The Wild Trail-Personal Narrative

He said quietly to himself “You're never going to find him because your walking on him,” and walked out

"stay here" he said as he ran into the woods. I stood there for a while, but then a figure appeared next to the trees. It was the man who ran after the thief. I walked towards him with fast steps. He was carrying my bag, his body seemed tired and he was out of breath.

A pair of young men from the village had found him by the side of the road, just toward the local wood. He was badly wounded, as far as they could see, and completely unconscious. They had brought him right to her.

The air is thinner as breathing seems more labored, the temperature cooler, even in midsummer it seems as if Mother Nature engineered the day for comfort. With each step, the civilized world pushes deeper into the recesses of the mind becoming a distant memory. Anticipation mounts, as the path all but seems to disappear into a stand of Frasier Fir trees. Passing through the fir trees brings to mind memories of Christmas and all that the season brought at that time of year. Exiting the wooded parts of the trail, the skin is illuminated and warmed, provided by the sunlight that finds the occasional break in the trees. Entering a clearing, the mountaintop comes into view appearing even more intimidating than from the view at the bottom. As the trail ascends toward the peak, prior thoughts of a strenuous trip yield to the realization of a relaxing and tranquil atmosphere. The final steps approach the highest point in the eastern United States, opening onto gorgeous panoramic views of exquisite mountain ranges and unending blue skies. Thoughts of spending an eternity in such a natural wonder pass and soon are replaced with the curiosity of what the return trip down the mountain will bring. After taking in one last breath of the fresh mountain air, the trip back begins.

The essay begins with the snow on the ground as “pure white” (Medina 72). In spite of the move to New York appearing to be a clean slate for him and his family, hopes began to diminish once they actually arrived. It was expressed by Medina that, “the snow on

Now there was only one more question: What was he to do until sunrise came? He didn't need to sleep unless he had to conserve his energy, so that left him a gap with nothing else to do.

The walk to the Milkovich house was short, but freezing. He’s bouncing on his feet when he stops outside, and the sun is starting to set behind him.

It was not cold he felt, simply weakness. There was no muscle there. There was only bone, shrouded in ghostly white skin, badly cut hair like the feathers of a dead sparrow.

The next day he went back and he saw someone. The person was a man, he called to the man, but

Fire burns red hot, it’s a source of warmth and in some cases comfort. In the story To Build a Fire by Jack London, fire brings new feelings to a numb man every time he makes one. The man starts out calm and uncaring to his surroundings and the cold, but be the time of the last fire he built, he was panicking and distraught. As the fire thawed out the man’s fingers and toes it also thawed out his heart and made the man feel more than he ever wanted to. At the beginning of the man’s journey before he made a fire, he was undeterred by the cold, “But all this-the mysterious, far-reaching hairline trail, the absence of sub from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all-made no impression on the man” (London 302).

            The author further described the man to be “without imagination.”  He had received advice from an “old-timer,” native to this harsh weather who warned him about the dangers of hiking alone in such chilling weather.  The man told the hiker to never be outside alone when the temperature is 50 degrees below zero.  Later in the story the hiker mocks the old-timer when he says that old-timers around here are “quite womanish” for taking such unnecessary precautions.  The hiker throughout the story thinks to himself that it “definitely was cold,” hinting at the fact that consciously, he knew that his situation was a cause for concern, but time and time again he justified not worrying about the red flags and thought of “other things.”

Hours have pass since he last took off, and yet, it was already nightfall. He halted, and dismounted his horse, having to rest there for a while, before they continuing.

The region we had been traversing had recently been suffering severe drought, however we simply had to carry on through to our destination. We pitched camp to prepare for dusk at the foot of an arch-tree among a vast forest of similar structures, soaring kilometers high and as thick as the oak trees back home were tall.

Although it was a warm day, the winds from the north let him know it would be a cold night. He searched for a secure spot to make a shelter.

He rushed off the bus and ran home as if he was being chased. He had made it, he was finally home.