Iva Park Trail Short Story Report

Colorado, known for the Rocky Mountains, is a gorgeous place to be. The wildlife filled rectangular state covers 104,185 square miles. In the black timber, it is dark and silent, not a sound to be heard. The pine trees are so thick it blocks most of the sunlight from entering, only to see about seventy-five yards in front of myself. The terrain is rough and almost straight up and down, but the elk love it because it is a challenge for hunters to see them. As I walk my favorite ridgeline in the black timber, I watch for the slightest movement and listen for the smallest crack. Watching thirteen-lined ground squirrels run around and chase each other can be humorous sometimes to watch them fall down from the trees. I wait patiently for the chance

During the summer before my Freshman year I went to hell and back, and by hell I mean Philmont scout ranch. Just a little background, Philmont scout ranch is 140,117 thousand acres of big rugged, dry, mountainous terrain. I knew what I was getting into, Ever since I joined boy scouts Philmont was regarded as the ultimate scouting experience, so of course i was pressured into that. Eventually summer rolled around and before I knew it I was on a train to New Mexico.

They traveled for over seven months struggling through deaths, dangers, and hardships that had them hanging on their last few strings of life. They faced things such as animals suffering from exhaustion and having to eat pretty much everything that they could find. This lasted until they reached Pierre Hole, their resting point. At prairie hole they were helped by believe it or not the “indians”. Pierre Hole was described as a “fine grassy plane among the mountains” and was where everyone nursed themselves back to health in a way. Here there was an abundance of meat that they feasted on and recouped. They got clean water and had a very social time with the “indians” learning about each other's stories and creating

Green Lake in the Bishop Creek Canyon is a sacred place and the happy hunting ground for the ancestors of the Paiute people. Evidence of the habitation of these people goes back thousands of years and indicates that this area was of prime importance for food gathering. The men hunted deer and mountain sheep while the women and children gathered and prepared food. Everybody pitched in on all the other chores like making camp.

When the white-tailed deer show up in my backyard, it's like witnessing a direct link to an age almost forgotten. I freeze in my tracks, and I can't help but think about their unbroken chain of ancestors going back into the ancient past. These animals were here long before any settlers arrived from Europe. They were the hunted long before rifles replaced bows and arrows. They knew these lands when the waters were still clean and the air was still fresh. They knew these lands when there were no cars and no railroads. They were here before horses were brought to this continent from Europe. In their majestic silence, the deer have witnessed footpaths become trails, trails become roads, and roads become interstates. Their resilience is remarkable.

Through the years, many citizens have worked to maintain the museum. In 2012, the Drumright Historical Society began work to bring the story of The Negro American Series back to the public. At first, they began to share the story with their own city through museum exhibits, speeches to civic groups and their local newspaper. Next, they began to share with the State of Oklahoma through organizations such as the Oklahoma Cultural Heritage Trust, the Oklahoma Museum Association and the Oklahoma Historical

For two years I worked as a camp counselor for the Western DuPage Special Recreation Association (WDSRA). In this time, I have worked day camps, inclusion camps, social program,s and even an overnight camp for children, teens, and adults with special needs. My responsibilities were to plan crafts and activities that were inclusive to the various needs and abilities of the campers. Most of all, being a camp counselor meant creating a safe and fun environment for each

On April 4, 2017 at approximately 2:32 A.M. I, Deputy Hill was informed by dispatch of a possible over dose at the Trails Inn Motel.

Pierre’s Hole was where Indians had a large amount of good, dried buffalo meat. There also was a pure cool mountain creek where they drank at. Pierre's Hole is a shallow valley in Idaho, USA, it's just west of the Teton Range in Wyoming. The Indians living in Pierre’s Hole were nice and never attacked the pioneers. This is where pioneers would rest and take a break from traveling. There was one thing, they can’t stay that long. Since they have to travel over the Sierra Nevada's. They had to get over the mountains before winter broke out. That’s why, they have to leave at the right

One cold, dreadful winter day in November, the wind was biting at our faces, high in the Ouachita mountains at Ash Creek deer camp, I would have to face my most dreaded fear. I would be faced with losing the person that means the uttermost to me.

Our yearly pilgrimage to our deer lease in Menard, Texas starts every year on the first Friday in November. To get there we head four hours north thru the sprawling metropolis of San Antonio, full of its traffic and impatient drivers. Upon leaving the city limits of San Antonio, we head west towards Kerrville and the landscape starts to change drastically. No longer are we driving on flat land but now the car is climbing small hills and the road winds. We drive in this direction until we reach the vast acres of ranch land located on a lonely farm road between the small cities of Junction and Menard. If you drive too fast down the winding road, you will miss the old metal gate that is almost hidden by brush trees. My husband is the hunter, yet I love to come with him, because this is the place, where I disconnect from the fast paced life of city dwelling and feel reconnected once again to nature and I find peace and rest here in this cactus and dirt oasis.

Here is the thing, as great as Victoria Bryant National Park sounds; in reality it is not as great as it sounds. To start off with, there is a five dollar charge just to park your car in the park and there is a pet fee to have a pet on the property. The small muddy creek that feels like its 78 degrees, flows through the park and happens to be poorly maintained, as well as any of the trials. Rotten tree trunks, big rough rocks, and tree roots that stick out like a sore thumb, take over the trails, not giving anyone the opportunity to enjoy the wildlife. Instead everyone will be paying attention to their feet and praying no one falls over. If grilling out is an activity planned for the day, then do not waste the time. The grills are not maintained

The prairie mutts are being butchered off by planners in formed shoots delineated in sickening purpose of intrigue. These harrowing scenes are contrasted and the step by step diary of Williams' sightings and seeing of the animals.

In the main weeks of summer get-away, my neighborhood companions and I would arrange a considerable measure of bike journeys around the town we lived in. We would attempt to see as quite a bit of southern California as we could before the sweltering days of July and August were upon us. On one of our initial outings we chose to travel west on Valley Blvd., which was one of the fundamental streets through town (and the street that I lived on). We advanced toward the tremendous Valley Strip mall, which was home to an expansive grocery store, a few littler retail establishments, a medication store, two shoe stores and my untouched most loved toy store.

A ways away from a town that I call home, I found a happy place. I often find myself walking through the park by myself. The beautiful trees, the way the yellow and red leaves crumple under my feet every step I take. When the flowers bloom and how it's the most spectacular sight you could ever imagine seeing, all the different colors that appear. When you breathe in and you get this smell of purity, you feel free and alive. Sometimes I like to sit on the old wooden bench where the bench frame is a little rusted, and I get rid of my thoughts and my eyes search the sky. In the winter the icy breeze makes me shiver, and the cold air I take in, is like sitting in front of an air conditioner and breathing in. Some mornings the sun beams across the sky, which is not quite blue yet, but the sun has almost fully risen. When the wind blows, it grazes over the blades of grass. Some days I just stand and take a deep breath in and I can taste the spring. When summer comes around, and the bees are buzzing, and the hot sun beats on the back of my neck, I lay on the soft grass and listen, to the birds chirping a beautiful song, and the kids playing in the park. The sky is the bluest view in sight.