[Descriptive Writing] "This Land"
Title: "This Land"
Words: 1,339
Summary: A descriptive piece about a place that is near and dear to my heart.
A/N: I'm missing my mountains already, hopefully I didn't fail them too miserably with this piece of writing. Trying out second person, haven't written this in a long time...
There was a gift that America gave to its people. It began with the simple signing of a document by a great man in its history. It was business as usual in Washington. Sign a paper that protected a valley and a grove of trees in distant California. It would be followed years later by another paper signed to protect some geysers and trees in the Wyoming territory. Little did these men of politics know what a lasting gift they would give to the people of America, and the people of the world.
In September of 1915, a little piece of Colorado joined in the legacy of “America’s Best Idea”. A man by the name of Enos Mills, among others, campaigned tirelessly for several valleys and peaks to be protected. Come on a journey to a quiet place nestled beneath those peaks, that you can visit because of the genius of a few enlightened people.
In Rocky Mountain National Park there is a moment when nature strikes you in all it's subtlety and power. You can feel it as you turn off the engine to your car and listen to the human noises fade. In the simple action of turning the key the singer on the radio is cut off, the engine whirs itself to sleep. There is silence in the face of wilderness, and then slowly the natural sounds filter through the steel, aluminum, and panes of glass that surround you. You unbuckle your restraints and crack the door and the mountain air of the Rockies swirls into the vehicle. John Muir had a point when he said, "The winds will blow their freshness into you...". You breath deeply of the smell, delicately scented with the far off smell of ice and the nearby scent of pines.
You step out, gravel crunching beneath your hiking boots. The shoes show the scuffs and wear of being your companion through unknown miles of trail. They will carry you today, carry you to your destination. Carry you up and over the hills, past waterfalls and ancient stones, to a lake that you’ve seen before, yet as a wise man once said, “every moment in nature is unique. A snapshot...”. Slinging your daypack onto your shoulders you lock the vehicle and bid farewell to civilization for the remainder of the day.
The trail begins in a downward slope, graced on each side by white barked Aspen. If magic lived in these subalpine forests it was here in the Aspen grove. Sunlight dances through the quaking leaves that gave the Quaking Aspen its name. You run your fingers on the soft bark between the black scars carved by human foolishness or animal hunger. The pale bark is smooth, like silk, and as you pull your fingers back you can't help but smile at the white dust that coats them. Nature is ingenious in its enterprises. A tree with sunscreen to protect the pale, photosynthetic bark.
The trail curves into switchbacks as you cross a well trodden bridge. The water is quiet this time of year, delicately making its way between the stones with none of the noisy fury it contained in the spring. Each drop of water is making its way to a faraway sea. It will pass through many places like this before joining the mighty Colorado River and bringing to the Southwest. Life is in that stream and you know that if you but dip your fingers into it you will still feel the ice that it was not so long ago.
You feel the mountain air burn in your lungs, your muscles heat up in the altitude. You keep your pace, the mountain itself is singing in your blood and your body strains to sing back. The challenge warms your heart, you’ve hiked like this before, you want to get there before the rest.
One foot in front of the other as the Aspen fade to friendly fir and spiky spruce. Granite walls dominate one side of the trail, the ancient rock face adorned with lichen. Allie Algae and Freddy Fungi got to "lichen" each other... You muse laughing at the silly story. The lichens are grey and green and white. Bright splashes of orange lichen reveal the homes of animals. Lasting tribute to their existence. Perhaps the mountain will reveal its residents to you.
Step, step, harsh sounds! A flash of blue and black soars past your face alighting in a nearby tree. He calls raucously to you in greeting. A Stellar's Jay sits in the tree shifting just enough that your camera always takes a blurred photo of him. He seems to laugh at your efforts as he soars away. A chickaree scolds her noisy neighbor. Silence follows the exchange, just the soft sounds of pine branch tips falling, the chickarees going about their business. They are clever in their laziness, why run up and down the tree to gather cones when it is so much simpler just to gnaw off the branch that holds them?
After a mile or so in the trees there is a break and you can look upon the glory that is Glacier Gorge. Thousands of years ago a flowing river of ice carved this canyon leaving behind huge boulders and distinct cliff faces formed of gray granite and patterned gneiss. Alone on the edge of the trail the wind scoured trunk of a fir stands vigil above the kinnickinick and the wax currant shrubs. Chickadees chatter and hummingbirds hum in their mating dances. The sun both caresses and beats you with its rays, prompting you to pull out a sun hat to shield your face. You are grateful for the invention of sunscreen, wearing it like war paint as you go out to discover the mountains.
It isn't long before you plunge back into forest. The shade is a welcome relief from the brutal sun of 10000 feet above sea level. Beneath the Douglas Firs snowshoe hares in their changing summer coats scurry away. They are a strange contrast, rabbits wearing brown coats for summer but with large white feet ready for the snows winter. Soon the white will spread up their bodies until they are white from nose to tail. You'll be gone from this place before then, just a transient visitor to this land.
A fork in the trail, one to the right and one to the left. You’ve been up both and know where they lead. Today your desire takes you to the left. The Loch Vale and Sky Pond can wait for another day.
Dirt trail gives way to granite rock as you reach the end. As you take the last few steps to conquer the final hill you are gifted with a view that is not the same anywhere else. The Keyboard of the Winds and the mighty Long's Peak rise above the clear lake. You stand on the shores of Mills Lake, a lake named for the man who loved this land almost a 100 years before you were here. Ravens caw on the nearby cliff going about the business of getting the last fledglings to leave the nest. Greenback Cutthroat Trout jump above the small waves formed by the breeze. This fish was thought gone, but they persisted in lakes just like this, waiting to be rediscovered. You sit on the shore and feel the landscape embrace you. This land is your land, this land is my land.
There is land that belongs to every American, land that you can be a part of, that is the gift of a national park. Places like Rocky Mountain National Park and the all the parks down the waterways that flow from it, belong to you and to me. They are a gift that will hopefully never disappear. So enjoy your time in this peaceful place, sense the rock and tree and wind. Listen to the raven, the jay, the magpie. Listen to the wisdom of a columbine and remember, this land was made for you and me.
Words: 1,339
Summary: A descriptive piece about a place that is near and dear to my heart.
A/N: I'm missing my mountains already, hopefully I didn't fail them too miserably with this piece of writing. Trying out second person, haven't written this in a long time...
There was a gift that America gave to its people. It began with the simple signing of a document by a great man in its history. It was business as usual in Washington. Sign a paper that protected a valley and a grove of trees in distant California. It would be followed years later by another paper signed to protect some geysers and trees in the Wyoming territory. Little did these men of politics know what a lasting gift they would give to the people of America, and the people of the world.
In September of 1915, a little piece of Colorado joined in the legacy of “America’s Best Idea”. A man by the name of Enos Mills, among others, campaigned tirelessly for several valleys and peaks to be protected. Come on a journey to a quiet place nestled beneath those peaks, that you can visit because of the genius of a few enlightened people.
In Rocky Mountain National Park there is a moment when nature strikes you in all it's subtlety and power. You can feel it as you turn off the engine to your car and listen to the human noises fade. In the simple action of turning the key the singer on the radio is cut off, the engine whirs itself to sleep. There is silence in the face of wilderness, and then slowly the natural sounds filter through the steel, aluminum, and panes of glass that surround you. You unbuckle your restraints and crack the door and the mountain air of the Rockies swirls into the vehicle. John Muir had a point when he said, "The winds will blow their freshness into you...". You breath deeply of the smell, delicately scented with the far off smell of ice and the nearby scent of pines.
You step out, gravel crunching beneath your hiking boots. The shoes show the scuffs and wear of being your companion through unknown miles of trail. They will carry you today, carry you to your destination. Carry you up and over the hills, past waterfalls and ancient stones, to a lake that you’ve seen before, yet as a wise man once said, “every moment in nature is unique. A snapshot...”. Slinging your daypack onto your shoulders you lock the vehicle and bid farewell to civilization for the remainder of the day.
The trail begins in a downward slope, graced on each side by white barked Aspen. If magic lived in these subalpine forests it was here in the Aspen grove. Sunlight dances through the quaking leaves that gave the Quaking Aspen its name. You run your fingers on the soft bark between the black scars carved by human foolishness or animal hunger. The pale bark is smooth, like silk, and as you pull your fingers back you can't help but smile at the white dust that coats them. Nature is ingenious in its enterprises. A tree with sunscreen to protect the pale, photosynthetic bark.
The trail curves into switchbacks as you cross a well trodden bridge. The water is quiet this time of year, delicately making its way between the stones with none of the noisy fury it contained in the spring. Each drop of water is making its way to a faraway sea. It will pass through many places like this before joining the mighty Colorado River and bringing to the Southwest. Life is in that stream and you know that if you but dip your fingers into it you will still feel the ice that it was not so long ago.
You feel the mountain air burn in your lungs, your muscles heat up in the altitude. You keep your pace, the mountain itself is singing in your blood and your body strains to sing back. The challenge warms your heart, you’ve hiked like this before, you want to get there before the rest.
One foot in front of the other as the Aspen fade to friendly fir and spiky spruce. Granite walls dominate one side of the trail, the ancient rock face adorned with lichen. Allie Algae and Freddy Fungi got to "lichen" each other... You muse laughing at the silly story. The lichens are grey and green and white. Bright splashes of orange lichen reveal the homes of animals. Lasting tribute to their existence. Perhaps the mountain will reveal its residents to you.
Step, step, harsh sounds! A flash of blue and black soars past your face alighting in a nearby tree. He calls raucously to you in greeting. A Stellar's Jay sits in the tree shifting just enough that your camera always takes a blurred photo of him. He seems to laugh at your efforts as he soars away. A chickaree scolds her noisy neighbor. Silence follows the exchange, just the soft sounds of pine branch tips falling, the chickarees going about their business. They are clever in their laziness, why run up and down the tree to gather cones when it is so much simpler just to gnaw off the branch that holds them?
After a mile or so in the trees there is a break and you can look upon the glory that is Glacier Gorge. Thousands of years ago a flowing river of ice carved this canyon leaving behind huge boulders and distinct cliff faces formed of gray granite and patterned gneiss. Alone on the edge of the trail the wind scoured trunk of a fir stands vigil above the kinnickinick and the wax currant shrubs. Chickadees chatter and hummingbirds hum in their mating dances. The sun both caresses and beats you with its rays, prompting you to pull out a sun hat to shield your face. You are grateful for the invention of sunscreen, wearing it like war paint as you go out to discover the mountains.
It isn't long before you plunge back into forest. The shade is a welcome relief from the brutal sun of 10000 feet above sea level. Beneath the Douglas Firs snowshoe hares in their changing summer coats scurry away. They are a strange contrast, rabbits wearing brown coats for summer but with large white feet ready for the snows winter. Soon the white will spread up their bodies until they are white from nose to tail. You'll be gone from this place before then, just a transient visitor to this land.
A fork in the trail, one to the right and one to the left. You’ve been up both and know where they lead. Today your desire takes you to the left. The Loch Vale and Sky Pond can wait for another day.
Dirt trail gives way to granite rock as you reach the end. As you take the last few steps to conquer the final hill you are gifted with a view that is not the same anywhere else. The Keyboard of the Winds and the mighty Long's Peak rise above the clear lake. You stand on the shores of Mills Lake, a lake named for the man who loved this land almost a 100 years before you were here. Ravens caw on the nearby cliff going about the business of getting the last fledglings to leave the nest. Greenback Cutthroat Trout jump above the small waves formed by the breeze. This fish was thought gone, but they persisted in lakes just like this, waiting to be rediscovered. You sit on the shore and feel the landscape embrace you. This land is your land, this land is my land.
There is land that belongs to every American, land that you can be a part of, that is the gift of a national park. Places like Rocky Mountain National Park and the all the parks down the waterways that flow from it, belong to you and to me. They are a gift that will hopefully never disappear. So enjoy your time in this peaceful place, sense the rock and tree and wind. Listen to the raven, the jay, the magpie. Listen to the wisdom of a columbine and remember, this land was made for you and me.