How To Write A Narrative Essay About A Hunting Park

We were all encouraged to choke down as much food as possible. Any kind of energy was essential. A melancholy atmosphere hung heavy as the journey progressed. Minutes walking slowly progressed into hours, the sky seemed to darken steadily. All of us were oblivious to the danger shrouded by the dim evening. Only moments after scaling a rather steep ledge did nature dice to turn sour. A deafening rumble made each climber perk up. Snow began to descend at an alarming rate. Thunder began to mic the steady beating of a drum, causing more concern among the ranks of climbers. The powdery snow became more of a risk than ever, climbing under pressure and leaving nothing to stand on. Third base was more than three hours away. Three hours wasn't possible at the rate. Snowfall this bad could be detrimental to the climb’s success. Snow obscured vision and numbed faces. Shouts and orders deemed lost in the screaming wind; people’s figure became shapeless blurs frantically shifting, hoping if they struggled against the wind hard enough, they might find someone. Of course, this was to no avail. Not a single person doubted their demise would come at this point: the stakes were high and no-one could play too well against Mother Nature. The snow crept up to knee-level, making it harder and harder to travel. Death and I were face-to-face. To some, they couldn't bare the idea of dying up here; they had families and friends, children who need parents and

As a St. James middle school boy, I was all about hunting, even though I hadn’t ever been. My dad, being the awesome guy that he is, said he’d take me if I genuinely wanted to go. Little did I know, my dad had been studying up for this on YouTube because he knew the worst part comes after you shoot a deer and have to clean it. He watched video after video learning how to properly clean a deer before you take it to a shop for it to be processed. The only thing that I knew I wanted to do was shoot a deer!

Jim here, Uncle Jim some call me. My story from several deer hunting years back goes like this: I have a saying about shooting at deer. You sight your gun in and make sure it hits where it should. So I am usually late gettin’ this done. I have a Thompson Center 54 cal. muzzleloader. Usually shoots right on so I was not to worried about it being right on. So the evening before deer season opened took my target to a safe shooting spot set up sandbag and thought I would shoot about 2 times to make sure it was still on. I had ten 54 cal. bullets. I have always said you better make your first shot count so if it takes nine in the target so be it. Well I shot 9 shots all over the target and could not get it sighted in. Gave up went to put my gun in the truck and the front fell off. Found the problem of not a good group of shots. Too late to get any more loads so I called a friend and said I should meet him on the hill where I am going to hunt and borrow a bullet from him. That problem solved, back to my front sight. Well I put my sight on my gun centered it on the barrel and scotch taped it.

Once my dad arrived, we were on our way. I jumped out into the first park that we came to and the fresh new powder exalted me. We then rode over to our friend's cabin to say hello and have a Pepsi. We asked our friend, Bob to come along for the ride and he was delighted to join us. From there we cut across flat lined Twin Lake and then across the untracked Eggleston Lake. To my unpleasant surprise, we approached the lodge, and sleds were buzzing around like crows on road kill. Ten miles down the road I expected to, at least, see some other people riding, but we had the whole mountain to ourselves. We rode from mountain to mountain, crossing open drainages and gigantic playgrounds of snow one after another.

It was a chilly Sunday afternoon with blue skies and all the makings for a good day of early season skiing on that fateful November afternoon. The day was winding down, the Broncos had just kicked off, and my friends and I had just leapt off the chairlift to embark on our last run of the day. All was well on the way down, a blur of orange jerseys rushing by as I sped down the mountain making the most of the last run of my day. Upon our final few turns of the afternoon, I found myself in a predicament that would later shape me into the person I am today.

The people on top of the hill came into focus as I squinted against the light. They looked like shadows, but I could hear distinct voices floating down. Someone said “You can go now.”-a teacher, I guessed, or someone waiting in line and impatient. Someone worried about going down, tapping a pole on the ground. Someone said “Ow!” as a shadow tumbled out of sight, leaving just a pair of skis. One person hunched down, ready for the rush down the hill. I wondered if it was the first time of the person who was worrying, and winced in sympathy for the person who fell-that had happened to me many times before.

I run as fast as I can up the mountain. They’re still on my tail; I’m hoping that I will lose them in the harsh snowstorm. The mountain is steep; however, there is a tricky path that leads up to the top. That is what I want to reach . . . the top.

It was an alright December day. That was until my dad told me that I had to go hunting. Because I had many hours of dance, I was tired.I tried getting out of it, but nothing worked. The old “I have a lot of homework trick didn’t even work.” So, I got dressed wearing pink clothes. Pink clothes are legal for hunting.

Frightened yet determined, I slowly inched forward and followed my dad through the moguls and expert terrain along the side of the mountain, following in his exact tracks. Surprisingly, the farther down I proceeded the more I could feel my courage raging through my body. Eventually I was skiing down without any worries. As I felt the terrain flatten before my feet I realized that I had just skied the very peak of the mountain. My eyes slowly drifted up and I was overcome with the site of the mountain I had just

The wind howled with frenzied madness through the rocky mountaintops six thousand feet upwards during a freezing Spring afternoon, it lashed without mercy at tourists, rock, and the bare vegetation left. The creamy milk hued rocks were cut into rough prisms, stacked amid each other as jenga pieces, left there purposely for no purpose. The newcomers swayed like seaweed dancing on the ocean floor to climb over the boulders under the tyranny of the gale, still, amateurs and experts flew up the slopes like mountain goats, unfaltered and experienced. I was not an amateur or an expert, and neither will be in the foreseeing future. My pessimism was not due to the overwhelming fear of investing effort to improve or the difficulty of becoming an expert but the unconscious fear of death from falling or becoming mashed potatoes from boulders. Then

As soon as we knew it, we were there- Boreal Ski Resort looking down upon us. We walked out the bus, saying “thank you” to the bus driver, and stepped out onto the icy ground. It was a perfect day to ski- the skies were blue, not a cloud to be seen, the sun was out shining perfectly upon us, sharing its brightness while keeping some of its warmth. Our group quickly put on our snow gear and raced out to the ski rentals. “Last one there, gets ice down their pants!” Running to the ski rentals, at least half of us fell onto the hard, slippery ice. Laughing and running, looking like a bunch of hooligans, we got to the ski rentals. The line was long, so, one at a time, we sneakily cut through and got our skis and heavy boots. With a “click,” we fit our boots into the skis and were all ready to go. Our gang waddled out of the ski rentals with the skis on. “What do you wanna start with?” “Let’s go on the medium slope first.” And so we began. The cycle of getting onto the lift, lining up on the edge of the slope and racing down repeated itself as we raced down what we called the “medium” and “big” slopes. We were counting scores and by the end of the two hours, I was at

It was three summers ago and It was just another hot day and my parents insisted that we be active and do something. It was my mom’s grand idea that we go for a hike and then go watch some fireworks at a country club nearby. Me and my sister were of course were not amused by this idea and were not looking forward to being eaten by mosquitoes on a mountain for a couple hours. I do not consider myself the outdoorsy type, fishing was about the extend of it. Hiking isn’t something I particularly enjoy and after tonight hiking would become my absolute least favorite activity ever. Some would say that Donn Fendler’s book Lost on a Mountain in Maine is a really good interpretation of someone 's real life story of being lost on a mountain, but few can say they have actually gone through the fear of being lost on a mountain.

As you stand at the top of a run and look down over the mountain; with twisting and turning slopes, you feel at peace and connected with nature. This is what skiing can do for you; however, it hasn’t always been a way to get out and enjoy the mountain air. As a matter of fact, skiing used to be mainly for survival.

Many people enjoy riding roller coasters or skydiving because they enjoy the thrill, but there is no thrill like hunting. The rush of seeing the majestic beasts glide through the woods is an experience that few know and many never experience. The adrenaline pushes of pulling the trigger and seeing the arrow fly in slow motion as it streaks through the air is one the most exhilarating things that can be experienced, but hunting is not easy and that can’t be seen more through my first experience crossbow hunting.

Many people enjoy riding roller coasters or skydiving because they enjoy the thrill, but there is no thrill like hunting. The rush of seeing the majestic beasts glide through the woods is an experience that few know and many never experience. The adrenaline pushes of pulling the trigger and seeing the arrow fly in slow motion as it streaks through the air will leave your heart pumping faster than anything else, but hunting is not easy and that can’t be seen more through my first experience crossbow hunting.