The wind blew lazily over the barren landscape. Orange and brown earth rolled as softly as the dunes they comprised. The ground looked as though the sun had melted the top layer of the earth only to sculpt wax like curves and waves over the entire stretch of sand. The sun was barely above the horizon and already the desert floor was sizzling with heat, excitedly waiting for rain that would not come for many more weeks.
A single trail etched its way across the field. Modest footprints, those of a man with a soft step could be seen for only a few minutes before the sands began to shift and hid any trace of passage. If one were quick enough to follow the trail it would seem as though whoever was making this small intrusion in the sand was heading into the heart of the desert; into almost certain death. A death caused by heat or exhaustion, whichever came first. It would seem that way although this would not be the case.
For the maker of that trail had journeyed this way many times before. So many times in fact, that he need not stop and check for landmarks or to rest until night to find his bearing. He knew where he was headed and that was all he needed. He came to rest at the top of a particularly tall dune at mid day. Unshouldering his pack and bundle, he rifled through his back pocket for a meal that had been packed for him by the kind young lady at the inn from three nights ago. Three nights, he thought to himself. Had it already been that long? That meant his journey was almost over.
When he was full enough he rewrapped what was left of the meal and replaced it in his belt pouch. He stood, stretching his old body and remembered what it was like when he was younger to be able to stand quickly without the need to ready his...
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...ecoming a prune."
They both looked at each other and began laughing. The man had fished out a cup and made his way to the water. The water was cool, surprisingly unaffected by the heat coming from the sun. He drank a few cups of it slowly before taking a few steps back, and resting againt the base of the tree. "It is good to see you again, Casore."
"And you as well, Django," the dragon exclaimed. "But as you know I can not let you rest unless you pay the toll for tresspassing into my land."
Django smiled and kicked his shoes off. He wouldn't be going anywhere for a while and the cool sand under the tree felt nice between his toes.
"Very well. If I must, I must," He said with fake sorrow. "Have I ever told you the story of The Boy and his Turtle?"
The dragon thought for a moment. "I do not believe so," he said.
"Good, because it is one of my favorites to tell.
Throughout history man has made many journeys, both far and wide. Moses’ great march through the Red Sea and Columbus's traversing the Atlantic are examples of only a couple of men’s great voyages. Even today, great journeys are being made. Terry Fox's run across Canada while fighting cancer is one of these such journeys. In every one of these instances people have had to rise above themselves and overcome immense odds, similar to a salmon swimming upstream to full fill it's life line. Intense drive and extreme fortitude are qualities they needed to posses during their travels.
...breathing and feel the warm air dance across her bloody face. After a long time the eight men and she started walking towards a hill, slowly and quietly, in a single line formation. Behind the hill was the forty-eight state of the United States, Arizona. It was still dark as they climbed up, so they knew they had to be careful with each step they took. As they reached the peak they climbed down under trees and bushes. Taking the first steps on the Desert of Arizona.
Food has been a great part of how he has grown up. He was always interested in how food was prepared. He wanted to learn, even if his mother didn’t want him to be there. “I would enter the kitchen quietly and stand behind her, my chin lodging upon the point of the hip. Peering through...
“In an hour and 40 minutes they run more than 15 miles over uneven red clay, dodging small herds of cattle and donkeys laden with sacks of potatoes…The route climbs more that 3,000 feet, from and elevation of slightly more than 6,500 feet at the river to nearly 10,000 at the peak, where oxygen is precious and a cruel wind slices across the face of the hill.” (Layden, par. 2)
He then considers the second path. He sees it is less worn and has more grass. The leaves are still untrodden so the paths remain fresh and exciting. It seems that he is the first traveller to pass this way for a while
I tracked over to my favorite spot on the edge of the wood: a clearing encompassed by thick trees. The area had many sweet-smelling balsam trees that reminded me of Christmas back home. A few of the remaining leaves fell from the branches of the maple trees above me.
Bill Bryson the author of the short story ‘A Walk in the Woods’ constructs the story in a certain way to try to get the reader to accept his attitudes and values about how dangerous and death defying Earl V. Shaffer and other’s are in attempting to travel the trail. He uses the techniques of emotive language, unusual language and use of first hand accounts in the short story ‘A Walk in the Woods‘ . The use of descriptive and humorous language, combined with conversational text has allowed Bryson to express his feelings and opinions on his and others experiences on the Appalachian Trail to the audience.
The sun was coming up over the peaks and we were halfway there when we came to a dirt road. Because the dirt road was on the edge of a mountain, we started up the road very slowly and cautiously. When we got to the base of the mountain we got our packs and started the adventure to the top.
Wiping the sweat from my brow I called a halt to the crew. Phil and I dumped our packs and found a comfy boulder to rest on. I looked back to where the last guys were coming from back down the trail. They had stopped talking a while back and marched slowly along the dirt trail. Phil produced an energy-bar he’d saved from breakfast and began to munch on it as I drained another water bottle. After the refreshing drink I laid back against the rock and stared up at the pine trees. But a moment later, hearing grumble about sore legs, I sat up, grinning, “By the map we only have another couple hours.”
> > > >the place. Stops. Starts. Gashes in the sand. A variable mess of
We continued down the infinitely long interstate towards our destination. Thunder clouds continued to rumble in, like an ocean tide rolling closer and closer to the beach front. Within minutes the entire landscape was calm and dark. It looked like a total eclipse of the sun, and the once ...
Closer and closer to the calm water, I began sinking deeper in the sand. It was comforting, the silence, tranquility, and warmth of the faint sun. There is a slight breeze, warm, but cold and lonely. I could smell the scent of fish blowing through my hair and body. The sun was still fading, slowly but surely the day was almost over. About half of it is gone now. I could see shades of blue, red, purple, and pinkish-yellow. They were mixed with puffy clouds that lined the beginning of the sky and the end of the water. I noticed the darker shades on the bottom of the lower clouds.
As I began to walk this trail, I began to recollect the days of when I was a kid playing in the woods, the birds chirping and the squirrels running free. The trees interlocking each other as if I am walking through a tunnel with the smell of fresh pine and a hint of oak all around me; a hint of sunshine every now and then is gleaming down on the beat path. This path is not like your ordinary path, it has been used quite some time, as if hundreds of soldiers have marched this very path.
In the deep crevices between the tufts of grass, the shadows stalked slowly upward, submerging the sandy earth in an inky sea. The sun sank until only its last, thin razor of light glimmered over the fields. Time stretched its ancient joint...
The sunless sky covered the woods over the treetops which created a canopy over my head. The crimson and auburn foliage was a magnificent sight, as this was the season known as Fall. There was a gentle breeze, creating the single sound of rustling leaves. The leaves appeared as though they were dying to fall out of the tree and join their companions on the forest floor. Together with pine needles and other flora the leaves formed a thick springy carpet for me to walk upon.