The search provided some very important incentives, especially the storm explosion began to infiltrate our rain jacket. Next, we followed our compass through a deep pine barren in the moss, which felt that walking on green clouds, and then the boulder-hop in an ancient glacial peacock, which was quickly detecting two posts. With each search, our hearts increased. Our search became more efficient, as we coordinated more basically. Feeling confident, we gambling a naval, cut into the upper slopes of a thick wood mountain and ignored a circuit gravel road below. As we saw the next post, we worked on our success. I could not help smiling because we had soon crossed the path with a team which we had jumped, which had taken easy but long and was still looking for a checkpoint.
As we fell into a tight river valley devoid of any official trails, the storm intensified, but I had no objection. Despite being soaked, we found that if we maintained a decent momentum, hard work kept us warm. And in the end I was achieving the deep focus that was so central for my orienting love. With the increased awareness of navigation, everything appeared additional beautiful. Against the clouds of smoke color, orange and yellow leaves shine as the spark is cast from the fire. On the way, a serulian blue crayfish looked like a fairy-story creature, as later, six-point stag, pink from the shedding velvet. I felt that I was merged with two posts with landscape and map, a one that was hanging over a river and stuck in one and a ravine before I also see them.
When you are navigating well, you and the map and the world merge. You become the hyperware of the slope of the ground, bends into a valley, how many meters and kilometers have gone out of your footsteps. It is an immersion in itself and in nature, the internal and external world-when navigation was required as hunter-across the people for the existence of humanity, then go back. Your mind sees yourself almost as much in the magnetic answer as you compass.
11:36 AM
We were pushing towards the end of the river valley, enjoying the calm calm to fill the lullas in the storm, when the next band of Helen threw hard wood around us. For the last four hours, I stopped and heard the tremendous platform of the roots, which exits the soden ground and the tights are staggering. Suddenly, I heard a crack of a thunderous rift above. I knew that before seeing it was even before seeing and saw it: a dead maple closed half of the maple.
I ran away, screaming. Looking at my shoulder, I saw that McRare and Z were easily scattered, too. But the trunk was coming down like a huge hand on them, its branches spread on a fly like fingers of the hand. Some of the small lower branches were also shrinking in Z. If the Z was crushed, the situation would have been frustrated. Macrae and I could stabilize her, the nearest road was still at least one mile away, and there was no way to take her out. And even if our emergency beacon can manage to join a satellite through clouds, no helicopter will fly in this season.
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