passage from Rising Tide: The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How it Changed America, author John M. Barry communicates his fascination with the Mississippi River by analyzing its complex mechanics and describing its enchanting nature. Through the primary application of two rhetorical strategies—logos and pathos—the author services his argument with intelligence and intuition while chartering his passion and zeal for the Mississippi River.
We hit a down hill point so we grabbed drift wood. It would save man power and be faster to sled down. The rest helped Landon out the most because he was the smallest so he didn 't have energy left to use. But this refreshed him so we could keep going. Time was not on are side. The only thing keeping us alive was the fact that if we got out we would be the first ones ever to make it out not dead. It was about the hottest point in the day now and we had to find shade or we would get to dehydrated and die. We drank all the water we had just to fine out that we had a under ground stream below
First there was the ground that wasn’t as firm as I thought it was; my right sneaker falling victim to the deceptive scattered branches that littered the floor, probably only inches thick, allowing water to creep in and wet my sock. Then there were the dead branches that I tried to use as a bridge to avoid this, which snapped under my overbearing 150 pounds. And of course every branch was connected to the last by a series of intricate spider webs; every one I ducked to get under just happened to have a neighbor right underneath. The list goes on. But the small wound where the palm of my hand met my thumb didn’t seem like it would be a big deal until I was back in the boat. I didn’t realize that it would trigger such intense emotions and drag me so deep into a pit of despair.
The smaller convict snatched the glasses, without a word, to scan for any hostiles. The ten foot, low head dam was almost impossible to see coming down river. Rarely a summer went by that this fact was not discovered by novice, pleasure boaters until it was too late. Most boats were trapped against the dam, although a few had gone over. There had been some deaths over the years, the back wash below the dam trapped both boats and bodies.
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
I dumbly watched, stunned by the scene that was painted before me. And without warning, I witnessed the same image, but coming from the opposite direction, near the West Woods. I didn’t want to believe what was about to occur on a farm such as mine, but eventually I came to the realization that the future events were inevitable, and about to rewrite those books that I’ve heard tell about our nation’s history.
...we found the bodies, yet the crashing blue-green water spins me into a reality that is worlds away from the sight of stiff men. I'm not sure if this is healing or forgetfulness; all I can be certain of is the bite of the water on my skin and the dropping sun. I stare at my hand under the surface of the water, fascinated by how far away it looks and by the deep blue color of my fingernails. That hand isn't a part of my body, how can it be, it is deep in the water, opening and closing experimentally as water crashes on top of it. I want to leave it there, forever feeling the numbing water, forever fighting the currents that would wash it out to the Pacific Ocean. But then my arm moves, lifts my hand, and I realize it is mine, as are my legs and toes and wet matted hair. And the water keeps falling, pounding, rushing and I just stand there, staring, watching, waiting.
It was our fifth day in the Philmont Scout Reservation in New Mexico, the halfway point of the trek. I as the Crew Leader was responsible for the other 11 members of the crew, including 4 adults. I was in charge, and amazingly the adults rarely tried to take over, although they would strongly advise me what to do in some situations. Phil, with the exception of me, the oldest scout and the Chaplain for the trip, was my second. Together we dealt with problems of making sure everyone carried the right amount of stuff in their pack to who had to cook and cleanup each day. The trip had gone well so far, no injuries, and the worst problem had been a faulty backpack. As I walked I thought about the upcoming campsite. Supposedly this one had running water from a solar powered pump—so had the last night’s site but the tank was too low to use for anything but cooking because the of how cloudy it had been of late. But today was bright and shinny, and hot, so I didn’t think there would be a problem.
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.
Despair and sadness filled the camp like a glass of water about to fill over
We followed a footpath that had been trodden out by a herd of slow chewing cows that were, let’s say a lot messy. It wandered along in turns and easy angles, twisting off and up to the top of a small knoll, rambled down again between fringes of bee-hung clover that gleamed in the morning dew, then it cut sidewise across a meadow. Here its edges blurred. It widened and seemed to pause, suggesting a scenic summit and then it went on again and came at last to the wood. But after reaching the shadow of the first pine, it veered sharply in a wide arc as if, for the first time, it knew where it was headed, and past around a creek which had been dammed up to form a swimming
A shrill cry echoed in the mist. I ducked, looking for a sign of movement. The heavy fog and cold storm provided nothing but a blanket, smothering all sight and creating a humid atmosphere. The freezing air continued to whip at my face, relentless and powerful. Our boat, stuck in the boggy water. Again a cry called. Somewhere out there was someone, or something.