mountain - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The striations of the rock are as the first few wisps of white hair for this old man of the land. They sweep upward toward the dove-grey cloud, softly blue in compliment to the sky. The bareness of the high rock is a boldness, a confidence that in all this vast world the mountain dares to stand tall, reaching for the sun above the cloak of green that reaches all the way to my feet.
The mountain rose into the blue, a craggy grey face more steep than any David had ever seen. He lifted his eyes to the sky, touched his fingers to his lips and offered a kiss heaven-bound. This mountain was just the same as all of the others, just one boot hold, one hand hold at a time - no more, no less. He wrapped his fingers around the first cold rocky outcrop, his fingers making firm contact. His mind only had room for victory and the next movement each limb. As the wind blew around his tousled hair he recalled his father's words, "Man is as tall as any mountain, it's just a matter of choosing to climb."
The track snaked around the side of a mountain with a sheer drop to the right. He was somewhere in the Brecon Beacons and there should have been a view, but it had been wiped out by the rain and the fading light. A few trees twisted out of the side of the hill with leaves as hard as thorns. Behind him, below him, ahead of him, it was all the same. Nowhere land.
When the melt comes to the mountains, it is the evergreens who show the season change first. Their white-winter coats are gaily swapped for deepest green and the ground-snow remains as glacial rivers for a time. A few more weeks and there will be rocks showing from the white, then the earth below. This is the time when the streams run full, when their life is infused with fresh water, pure and clean. Together with the birdsong, their watery percussion is the music of nature.
The mountain lay in the distance like a ridiculous green camel hump or perhaps the nose of a slumbering giant turned to rock. Martha held out her hands to make a “picture frame.” It fitted right in, a perfect photograph; from here it even looked two dimensional. She wondered if the air was thin at the top, if it was the kind of peak you had to take an oxygen tank to like some crazy backwards diver. She imagined herself all grown-up, dressed like a professional climber, one of a team. She'd have the spiked shoes and the pick-axe, a woollen hat and sporty lycra clothes under a fur-trimmed Gortex jacket in dusky pink. It was going to be such fun. But the car turned off on the road to Grandmas, the only adventure today would be apple pie with her firm-to-bite pastry.
The mountain is where time stops. The rock does not care for minutes or hours, it doesn't care for days and hardly for years. A mountain only regards the eons. In the rocky trails Eddy could forget about everything, he could just move in a place where yesterday was inconsequential and tomorrow also. Here his mother was just one person in millions many kilometres away and he could mute her infernal nagging to nothing. “Your brother got a better degree, your brother is getting married, your brother...” His brother lived a state over and never even phoned. He was the one fetching her groceries and paying her bills, but the old witch was never going to stop playing favourites. But what was he going to do? Leave her to starve? If it wasn't for his long mountain treks, which she resented, he thought he could become a violent man. It was that caged bear feeling he had to hike out of his bones before he returned to make her some dinner.
The mountain is pristine and white, even the dark green of the pines is mostly coated in the crystalline snow. I could stand here drinking it all in, listening to the silence that hangs so thickly in the frigid air. But I must keep moving to stay warm. I have the snow shoes, the jacket and the gloves, it's time to make tracks. With every step I hear the soft crunch underfoot and it's better than music to my ears. It is the sound that winter has returned, and with it all of my favourite sports. When this beauty thaws to mud once more I will accept it and make the most of spring, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't with a little heaviness. This season is my season, I love it.
From afar the mountain is a peak of snowy pines, the ski runs cut wide like great white canals down from the resort. Up close it fills our eyes, taking up all the space we are accustomed to being sky. To see the slivers of blue among the silvery puffs we have to look right up. In the summer many walk to the peak, keen for the lungs of fresh air and natures stair-master, but not now. We pile into the gondola that will take us to the peak in just four minutes, crammed in with less room than rush hour commuters. If you get it right you can see the view from the window on the way up.
The mountain peak had a bluish hue; Ian touched it with his gloved had to lay the black against it. Unless it was a trick of the bright sky above, the rock had a forget-me-not hue. Removing his eye-wear he scanned the ground for a sample. He could photograph it for sure but wouldn't it be so much nice to have a rock for the mantle. After only a few minutes he had several pieces to take, one for each of the kids and he sat back to admire the view. The entire province was laid out like his very own “Marauders map,” where the birds flew and the cars way below moved along spaghetti roads. Up here the plant growth was low and scrubby against the wind and in many places that mesmerizing stone was entirely bare to the wind. He glanced back down the rocky trail he'd climbed just an hour before; it was time to head back. Down in theory was easier, but he preferred the ascent. Up was the challenge, up was into the new, returning was just retracing his steps.
The mountain rose on the horizon, sheer rock striking down from snowy peak. Only the base was softened by the virescence of a pine blanket. An hour ago it had seemed so close, and now after flying down the highway at a hundred kilometres an hour it was just the same size. Lily was bored of the scenery, no TV, no computer- just two parents and a tent. She'd rather flip those numbers around given a chance...
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.
It was easy to see the mountain as just its peak, but in truth the land was rising around it for a long way before it became a rocky projection into the sky-line. The swelling ground was covered in farms and forests. Trina cast her eye right down to the river and then up toward the mountain, at the base they would really have climbed to a third of the way up or more. Part way up the cloud prevented them from seeing the peak, perhaps she mused, that was a good thing. Seeing all the way up could be daunting from base camp, but inwardly she prayed for it to clear as she climbed. She wanted to see the panorama from the top, to her it was her motivation for each step. She never thought of the total distance to a summit, just one step at a time until they were all done.
Mists were crowding in the valleys, each bald mountain top shone like a jewel, and far aloft in the heavens were the white streamers of morn.
Wreathed in clouds in the coldest, wettest and most remote part of Scotland is an impossibly steep mountain called Ben Screeeiiighe. On it's summit is a house so secret and hidden that nobody has ever heard of it, let alone seen it...We can only imagine what it must be like to live on a mountain with only the wild wind and the snow for company.
As I reached the summit, I caught my breath. The beauty and the thinness of the air overtook my senses. I knelt down in the snow looking out to the world below. The view from the peak of a mountain is very different from being in an airplane. The sense of awe I had was enhanced. The world seemed more real. A smile came to my face as I remembered my childhood. Playing "king of the mountain" was one of my favorite pastimes and now, I was the "king" of the highest mountain. The climb to the peak had been a long one. Stumbling over rocks and brush, slipping on pebbles, cold, sleepless nights, and now this. Indescribable joy, relief, and beauty. Being alone in such a peaceful setting caused me to feel very spiritual. I prayed, thanking God for my safety and this wonderful opportunity. The helicopter came to pick me up. Climbing back down would have been nearly impossible without something to look forward to. As I got into the helicopter I looked down to where I had been and wished I could live in the mountain. In the pine trees, in the snow, in the rocks, alone.
She came up hills to her favorite spot and sat between the newly born wild flowers which were glowing with bright colored butterflies that came in search of its nectar, while enjoying the view of the entire valley below. She could see the two big hills and some streams of ice cold water falling to the river in between. The river was so clear and sparkly due to the reflection of the sun which shined this bright after a long time. The background of the view contained many overlapping mountains; some of which whose snow was yet to melt.
The world was made of four elements, and from these powerful four were born great children. From the earth and fire there jagged form was made. From the air and water there rough edges were softened. For years they would stand tall against many forces beyond the basic four. For years the mountain stood alone with only the comfort of the basic four. That was until the four blessed the mountain with a gift. A family of sheep to call his own, trees, and a stream. With the sheep came wolves, and with the trees came birds, and with the stream came fish. For a long time the mountain smiled. As the years grew on the mountain had many of its kind grow around him. Even those who could spit fire and earth in honor of their birth. He felt like a king who stood taller than anyone. He would watch in amusement at the pain he could cause at will. He was a king.
Then with everything came humans. They often times caused him pain. Some times they could not climb his mighty face. When they could they searched inside him for treasure, killing his family with no regard. And when they left he was again alone, with no one but the basic four. With his scarred face he was tired and cared not if he was alone. He was king. Or so he thought. To this day the mountain so stubborn refuses to let anyone climb his steep face. Little did he know his back held so much he could not see. The sheep, the trees, the wolves, the birds, the streams, and even flowers. An organism he has yet to see.
I climb out the window, into the early-morning half-light.
Tendrils of iridescent silver mist creep over the mountainside. Harsh wind whips and screams through the cold air. The sky is still dark -- rough oily midnight blue. No sunlight.