Travelogue
This is something I recorded in my handwritten journal. I liked it a lot, so I'm throwing it down here.
Here we are escaping Mt. Washburn. As you can see, the snow is thickening and we are currently struggling our way down a very rough dirt road. To three sides of us is a chasmic valley, of which we can see nothing. A thick white fog obscures all but the closest yellow grasses and tree skeletons. We are now drifting beneath the cloudbank. We overlook a deep valley matted with tough prarie grass. A large and worried congregation of pine trees huddle together about the hills. This is a place of geysers and steam, where snowclouds and fog welcome vaporal bretheren expunged from the Earth. Water exists in no one form for long; weather exists suddenly where previously there was only air. It is the sudden ghostly mist the flock of pines fear. They stand close because any instant a cloud may form and lightning choose ten or a thousand of them for terrible ascension. Afterwards, they are husks. Gray, devoid of leaf or vibrancy, a thousand empty trunks and limbs, standing naked in the cold prarie, drifting in the enveloping fog like the empty corpses of your grandfather's hanged men.