Creative Writing: Fatal Walk In The Oregon Woods

Have you ever heard of someone falling into a ditch? Well I have it is not very fun. It all started when my friends inv me to go ending with them at Pat Lamar Park.

"Wake up, partners," the trail boss, James called. I sleepily looked up , shivered, and saw I was the only one not up. "Here," James said, giving me the horses' bridles and saddles. "Take these and get the horses ready. We have a long day today." I groaned in reply and set up the horses for the day's long drag. I was the horse wrangler and this was my everyday job but I still couldn't get use to the idea of waking up before the sun and working. We drove the cattle into open plains against the winter's cold wrath.

The driver, Cecilia Blair, of vehicle 1 was traveling north through the intersection of N. State St. and Flint St. when she had a collision with vehicle 2. The driver, Jacqueline Muir, of vehicle 2 was heading west on Flint St. when she was struck by vehicle 1.

After a long mountainous drive, I arrived at my destination to embrace one of nature’s wonders in the Great Smokey Mountain National Park, Abram Falls Trail. Upon departing the car, a cool crisp breeze brushed my face and the aroma of bacon lingered in the early morning air from the neighboring campground. The narrow rocky footpath looked like a tedious adventure, however a gorgeous, vibrant array of red, purple, orange, and yellow wildflowers blossoming at the entrance made the trail alluring. Navigating the rocky, uneven terrain required sturdy footing, but the quiet stillness created a peaceful relaxing atmosphere. The lush pine-oak forest formed a green canopy of shelter above the trail, offering welcome cool shade, as vivid sunlight filtered through the foliage. A sweet honey fragrance permeated the air, as a stunning scene displayed a cluster of purple and pure white

In 1919, Ansel made his first contact with the Sierra Club, an environmental protection and conservation movement, where he took work as a custodian. A collection of his images were printed in the Sierra Club Bulletin, and he would go on in the next few years to become official trip photographer, which involved month-long hikes with sometimes as many as two hundred people! Ansel’s love for the wilderness would lead him to getting involved in politics and eventually landing him on the Board of Directors for the Club, which he was member of for thirty-seven

My name is Jeffrey I was born in Mississippi 1989,June 9 where I came from a trailer there.We spent most of our life there in Mississippi. We made kin friends kinda more that family than friends and had a couple of hilarious jests together I felt like I was gunna spend the rest of my life there but I guess not.My family got into some trouble gambling so me and my family was thinking to flee and go to Alabama.So we took a destination stay with Aunt Sheela for a a week or a month to see if we can find a way to get out of this trouble.

Jake opened his pocket watch, tipping the crystal face toward the low flames of the campfire. Another hour before daylight and he’d pick up Duvall’s trail. The muscles in his jaw clenched, hate pulling at every part of him. He’d kill Duvall, and he’d do it with Texas’ silent blessing. No judge had pronounced a sentence, but Jake saw the outlaw pull the trigger—watched Harrison die.

We have been to this lake two years in a row and my family and I love it. We live about eight hours away from it so we stayed with my grandparent the day before we went to save some time.

The settlement of Cripple Creek came in sight as the men drove the herd of cattle through several large red sandstone monoliths. The cattle bellowed and moved in a strait forward procession down the winding dirt road, with El Capitan, known by the Spaniards as the ‘The Leader’ of the great Rocky Mountains, in view.

Lake Willowberry wasn’t an enormous lake, but it was sizable, with the approximate circumference length of a rounded football field. The lake was not far from my house, it was in the forest, and the forest encroached the south side of my fence—standing tall like a citadel of pine trees.

Paul Nicklen likes his photos to combined art, storytelling, and conservation. He wants his photos to bring awareness to global warming and the effects it has on animals. He hopes that through his photography and public speaking he can open the eyes of others. He wants the world to realize that with transformation we can help the ecosystem stop the extinction of many artic

As I hack away at chest high buckthorn I glance into the distance to locate the opening I've been waiting for. Finally, I have forced my way through the dense brush and onto a ridge above the glistening waters of the Bighorn River. The glare of lethargically moving water stuns my eyes as I cautiously make my way down the bank and splash my face with a handful of water. While maneuvering myself across the river I struggle to stay on my feet. I push forward and locate a flat and clear area ideal for my campsite. I reach a relaxing stop underneath a willow tree to provide pleasing shade during these hot Montana months. The sun's slowly starts to disappear over the distance mountains as my eyes gaze into the majestic star filled Montana night

Hidden in the seclusion of the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, sits a tranquil pond blanketed in a sheet of fragile ice. From atop the limestone peaks, the glistening rays of the morning sun tint the mountain side a sunburnt orange. The sloped peaks of the rippled mountain side are covered in snow, like they have been dusted with icing sugar, and cast a foreboding shadow over the pond below. In the valley, the arid, yellowed grass has been suffocated by the thick layer of snow and ice, for the winter storm has hit hard this season and spring has arrived later than usual. Yet, beside the frozen pool, there lies a growth of bright, rich evergreens, their trunks rising towards the stars, and their branches extending to the shape of a cone. From them,

Isaac looked up from the blood on the ground and gripped the rough handle of his spear tighter. The rough stone spearpoint was nicked badly, and covered in dried blood. ‘This thing won’t last much longer.’ I thought. I got up from my crouch after rubbing some of the blood between two fingers. It was still wet, but it looked like it was starting to dry in the intense sunlight. I’m getting closer then.

The subtle sound of the stream soothed his lost thoughts. His ears were engulfed by the fresh grass being crunched between his tired, beaten feet. He stood there, motionless, intimidated by the colossal, stone giants resting before him. He was surrounded by them; enclosed by their antiquated bonds of rock. Their bodies were clothed only by dense sheets of overgrown moss, peppered by bare clumps of pebbles and boulders. The dormant mountains continued to throw an unfocused gaze over him. Their presence disturbed him but at the same time provided him with a somewhat twisted sense of security. Scattered over the surface of the mountains were trees with youthful, esteemed trunks reinforced by cinnamon barks peering down the valley. A delicate wind