# Mt. Agamenticus



## cactusdude (Mar 3, 2015)

Just a quick little rough draft of a nature essay I wrote for my composition class. I have a few areas in mind that I feel are in need of serious revision, and I'd appreciate any constructive criticism you all may have. Thanks

Edit: Sorry, I meant to include the word count in the thread title. 1300!

Trading my respiratory system for another few minutes of daylight, I continue pedaling with the curvature of Mountain Road. To the observing bluebird I may appear to know the road well, carefully navigating through the remaining frost heaves and around the spotted turtle that has slipped through a hole in the pine barrier, perhaps to escape the gloom of an extended winter for a brief moment. In fact, the tires of my old Trek are well confined to the groove countless rides have etched into the roadway, or what’s left of it. Tar turns to gravel, back to tar, then sand. 6:17 by my cheap plastic watch, which always seems to run slow. The day slowly yields to wintry temperatures and dry frosty air. This is strange weather for April. The shrouded entrance to Ring Trail approaches starboard side, but I advance without pause. Tonight, I will take the beaten path. 
The large revolving steel gate which grants passage to the access road is shut closed. Excellent. Bike in hand, I lurch over the green painted beam and begin my ascent. The first pair of hills are tough, but they get steeper yet. Already out of breath, I dismount; it’s a wonder that cars don’t roll backwards on this incline. The jaggedness of the road distorts the acoustical-time continuum. A leafy crackle floods my ears from all directions - maybe a prematurely awaken raccoon plotting his trash barrel heist. Nonetheless, I prepare myself to be struck by an assailant. One. Two. Silence again.

I hop back on my bike for the final leg to keep pace with the red squirrel dashing cooly past me. I know I’ve reached the summit because the cool, alpine-esque breeze has returned. I lean my bike on the first worthy geological formation I come across - a crystalline igneous rock consisting of quartz, mica, and feldspar; granite, as the locals say.
I couldn’t have asked for a better night. Though, anything less and this would not be possible. A few cirrus clouds litter the sky to the east, but the patch where Lyra resides is clear, for now. The sky is a quick-change artist this time of year. Farther up the entrance road sits the dirt car lot nestled within a group of sturdy hemlocks just beginning to dress themselves with foliage. Beyond that, the barren lot converges into the driveway of the conservation center. The iconic purple, often mud-covered ford ranger is away. Robin, both the coordinator and full-time resident of the center, must be elsewhere tonight. Her loss.
The temperature is beginning to plummet quicker than the sun falls below the horizon, which has been extended by my elevated vantage point. I wore as heavy a coat as the tight straps of my seventh grade backpack would allow. Are the _spring_ salamanders cold? I was in such a rush to get here that I forgot why I was rushing in the first place. I need to get out of the wind. Just west of my bike support lies a blueberry-less Blueberry Bluff. The steep trail overlooks an unassuming Pawtuckaway Mountain to the south east. The thin exposed layer of soil is grasped by a shrubby mesh woven of scrub oak and naked blueberry bushes. I climb down, below the timberline again. Loamy soil on the bluff gives way to a rocky outcropping, mostly bedrock, jacketed by a blend of clay and silt. One hour left. May as well hike the trail to keep the blood warm and circulating.  
The Mount Agamenticus Conservation Program rates the Blueberry Bluff trail as moderate in their collection of trail descriptions posted at the parking lot. For reference, however, the group does not rate any trail as being easy. A kid I went to school with, named Andrew, always exclaimed that Agamenticus should be stripped of its title as a mountain and be further regarded as no more than a “bump in the landscape.” At a whopping altitude of 692 feet, I can hardly disagree with him. I make my way down the winding path, referring to the trail markers every so often; I haven’t been down this one in years. Though this climb may not qualify as adequate training for Mt. Kilimanjaro, the mountain is unique in its own right. The region serves as a biological bridge, a plain of intermingling for species of the north and south. I wonder for a moment, am I the only person in this 30,000 acre forest? Not more than five acres into, but still, a both frightful and reassuring thought. Spring peepers begin their chorus; I’m far from the only _living thing_ in this forest. 
Blueberry Bluff is only a quarter mile long. The butt end of it actually filters into Ring Trail, which encompasses the entire mountain, eventually leading back to the drivel of suburbia. To my left is a sectioned off area of woods. The bright red tape reads, “regrowth area.” I think back to when the now adolescent trees, namely white pines, were saplings. Also recalled is the day, many sundays ago, spent putting those very saplings in the ground, as part of a reforestation effort. My ankles begin to itch picturing the literal clouds of mosquitoes that we encountered on that muggy August day. The transported soil still holds onto its dark earthy hue. Fallen pine needles and acid rain from the west will gradually strip away that rich color and the nutrients which make it. But for now, night has fallen, and cast a darkness far blacker than the organic matter under my feet. Better head back.
The most luminous stars begin to remove their daytime cloak, shedding light in the form of photons, many of which have traversed the entire galaxy undisturbed, only to be halted by a pair of observing retinas. First Sirius, then Alpha Centauri, Betelgeuse, and 100 million more that all share a common descendant. In essence, we are all made of stardust, living on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. And what of Lyra? The constellation is tucked behind a high-altitude veil of suspended water droplets. Only Vega, the second brightest star in the Northern Hemisphere, sparkles through. 
I remain hopeful as the gray mass skates out of sight, revealing the small, but truly incomprehensibly massive, celestial body. Now to decide upon a view point. A hexagonal observation deck is stationed in the center of the grass field adjacent to the parking lot. Overseeing several of the old lift towers once serving the “Big A” ski slopes is an elevated two-story platform. A sharp gust of wind zips through and I quickly opt for the observation deck, which features tightly spaced balusters below the railing; that ought to dispel some of this breeze. I lie down on the decking and draw my grandfather’s binoculars from the worn leather case strapped to my bag. The stubborn red glow of the Nubble Lighthouse accounts for more than half the light pollution arising from the town of York, which will soon wake from hibernation. My eyes are pulled from my cleaning of the binoculars and drawn to the thin white fireball streaking across the starry night. As soon as the tail of the first fades away, the next one makes contact with the upper atmosphere. A few moments later, another. Each meteor no larger than a grain of sand, yet is made magnificently palpable by the high velocities at which they enter our airspace. The kinetic energy contained by the stuff of extraterrestrial beaches ionizes the atmosphere, forming lengthy tails in its wake. Over thirty meteors pass and disintegrate in just the first half hour, each one as compelling as the last. Whatever remaining warmth is left in my body is sapped by the raw composite decking and I begin to shiver a little. Thankfully, I can choose most any night to be warm.


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## InstituteMan (Mar 3, 2015)

Thanks for posting this one. There's a lot to like here.

You paint a powerful scene and share a special moment. I really liked some of the little touches of familiarity here: the coordinator is named Robin, the seventh grade backpack fitting tight, and the grandfather's binoculars.

I think there may be a few places where you'd be better served to try a little less hard. We all (well, me, at least) wind up overwriting instead of letting the words flow. I'm going to try to flag a few spots below. My comments in [brackets].



cactusdude said:


> *Trading my respiratory system for another few minutes of daylight*, [I don't think this quite fits as a "trade." Maybe this is abusing the respirator system to gain some daylight?]
> 
> Tar turns to gravel, back to tar, then sand. 6:17 by my cheap plastic watch, which always seems to run slow. The day slowly yields to wintry temperatures and dry frosty air. [<--I really like this bit]
> 
> ...




This is is a quality first attempt. I hope there are more after this one.


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## Plasticweld (Mar 3, 2015)

Some good visuals. In all honesty it just drags... being too slow with your intent, while it is important to set the mood and the scene you use so much of it that the story and the point is lost. 

I got bored with it a little more than half way through and just plowed on, just waiting to get to the end. 


Welcome to forum, I know it is probably not the feed back you were hoping for.  You seem to have some excellent skills as a writer and story teller so it would be a shame to not give you honest feed back...Bob


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## cactusdude (Mar 4, 2015)

Thank you both so much! Bob, I truly appreciate the honesty. I'm not sure what I can do about the dragging at this point. My intention was to tell a story of my ride up the mountain to view the meteor shower. I'm just scraping by page-length-wise. I'll keep that in mind as I revise, though.


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## Plasticweld (Mar 4, 2015)

cactusdude said:


> Thank you both so much! Bob, I truly appreciate the honesty. I'm not sure what I can do about the dragging at this point. My intention was to tell a story of my ride up the mountain to view the meteor shower. I'm just scraping by page-length-wise. I'll keep that in mind as I revise, though.




You just need a dash of Hemingway.  Short but crisp sentences can have the same impact, and often they are more powerful because they come across as a bold statement rather than a observation.  Stating the facts verse interpreting what you saw is probably another way of looking at it. There is always a fine balance between both.


Looking forward to seeing more of your work...Bob


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## cactusdude (Mar 5, 2015)

Gotcha and thanks. Hemingway is more of my usual style, but this essay prompt called for vivid descriptions.


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