Sawmill Canyon: A Short Story

As Bill took his first step in the woods, he takes a deep breath soaking in the scent of oak and fresh ash. “far removed from the seats of strife”, not having a warm bed or hot meals even a full night rest. Knowing he had one abventure ahead for Bill and Kats. Both having to hike 16 miles everyday over rocks,trees, crossing ice cold rivers, and hearding the rain outside of thier tend and the roaring of the bears at night.

Meanwhile, mid-morning rain brought a unique smell of wetness an earthy odor of damp dirt that no flower has an aroma of. Sounds of guffawing, loquacious, bubbly, effervescent and vivacious folks echo in the park. Another, fantabulous mouthwatering sweet hickory aroma fills the air from neighboring barbecue grills. Consequently, the more you inhaled the pleasant vapor it made your stomach growl of hunger wanting the palatable cuisine. Fresh cut grass and sweet fragrance speak of a day full of possibilities and work that one could do. High and weak is the winter sun, giving mid light and even less warmth. Scent of fresh air, so undefinable, so deliciously crisp, breathes a new breath in the stale air of winter that hangs on, giving it health and a set of wings for new life. Friends gather on the porch for escapades, relaxation and chow time.

My throat had grown dry and each passing breath sent a blaze through me. The further I bolted into the forest, the more mystical and spellbinding it became. Huge roots painted a maze on the ground and the flora became thick and lush, forming an arch above my head. The forest reeked of age. The composting, organic fragrance rose up in

Water, water everywhere: It’s dripping from the dying leaves and forming murky puddles on the waterlogged forest floor. The air is sharp and pungent, almost acrid. Bracken and dry twigs are relentlessly snapping at my ankles and droplets of water are running down my spine and collecting in my sodden shoes. It’s making the late September chill bite my skin like an icy fire. It’s consuming me, engulfing me. I don’t know how much longer I can last.

I looked up at the black sky. I hadn't intended to be out this late. The sun had set, and the empty road ahead had no streetlights. I knew I was in for a dark journey home. I had decided that by traveling through the forest would be the quickest way home. Minutes passed, yet it seemed like hours and days. The farther I traveled into the forest, the darker it seemed to get. I was very had to even take a breath due to the stifling air. The only sound familiar to me was the quickening beat of my own heart, which felt as though it was about to come through my chest. I began to whistled to take my mind off the eerie noises I was hearing. In this kind of darkness I was in, it was hard for me to believe that I could be

Born and raised on a farm in Knott County, I was used to acres of farmland and grass in every direction. The porch was shaded by a large silver oak in the summer and became a nightmare of leaves in the fall. Weeping willows grazed the ground, swaying to and fro when a breeze blew through the thin branches. Pine trees lined both sides of the driveway leaving the ground littered with pine cones and needles in winter. My dad was a perfectionist in all things and our yard was no exception as no weed or dandelion ever lasted long enough to plant roots. The grass was cross cut in a different direction each week no matter how hot the weather or how tired he was. He never allowed me to the cut the grass and as a teenager, I was happy about that. I never dreamed one day I would purchase a place that would be just as much work to maintain. Over time, I forgot (or ignored) the fact that his lawn was flat and the place I ended up calling home was the side of a mountain, sloped top to bottom.

It was August one year ago. My friends and I were out at the mall when we realized it was 9:00 p.m., and we had to go home. So we decided to take the route through the woods; not a very good idea, now that I think about it. It was very dark outside and the only light was the slight moonlight that we could see through branches of old trees, covering the sky like a blanket. There were sticks, twigs, and a lot of large rocks along the pathway, which made us even more cautious to not twist our

It was getting closer and closer, beckoning me forward with its evil glare. Was this it? Would this finally be the moment I was waiting for? As a sped forward towards the point of no return I swerved to the left. I guess then wasn’t the time.

I wear a watch a watch to judge the speed in which I travel through time. Relentlessly a strong wind from the northwest leaves me in a perpetual lean. My right boot cavalierly dangles far from any stopping power. The other tucked firmly against the tank to insure correct counterbalance. Seventy miles an hour plus headwind is best nasal spray money can’t buy. Inducing a well-deserved drip into back of my throat that numbs my esophagus and makes it difficult to swallow. A green desert scarf is not enough to keep sandy air from between my teeth but I enjoy the texture. Grinding away at what enamel I have left I look far into the horizon. I can see the historic highway melting into a woven tapestry sown by the laws of false optics. Distance, rate, and time are irrelevant. There is no past nor future. There is only the present. From run down gas station to reservation teepee I travel by the hundred miles. I never stay long. Just enough to top off; look at the atlas and take a bump. The sun by late afternoon is far over my head and I race my own shadow. Mountain ranges peek from the dense desert air and navigate new bearing. Every mile closer to nothing and farther away from everything I thought I held dear. Leaving the desolate land before time I incline slightly. Winding in and around edges of deadly drop-offs the sun hides itself behind creases of the earth. Soon it is dark and steep. Like a ramp built for the Gods

It was bright and early at 8 o'clock in the morning, it was 78 and rising and I was riding with my friend through Middlebury’s land trust. (Westover Woods) My friend described it to me that the path would allow my cyclocross bike. However it called for a dirty mountain bike path, so we voyaged deep through Westover Woods and we took on the challenges of little bumps from rocks, a 2 inch river rushing with crocodiles and spiker fishes. We jumped over the crocodile as it was nice enough to stop in the middle of the river, so we did a nice little doodle-loop over the crocodile. As we came over it, each one of us as our front tire lifted the tire went (duck noise) and as the rear tire came over (bird noise). After this the crocodile waddled

Solitude is rare in the modern world. Very few people in my generation will ever go twenty four hours without seeing another person. It can be rough initially, there seems to be a period of acclimation, but after a few days, solitude can turn into a quite bliss. Once alone, you find yourself operating on a very simple level. No gossip, no contradictions, and no conflict, just simple, peace of mind. My biggest concerns are rain and finding water. And my greatest pleasures are taking breaks in the shade

I gazed up at the mountain now drenched in light red and squinted, trying to keep my eyes open, as the bright sharp light burnt into my eyes. Struggling to keep my eyes open, I finally closed them unable to the pain any longer; I wiped my watery eyes and thought where Samneric’s fire was? There was a rumble inside me, and I looked hopefully at the jungle wondering if I could find Samneric’s fire as well as something to eat. In the morning light the jungle seemed like an old and tattered rug chewed to bits by moths, yet despite this the jungle and the whole island was beautiful shining in the sun’s warmth. I kept on walking as the jungle beckoned me calling me with its beauty. As I passed between the trees, the canopy overhead plunged me into velvet darkness. The only source of light was from the small gaps in the shell of overlapping leaves, where the sun glistened through. Moss and lichen covered the ground in abundance, thriving in this humid atmosphere, and feeding on the eerie green light that managed to penetrate through the ceiling of emerald leaves. The strange green shade and the various knotted pillars made it impossible to see for great distances or to walk about freely.

In the dark woods, the chilly wind blew me awake. Feeling extremely cold, I was shivering, goose bumps filled up my body. Finding myself in the middle of nowhere, I tried to recall what had happened the night before, however the severe headache restrained my thoughts. I hardly stood up, examining my surrounding; only to realize myself in a place I have never been to. Feeling puzzled, anxiety crawled up my chest, and I saw a piece of note lying beside me. “Leave the Woods of Nightmare immediately! The legends told here are true.”

The wind softly blows leaves around the feet of campers in the cool night. Scary stories are read by the dim glow of the campfire and the shadows of the tree branches loom over like hands, threatening to reach out and grab whoever is near the forest's edge.

The forest wasn’t far away, the only thing that actually took time was going threw, every moment counted, every second, every breath. It was exactly 1 PM when I left the Frosts house, when I first reached the forest it was 2, then as I started walking through it, the darkness exceeded thanks to the branches that were clinging together up top. The torches light was strong but not as strong as needed. It was