a mountain path - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The mountain path grew wide where the soil was soft and then narrow in the rocky passes. There were times it was barely there at all, no more than a mild disturbance in the dirt. But always it lead upward to the peak, the only destination the five of them could keep in mind.
The mountain path winds ahead as effortlessly as a blanket laid on a bed, yet each footfall costs Ian more strength. It is as steep as it is narrow and rocky in a chaotic way, just enough to stop his gait falling into a steady rhythm.
The mountain path is a merely the least challenging ascent over the rocky boulders. Many are so tall Paul and Kelsey scramble up on all fours, their backpacks almost pulling them back down each time they lose momentum.
The mountain path ahead was loose rock, each one washed smooth by the river that once ran freely over them. Jack braced his feet, attempting to guard against the inevitable rolling in random directions, but his ankles tumbled left and right regardless. Thickly dark green boughs arched over the path from each side, competing for the light. Under their dappled shade the harshness of the midday sun was muted but it did little to make the steep incline any easier. Jack lifted his eyes to the distance ahead. After rising sharply for a way it simply turned out of view, likely carrying on in just the same way.
Moss and lichen covered boulders sprawled in the rockery of mother nature. There was no trace of civilisation in this wilderness apart from a worn out path that snaked through the blanket of grass. Because my spirits were up high like the mountain I was keen to concur, I cared little about the wet mud that stuck to my boots and the backpack that dug into my shoulders. Feeling my lungs bursting with fresh air, I observed the sunlight cascading down a gap of clouds into an azure blue lake. Around it the vegetation was lush with dew and resembled an ocean waving in the breeze. As I tilted my head up, I saw the path fade into a void of mist and bare twigs. Due to the surreal ambience, it was hard to believe that I wouldn't encounter a pack of trolls or fairies on the go.
The mountain path had become slick under the winter rains and the only clues to the ruts being the icy puddles. It rose steeply before disappearing at a rocky outcrop up ahead, Simon unable to tell if it went to the left or right after that.
The mountain path was as parched as the flora, the tired mud forming small, dirty clouds as Lissa made her way down the slope. Every third step or so she slipped just a little and righted herself before gravity took her down to the hard baked ground.
The mountain path was a sickly yellow, almost browning, between the vivid green on either side. It was a ribbon on which to walk in single file up the ridge, sheep grazing on either side and a frozen wind beating us from the left.