#jennie lake wilderness

[haylanmakesstuff]

Day 42-44

I had a nice long bath in a disgusting bathtub and headed onto Sequoia-Kings Canyon National Park. Just 5 more hours in the car. Just 5 more hours. This was the most uneventful day of driving yet. What should have been 5 hours was closer to 9 since California has the speed limit, no matter how high it is, capped at 55 for all trailers and GPS do not account for it. I get it, but good glob, this made it a long day.

I arrived at my camp between the two parks, in Sequoia National Forest at Big Meadows. I had looked in the parks first, but they were all full. I am so glad for that, because I am literally the only person in this entire campground. It is dark. It is silent. It is cold. It’s wonderful. Here is some picnic table graffiti for you:

My first morning in Kings Canyon National Park, my tire light came on and I had to fret about it all day. Couldn’t find any screws, the front was maybe a few PSI low, but nothing worrisome. I filled them at an overlook since I carry a small compressor. The tire light didn’t go off, so I just checked them every stop. I Drove to General Grant’s Grove and saw one of the largest trees in the world, surrounded by other Giant Sequoia’s. There’s something so beautiful about the color of their bark; red and almost fuzzy looking.

I appreciate the interpretive signs here that use creative ways to help people understand and appreciate these rare resources: If the trunk of the General Grant Tree was a gas tank on a car that got 25 miles per gallon, you could drive around the Earth 350 times without refueling. Wowza!

I saw there were a lot of closures due to construction and fire damage, so I wouldn’t be visiting some of the staples that had been recommended to me by Ashton, who worked in Sequoia for 2 seasons. Since Crystal Cave was closed all summer, I decided to stop on Forest Service land at concessionaire run Boyden Cave, a small but pretty cave with a lot of calcium carbonate and silica in their formations that make them glitter even when they are not wet.

I headed down the line to an extremely empty visitor center where I earned by Junior Ranger Badge!

This badge is dedicated to anyone who donates before the fundraiser ends on 9/30/22.

I did a small, paved path to Roaring River Falls, an easy way to see a pretty waterfall, and finished my day with a pot of potatoes after doing physical therapy at my camp. I love having a campground all to myself.

The next morning, Day 44, I wanted to do a hike on the Kings Canyon side before I spend the rest of the week exploring the Sequoia side. I chose the Big Meadows Trailhead just about a mile from my campsite, because of the ease of access to the Jennie Lakes Wilderness, and based on the fact that the parking lot never looked too busy when I’d pass it every day. There’s no service, so I was relying on the trailhead postings to give me information on the hikes. Although they have a rudimentary map listed, they have no distances posted, so I decided I’d pack well and hike for as long as I wanted towards Weaver Lake, have a sit down, then hike back.

I met two dogs on the trail – interestingly enough I only experienced other solo hikers on the way in, no couples or groups. There were only 4 people total. My kind of hike! The terrain wasn’t the worst, though difficult, the sun hot, but the shade and breeze nice and cool. I could feel my body was doing *just ok* but I kept going, hoping to get to Weaver Lake so I could enjoy my sit down with a view. I started to get tired and discouraged, but knew the lake was under a scree field that wasn’t too far away. I persevered. I found this on the trail:

Good sign or bad sign? 

Weaver Lake was gorgeous. What is it about backcountry and alpine lakes that I just never get tired of? This one doesn’t look all that different, but I just absolutely love it. 

It looked like dogs had already entered the lake and disturbed the bottom, so upon realizing the water wasn’t as cold as most lakes in this setting I took off my shoes and had a half dip.

I wanted a whole dip but know going swimming all alone in the backcountry is a good way to end up on some podcast that’s going to call me dumb. I laid myself out on a slanty rock like a marmot and had a soak in the sun. I ate snacks, read a book, became a general voluptuary.

I am obsessed with this grass, and we will be getting married next Tuesday. I mean, just look at it! Sorry Husband, this beautiful grass has swept me off of my feet with its good looks and I just can’t resist.

I found this on the muddy banks of the lake: 

Good sign or bad sign? 

I knew as much as I liked it here and just wanted to stay longer, my 1.5 hour lay about meant it was only going to get hotter out. The way back out was easier, since it was mostly downhill, but I could feel my soft tissues were starting to rebel.

I wrapped up the day with sitting at my site and sewing on a felt Christmas stocking; yes, I am an old lady and I have no shame about it.

Haylan

#weaver lake #sequoia national forest #national forest #good sign #bad sign #ehlers danlos awareness #traveling with chronic illness #solo traveler #female solo travel #junior ranger #sequoia national park #kings canyon national park #sequoia kings canyon national park #national park hike #jennie lake wilderness #wilderness #wilderness hike #leave no trave

[wattslausten04]

Need A Mindset Adjustment - Think Rv Park Assistance!

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#Top Ca Mau AZ #Ca Mau Viet Nam #Ca Mau

[blogparanormalexpresso2stuff]

The Forest Poltergeist with Travis Watson - Dec 9, 2023

Seriah is joined by Travis Watson to discuss his latest book “The Forest Poltergeist” and numerous related subjects. Topics include research rabbit holes, psychic research, Animism, the concept of the wilderness poltergeist, class B Sasquatch encounters, Big Foot Research Organization (BFRO), the paradoxes of flesh and blood Sasquatch, Eric Ouellet’s book “Illuminations: the UFO Experience as a Parapsychological Event”, apports, the Enfield poltergeist case, the Black Monk haunting, loud sounds some people hear and others do not, a mysterious set of tracks in the snow in the UK, unexplainable pools of water, Sasquatch footprint casts, tree structures, Timothy Renner, an incident involving Bigfoot and a ghost, the “silo” effect in paranormal research, stone throwing, “Monster Quest” TV show, Guy Lyon Playfair, Spiritism, a poltergeist case in Brazil, Dogman, Linda Godfrey, the Black Stone Gap case in Canada, Recurrent Spontaneous Psychokinetic Activity (RSPA), apparitions, wandering bits of consciousness, expectation and perception, one-off monster sightings, an encounter with a humanoid aquatic creature in Canada, the Loveland Frogman, the ubiquity of poltergeist activity in paranormal experiences, PK energy and mass sightings, energy lines connecting sacred sites, foxfire and will-o-wisps, earth energy, Mike Clelland and shamanic initiation, spirit animals, familiars, alcohol and its lack of hallucinogenic properties, Jeff Meldrum, Sasquatch track casts, most common experiences in a Class B encounter, wood knocking, tree shaking, strange smells, poltergeist activity compare/contrast with Sasquatch activity, bias in anthropology, the art of tracking, Colin Wilson, sulfur/brimstone, Loren Coleman, lake monsters, “Old Gods of Appalachia” podcast, Oz Effect silence, Jenny Randles, apex predators, a UK UFO experience involving strange silence, Carlos Castenada, magickal practice, consciousness and brain-wave states, Watson’s personal experiences in the Superstition Mountains, zones of fear, poltergeist sounds vs animal sounds, tree structures, poltergeist moving objects around and altering their environment, Olive Hill poltergeist case, William G. Roll, Lloyd Auerbach, furniture structures, fear and perception, a bizarre experience with eggs in the refrigerator, poltergeist disappearing/reappearing objects, a reporter hit with a lego, a 1980’s UK poltergeist encounter with multiple repeated witnesses, and much more! This is focused but riveting conversation!

- Recap by Vincent Treewell

#paranormal #Travis Watson #Youtube

[sauerjim]

July 2023, Part IV

Scenes from Jennie Lakes Wilderness & Kings Canyon National Park

Five Days, Four Nights Backpacking.

[takjamrotsne]

When a book becomes dangerous

I am not talking about the dangerous bible which now seems to be banned for a number of reasons. No I am talking about Sarah Stusek and her new book Three Rivers. It promotes the experimental and so-called wilderness therapy. Many years ago a TV-producer in England read about wilderness therapy and thought: “Hey. We can make a reality show out of it”. It was the days of Ricki Lake, Jenny Jones…

View On WordPress

#book review #Brat Camp #Sagewalk #Sarah Stusek #Three Rivers #wilderness therapy

[sunupstarcom]

#BreathtakingViews #Camperlife #CaptivatingLandscapes #DiscoveringBeauty #DiscoverTheWild #ExploreNature #ExploreTheUnknown #HiddenGems #JourneyIntoNature #Landscapes #NaturalSecrets #NatureBeauty #NatureDiscoveries #NatureLovers #NaturePhotography #NatureUnleashed #NatureWonders #OutdoorExploration #ScenicWonders #travel #TravelTheUS #Travelwithkids #UntoldMarvels #UnveilingBeauty #USAAdventures #vanlife #Views #WildernessExplorers #TravelBlog #Travel

[cliffgrove]

“Sometimes I Feel Like You’re My Arms.”

#Landscape Photography #Jennie Lakes Wilderness #Sequoia National Forest #California #New Girl

[mizar113]

Jenny Lake Campground inside Grand Teton National Park.

#tent #jenny lake campgrounds #grand teton national park #national parks #park #tent camping #mountains #campgrounds #picnic table #camping #camp #campsite #camplife #campout #outdoors #nature #wilderness #discover #adventure #explore

[restandwild]

Jenny Lake, Wyoming -- www.restandwild.com

#art #photography #landscape #jenny lake #wyoming #tetons #grand teton national park #national park #mountains #wilderness #nature #storm

[terrainofheartfelt]

m! 🤍

"Maps for the Getaway" - Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness the best kind of love song, imho. we don't got much, but we got each other and nothing but time

"Miss Simone" - Sara Bareilles this song is so sexy omg. sara literally said I'm gonna write a song that sounds like dancing with your lover in the kitchen at 3 am. and quote the high priestess of soul.

"Mona Louise" - The Wailin' Jennys this song sounds like sitting on the porch by the lake in the summer and watching the moon rise.

"Mainstream Kid" - Brandi Carlile this song just Fucks

"Motion Sickness" - Phoebe Bridgers Phoebe opened her show with this one and it was EVERYTHING I'll never be over that concert.

give me a letter and i’ll tell you my 5 favourite songs starting with that letter

#thank you for asking pam! hope you're feeling better <3 #asks #ballroomofmymindp #✨song recs✨ #that show was so worth getting covid over tho...

[halcyontheroad]

Hike: Hidden Falls and Inspiration Point, via Jenny Lake

I decided to stop at the popular, and crowded, Jenny Lake halfway through my visit to Grand Teton National Park. After choosing to take the short boat ride across Jenny Lake (instead of the 2.5mi trail) I arrived at the trailhead on the western shore. I started by hiking the 2mi roundtrip up to Hidden Falls and sat to cool down in the mist. I then returned to the dock to start the ~4mi roundtrip hike up to Inspiration Point (the connector trail was closed). There was a long steady ascent up the mountain until the trail opened up with a great panoramic view of the lake area from up high. After a hike down and boat ride back to the visitor area I proceeded south again for another late afternoon hike.

#jenny lake #grand teton #waterfall #vista #view #inspiration point #hiking #hike #trails #trail #nature #outdoors #wilderness #mountains #national park #lake #summer #wyoming #roadtrip #travel #explore #adventure #van #vanlife #vandwelling #nomad #offgrid

[freelancinglife]

Jennie Lakes Wilderness - 5 Day Backpacking Adventure - Days 3-5

We spent the entire day #3 at Jennie Lake and walked absolutely nowhere. We fished, had Oban Scotch with some candied ginger, made tasty food, read books and told stories. While the sun was out we also took a dip in the beautiful mountain lake. Colin - pictured pondering the water temperature. 

In the mountains, the weather can change in as little as 20 minutes. So - that evening we got surprised by a hailstorm! It nearly flooded our tent, so we had to move it to higher, more angled grounds so the water would not accumulate under our tent.

The firewood got kind of wet, so it was a challenge getting a fire going but we managed, and in the end the evening was saved.

Next morning we woke up early to go fishing. The fish were pretty hungry : )

Day 4 - We left Jennie Lake and headed around towards Poop Out Pass to go back to Weaver Lake where we had planned to stay our last night. On our way there, we met some hikers who told us about a crosscountry off-the-trail path that was shorter than the designated trail by about 4 miles. We took the chance and went for it, arriving at Weaver Lake in early afternoon. That gave us more time to enjoy the lake and do some more fishing.

Day 5 - Got up early. Had fish for breakfast since our granola was out. Headed back to civilization. Back to work. Back to emails, computers and... people.

#jennie lake #Wilderness #Backpacking #sequoia national forest #Fishing #California #Nature #Mountain Lake

[whirlybirbs]

     ✪ —— 2. OF EVADING ARREST (AND OTHER FORCES)

summary: following the botched kidnapping of the supposed bride-to-be, you and the outlaw you come to know as arthur morgan are stuck wandering the woods along the dakota river trying to evade the o’driscolls. turns out your sister is not longer in van der linde custody.

word count: 3.8k

pairing: high honor!arthur morgan x female!reader, turner as a placeholder last-name.

listen to: “trinity: titoli” by annibale e i cantori moderni

a/n: been a bit, hasn’t it? lovely gif done by @muse-of-nightmares​ as a part their rdr2 scenery series! thank you so much again for reaching out! 

PREV. CHAPTER   |   ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN   |   SPOTIFY 

This isn’t good.

Arthur Morgan realizes, mid-plunge into the Dakota River, that he’d forgotten to ask if you knew how to swim.

Your shrieks on the way down, as the train roars by overhead, give him a pretty good indication of the answer.

(He’s not one to talk. His own screams echo off the rocky walls along the riverbank as the river rushes up to meet him.)

The outlaw hits the water with a hard splash and he hopes, off-handedly, that Sugarcube is alright. She’s a good horse, no doubt quick enough to outrun the iron steam engine. The feeling of the impact alone is like a hammerin gunshot to the chest — the river is freezing, spurring a startling amount of energy into him. Arthur breaks the surface of the water with a fish-like gasp, treading as the sudden current begins to sweep him down-stream. The riverbank flies by on either side of him.

Arthur suddenly feels a bit guilty about hurling you to your potential death.

With a sputtered groan, his eyes dart across the rapids as he tries to keep his head above water.

He sputters, eyes scanning the rapids wildly. “Where are you, lady?!”

“You — ergh! You idiot!”

There you are.

Oop. Gone again.

The panic in your chest is nothing akin to the weight of your skirts— they drag you down, head bobbing beneath the water, and you can’t help but think that this is the last way you saw today going.

Being strangled to death by your dress, beneath the rapids of the Dakota River? Well, that seemed much less plausible than being strangled to death by your own mother, especially considering the rather grand failure of this morning.

Hours earlier, you’d been bound by propriety and politeness to meet with the one Mr. Waylon Robbins... Not by your own volition, of course. Most things nowadays were never on your own accord. With the impending deal — a finely crafted strangulation of your freedom, orchestrated by your father and his greed — of your marriage, it’d been thought best to introduce the two soon-to-be-newlyweds to one another over a breakfast of eggs and biscuits and tea...

Well, Christ, you’ll take this over that anyday. A thousand times over.

Even still, drowning is the last way you’d thought you’d ever die. I mean, sure, Jenny had pushed you through a hole in the ice up at the lake one winter and as horrible as it was, you’d been hauled out by your father and lived. It was cold and horrible but it happened in a blink.

You’re beginning to realize, as you spot the impending rapids down the river, this is just the start.

And Arthur realizes, with an annoyed sense of moral responsibility, he can’t just let you drown. That would just be... unbecoming. And rude. And probably get him chewed out by the likes of Dutch and Hosea. And... I mean, that’s just bad business. You were still worth something, soggy or not.

And, so, he snags a log as he flies by the riverbank, carried by the current, and hauls himself towards you with it in tow.

You bob up finally, gasping for air as the outlaw’s hands find you. They pull you up, knotted in the back of your waist-coat — you claw at the sudden kick of the summer air as you break the surface, hands clinging to his vest as he yelps; your hands plant on his broad shoulders and you push him down in a rush to get your head above water. His blonde head disappears in a flash of limbs, and then reappears with a wet cough. His voice sounds like a deadly bark.

“Quit tryna drown me, woman!” he bites, “Grab on!”

The stray log is damp and soggy and nearly gives way when you grip it tight — but it manages to keep you both afloat; it gives you enough time to sweep the mess of hair that’s hanging in your face aside, catch your breath, count your lucky stars and give the outlaw beside you a look that could kill.

“I oughta kill you!” you seethe.

“Don’t make me regret savin’ you,” Arthur starts, voice rising as he raises his finger as his other arm grips the log tightly, “Do not —”

The sound of the approaching roar sends both your heads whipping to the rapids ahead.

“Just hold on!”

“What the hell do you think I’m doin’?!”

You both hit the rapids faster than you thought.

The ten foot plunge is fast and you both scream on the way down (though, Arthur will probably deny that fact until the day he dies) — right into the plumes of water roaring over the rocks at the high point of the river. Your grip is locked onto the driftwood as you sputter, spitting the water out of your face as you’re hit again and again with the rapids.

“This!” you bellow as you cough, “is all your fault!”

“I am aware!”

Another scream. Another drop, this time cracking the log in half and sending you both down separate trajectories. Arthur scrambles, trying to grab your log but a stray rapid clocks him in the side of the face and sends him reeling as you screech, clawing onto the oak limb for dear life.

It must be rather comical, to see two people clinging to logs as they ride through the rapids. The current is so fast it zips you by a family of deer — they remain undisturbed, raising their heads in question for a moment as you pass.

There’s a break in the rapids, then, water settling slowly as you try to catch your breath — only to be cut short by the outlaw’s panicked bellow:

“HOLD ON!”

Waterfalls.

Beautiful in photos, art, and from a viewing distance.

Terrifying when you’re plunging down one at a breakneck speed.

Luckily, the drop is short enough that you survive, plopping you unceremoniously into a shallow pool at the base of the Dakota. Your dress acts like a parachute and on impact, it nearly drowns you. Amidst the floating skirts, your struggle to tread your way to the surface.

Heaving, you haul yourself from the water and drag you and your skirts ashore — you must look like a drowned rat of sorts, plaits run loose and hair dangling in your face. Your dress weighs a metric ton, bogged down with water and various debris.

You collapse on the riverbank, breathless.

The outlaw follows shortly after.

He crawls onto the shore, braced up on his elbows. You watch, spotting the water running off the beginning of a beard along his chin. His hair, once a lighter blonde, has gone darker from the swim — strands hang in his face as he plants his forehead on his wrist and groans.

For a few moments, there’s silence.

Between the two of you, there’s just the roar of the river and the labored breaths of lungs aching from the pummel of the rapids.

Slowly, you sit up.

“Who th’ hell do you think you are, then?” you seeth, pushing the thick tendrils of hair from your face like a curtain parting a stage show, “Huh?”

You struggle with the weight of your dress. You don’t think you’ve ever been this soaked in your life. This dress... as if you hadn’t cared for it before. Prying at the high collar, you snap the top button off and rub at your neck.

“Right,” the cowboy drawls sarcastically, water dripping from his scowl — he hauls himself up from the dirt, hands pushing back his soaked blonde hair before he momentarily realizes his hat is gone. With a growl, he waves his hands as he speaks and looks around the riverbank, “Sure, lemme jus’ climb up on m’ horse an’ bring y’ right on back t’ ma and pa...”

For a moment, you’re stuck staring at the now maskless stranger before you. Up on the bridge, when he’d pulled that ink black bandana down from his face, you hadn’t gotten a good look at him. Now, you’re staring straight at the outlaw with a slack jaw, trying your best to ignore the blaring reality that he is very handsome.

“You were the one that threw us off a bridge!” you guffaw, throwing your hands as you voice splinters into a shriek.

“Oh, m’ sorry, lady, next time I’ll let y’ get flattened by a caboose. How’s that?”

He’s standing now, long legs carrying him towards the rocks by the shore. As you desperately try to wobble yourself to your feet and wring out what water you can from your dress, you hear him make a surprised snort before drawing out a quiet “there you are”.

When the cowboy stands to full height, he’s got his hat in his hands.

“You best take me back now.”

You spy the wrinkle of his nose as he drops the gamblers hat on his head — dark lashes narrow as his eyes are cast in the shadow of the brim. As he nears, you finally realize how big the outlaw is. He’s tall, and he’s broad. You can see the shape of muscles beneath the dark shirt sticking to him. He rips the bandana from his neck, moving to wring it out as he speaks. There is sun kissed skin there along his neck.

(A part of your brain stutters at the sight — the large rugged outlaw... Surely he’d be the subject of whispered chatter by ladies in parlors everywhere. Handsome, gruff, big... His type was certainly romanticized enough in those books of yours —)

“I could leave y’ here, all alone in th’ wilderness,” he says, tone biting back, “Or take yer high society behind t’ th’ nearest railroad station ‘n’ dump ya...”

He swats the banada against his leg before tying it around his neck once more. His finger darts into your face. He waggles it, emphasizing his point.

“But there’s one thing I ain’t gonna do,” he prods your shoulder, “An’ that’s take orders from some spoiled brat.”

When he pushes past you, you don’t move.

You... well, you’re tied between wanting nothing but to rear up and slap the man and wanting to run.

The running part... it’s not born out of fear. There’s a part of you that’s beginning to wonder how much of this grand plan was his... The outlaw before you certainly didn’t have to whisk you away from the firefight, nor haul you off a bridge to escape impending flattening. Even still, as he digs through his satchel by a nearby rock, you can spy the irritation set in his features. Not anger.

Even more so... running from everything that had happened this morning?

You wonder if your father will even worry.

If this man’s little gang of bandits thought they were gonna get money out of snatching you, well... So be it. You weren’t going to break the news to the outlaw before you until you were safe. Outta the woods.

... Was getting out of the woods even an option?

It’s gonna be a hike.

... Your dress is going to be a problem.

It was a problem this morning, then in the carriage and... Christ alive, it doesn’t even take a moment of consideration before you busy yourself with prying at the sogged woolen bodice at the top of your gown — you can feel that damn crinolette digging into your backside. No doubt the dress’ understructure has snapped... As you wobble in the mud and curse, you can feel the outlaw’s eyes on you.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

In response, you turn and whip the soggy black overcoat at his chest. It hits him square with a hardy slap. He sputters. You move on, digging beneath your petticoat and unceremoniously tearing the already ripped seam where the whalebone of the crinolette had poked through. The charcoal colored heap of a cage is kicked aside by your heeled boots.

Arthur is... well, looking away, but also stuck with a bit of shock on his usually sour expression. The material in his hands is heavy — and well embroidered. No doubt expensive. Your dress was fashionable, seemingly plucked from some Saint Denis mannequin in an attempt to impress. Yet, here you are, shedding it like a snake sheds its skin: with not a care in the world for keeping it.

The summer heat isn’t as bad now — the billowing white sleeves of your white chemise stick to your arms and your corset feels looser than before, but you’re considerably more comfortable in your two layers of petticoats and corset cover.

So, you hike your skirt up, step out of the mud, and begin to walk. Chin high, strides wide.

You spare the outlaw behind you a snarl.

“I am not a spoiled brat,” you say, moving along the sunny riverbank. You blink back at him, not hearing footsteps, and narrow your eyes. He’s standing there, still holding the bodice, “And that isn’t your size.”

He throws the bodice to the mud before cursing; there’s some satisfaction in that, at least.

“Where,” comes the frustrated growl as he throws his head back to the sky, “do you think yer goin’?”

“Downstream,” you throw your hands as you move to hike up the rocks and into the grass embankment overlooking the sandy riverbed, “Someone’s oughta have a farm around here —”

“Right, since you seem to be so well versed in the lay of the land...”

Suddenly there are two hands on your shoulders that abruptly turn you and steer you in the direction of the woods to your left. You snarl. Quickly, you yank your shoulders from his grip.

“Get yer hands off of me —”

“Lady, we ain’t goin’ downstream because th’ O’Driscolls are gonna be lookin’ fer y’ downstream.”

“Who th’ hell are you, again?” you can’t help but turn on your heel. Your words come out as hot as fire, accompanied by the ugly rearing of your own finger prodding his chest, “And remind me why I should listen to a damn thing you say?”

He swats your hand away and tightens his jaw. “Them O’Driscoll’s are bad news —”

“Yea, well you ain’t exactly peachy either, Mister...”

You wave your hand like a water mill, trying to coax the name out of him.

“Arthur,” he narrows his blue eyes sharply, “Arthur Morgan —”

Arthur. He looks like an Arthur. Certainly no Knight of the Roundtable but... Sturdy. Strong.

You drop both hands to your hips. “I didn’t ask for this, Mr. Morgan. Not to be snatched up and dropped in the middle of some Wild West fairytale — dueling gangs and... and wild horse chases...”

You scoff.

You wave your hands and begin to walk. Again.

There’s a gruff laugh behind you that shatters in a pained grumble of cursing. You begin to walk along the riverbank once more, ignoring his direction.

“I assure you, Miss Turner,” comes the biting remark, “This ain’t no fairytale — an’ them O’Driscolls aren’t gonna be as nice as m’bein’.”

“Surely. As you’re the picture of a modern gentleman, Mr. Morgan.”

God almighty, he... All Arthur can think of is of course this is what would come of a simple job the others put together. Of course he’d get stuck with some hoity-toity lil’ lady on the edge of the damn Heartlands. Of course, because when do jobs ever go wrong? Only when he’s there t’ clean them up, apparently.

“Yer testin’ my patience, lady.”

“Th’ feeling is mutual, then.”

“Stop walkin’.”

“No.”

“Yer gonna get us both killed —”

You swat at a bug on your neck and scowl. “I am sure.”

Suddenly, there’s something that loops around your back foot. A sharp tug sends you reeling towards the grass, and you blink down at the ankle of your boot to find it’s a rope — and attached to said rope is one smug looking cowboy.

The look of shock on your face is rather satisfying.

Arthur Morgan then flicks his wrist, managing to tangle your other ankle as you kick your leg.

“I told you,” he musters with a cock of the head, a bit too lighthearted for your liking, as he nears, “That I was bein’ nice...”

In a blink, there’s a loop of rope cast around your arms, halting you from reaching for your ankle. In a flurry of skirts, you wiggle — spitting incredulous curses all the while.

“My, my,” Arthur mutters and rounds your backside, the only sound besides his voice being the tinker of spurs, “What colorful language for a lady.”

He makes quick work of tying your wrists behind your back.

“Let me go.”

You can hear the smugness in his voice.

“I think not.”

He yanks, and the ropes get tight. Tight enough that you can’t move your arms. Tight enough that he helps you up with two hands under your arms before dusting off your shoulders with the smuggest of smiles, and tight enough that when he unceremoniously hauls you upwards and proceeds to throw you over his shoulder, all you can do is curse and wiggle like an earthworm freshly pried from the soil.

“You son of a bitch —”

“I’ve been called much worse,” he offers as he begins to walk towards the wooded area to the left of the river. The shade casts the pattern of the leaves along the back of his charcoal colored dress shirt, “By ladies much nastier than you, Miss. Might have t’ try harder if yer tryna hurt my feelings.”

You grunt, wincing as he readjusts you on his shoulder. His hand is rough on your leg, pinning the limbs in place as your struggle slowly decreases. It’s apparent he’s not going to let up, so you sag in defeat and grit your teeth.

“Where th’ hell are you taking us, then?” you bite, head turned to stare at the back of his head, “Gonna throw me off another bridge?”

“Keep that mouth a’ yours runnin’ an’ I might consider it.”

— ✪ 

He walks for a while.

Long enough for you to see the same tree three times over, and long enough that your hands have started to go numb from their spot behind your back.

You’re genuinely surprised the outlaw has managed to keep you slung over his shoulder as long as he has with nary a single complaint. It makes you wonder if being this brutish was simply his job within his little gang of ne’er-do-wells.

He passes that same rock — the one that looks like an upside down pony — and you heave a sigh.

“You’re lost, aren’t you?”

Arthur tries not to sound as sheepish as he feels.

The Heartlands are still new to him — it’s been a handful of weeks now that they’ve settled in... With Sean back, and the Micah licking his wounds from his brief stint in the Strawberry jail, this job was supposed to be one that could send them onto the next little pretty piece of land.

Still, Arthur hadn’t ventured this far West of Valentine for anything more than hunting once or twice with Charles. With the looming threat of the O’Driscolls sniffing about South of them, towards the grasslands and open streams... Well, Arthur was mostly trying to figure out what to do next.

Stealing some poor farmer’s horse was probably their best bet. Could get them outta harms way quick enough to dart back up to Horseshoe Overlook...

But with Miss Mouthy over his shoulder, there was no tellin’ she wouldn’t scream wolf the moment the shepherd was within sight.

Arthur huffs a sigh to match yours. Then, he hauls you up off his shoulder and places you gingerly on the ground. It’s a rather comical sight — you sit there, in the grass, glaring daggers into him as he perches himself on a nearby rock and digs out his satchel.

The waterlogged map in his hands flops sadly.

“Why didn’t you use that earlier, then, huh?”

“My hands,” he mutters, “were preoccupied.”

You watch him attempt once more to flip it up and watch it sag with the pulpy disappointment only river water can bring. Your brow quirks.

“Looks like it ain’t legible anyways.”

The ink has run all over the page.

You groan, dropping your head into your lap as best you can. Arthur bites his tongue, swallowing as he shoves the useless little bit of paper back into his satchel and taps his foot. You squint up at him in the afternoon sun, watching a glimmer of hot light flare around his hat like a halo.

“You at least got somethin’ t’ eat in there?”

“Snacks ain’t my biggest concern right now —”

Suddenly, there’s a snapping of twigs.

Both of your heads turn owlishly to the noise.

Arthur is fast to slip off the rock to his knees, his hand roughly seizing itself across your mouth as he presses a quick finger to his lips. Your eyes are wild, anger flashing in your gaze as you tear yourself from his grip. You stare incredulously at him before turning back to the wilderness and listen.

Arthur is quick to brandish his pistol, one hand balancing his low crough on the rock beside him. You watch as he peeks over the rock, only to curse tightly when he spies two O’Driscoll boys wandering —

“Why should I be quiet?”

It’s a whisper, but loud enough that Arthur lunges for you. You kick him in the shin, sending him groaning as he topples next to you in the grass; you roll onto your side, trying your best to wriggle away.

“You untie me now, I’ll be quiet,” you hiss when he hauls you back behind the rock, “If not, I’ll holler —”

“Shut up,” he reaches around, hauling you up against the rock and pinning you there with a hand over your mouth, “Shut up now an’ I’ll untie you —”

You are a damn minx.

Arthur is cursing you six ways to hell when the two near the rock...

“Listen, boss keeps tellin’ us that the girl is worth a lotta money —”

“Yeah, well, if th’ Van der Linde’s were after ‘er too ‘e must be right.”

“Awful lotta work for a ransom if y’ ask me,” mutters the other in an Irish lilt, “‘Specially since Colm is just gonna put a bullet between ‘er eyes once ‘e gets th’ money.”

Your eyes are wider than a mile, Arthur reasons. It’s fear, there. The first time he’s really seen it on your face since this all began... well, save from haulin’ you off the bridge before. Your eyes dart around, like you’re tryna make sense of what you’re hearing.

“We got th’ sister —”

“We find ‘er, it’s double the pay.”

Their voices begin to trail off. Slowly, the conversation drifts into the wind, and you realize the two men have disappeared from Arthur’s immediate sight.

You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Arthur slackens his grip on you, exhaling slightly before peeking over the rock once more. When he leans back down, he brandishes his knife from his boot.

He spins you around roughly.

The knife glints in the sunlight.

“You try anything funny, an’ I’ll throw y’ t’ those wolves myself.”

Christ, it feels good when he snaps the rope off from around your wrists.

“Who were they?” you ask, swallowing roughly as you rub the tender skin along your chemise’s lace sleeves; your voice wavers and you regret the way it sounds instantly, “The O’Driscolls?”

“You bet,” he mutters, bending to cut the rope from your ankles, “Like I said, they ain’t nice.”

“The Van der Linde’s, then?” you follow up with, voice leaning high into your curiosity, “That’s... well, you’re the ones who jumped our carriage.”

“S’ right.”

There’s a pause. You furrow your brow.

“They said they had m’ sister.”

Arthur squints down at you, watching worry sweep across your face like the rush of the oceans tide.

“... Seems so.”

And that isn’t good.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 imagine #rdr2 reader insert #arthur morgan fanfic #simpler said aloud #wow a FORMATTED POST FROM ME? #WOOOOW #the effort #truly here i am BEING MY USUAL SELF LMAAOAO

[joshuacourter]

Story Available: Jennie Lake

Story Available: Jennie Lake

Jennie Lake at the headwaters of Bear Creek A 9 mile day hike up to Jennie Lake is available to read. It was great to start early as the afternoon was a hot one! This time around the lake was not in the wilderness at all. However, you had to work for it to get there. There is also a link to all the photos too of the trip. Enjoy reading an adventure without even breaking a sweat! Story is…

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#Bear Creek #Boise National Forest #Day Hike #Jennie Lake

[jenniferroland]

[starter for @loverot​]

"If you can look at what's there and not eat yourself hollow with shame, you are not human anymore."

Transferring out of Mount Massive to play brain scrambler in the middle of the Arizona desert was hardly a step up. She’d put in a request for leave numerous times and been denied on the grounds that her research skills and capability as a pathologist made her “too valuable an asset” to allow her to be off the asylum campus for any extended period of time. But when a handful of her female coworkers began experiencing hysterical pregnancies from proximity to the Engine, she was suddenly a liability instead. Never mind that she experienced precisely no negative effects from it; if anything, her mind felt sharper when working on location than it ever did in remote labs, like popping a handful of Adderall. 

The segregation came without warning. Experiments and treatments went unfinished; communications went dark; theories withered and died without the proper environment in which to nurture them. Uprooted and shipped away to some toxic waste dump, Jennifer Roland never felt more useless. 

Day in and day out, she sat behind a monitor, watching religious fanatics of varying degrees of insanity fight and fuck and feast and absolutely slaughter one another. The scheduled bursts from the Towers would resound, the crew inside the lead-insulated concrete shelters would shield their eyes, and shortly thereafter, an all-out shitfest would ensue on the screens in front of them. Recovery teams were dispatched to covertly collect any bodies they could, which were promptly tossed onto the slab in the operating theatre or iced in the morgue. Occasionally, they’d get a few on the table who just refused to fucking die, and in more than one instance, Roland would return to her quarters with a black eye or finger-shaped bruises branded into her throat. 

“That’s why you get hazard pay,” she can recall Jeremy Blaire assuring her over drinks. “Relax, Jen. The building is radiation-proof. The radio waves can’t hurt you in there.”

Once rare, those desperately clinging to existence (it could hardly be called life by the time they’d arrived at the lab) were showing up in higher and higher numbers. Their presence always fucked with the medical equipment — due to the high levels of radiation they were exposed to, she was assured by Dr. Ewen Cameron — but more than that, it was affecting people: relief nurses, research assistants, those who had the least contact with them. It was Cameron himself who paged her into the telemetry lab to show her the increase in radio wave blips on the radar, seemingly organic hotspots of radiation cropping up out of nowhere. The “feedback loop,” he’d called it: such prolonged exposure to such vulnerable individuals mutated them from receivers to projectors. 

These unholy fucks were walking nuclear reactors, and they were bleeding it inside the lab.

Between autopsies of lunatics and treatment of her infected staff, Roland accumulated the most exposure to these residual waves, which is perhaps why she held out the longest. While others were rushing to the bathrooms to puke their guts out or sobbing into their workstations, Roland kept the Towers from collapsing under its own weight. Just like she had at Mount Massive, at least in her own mind. Such responsibility, of course, takes its pound of flesh, resulting in a sharp uptick of headaches and irritability in the doctor.

In fact, she kept an iron grip on the facility, even as employee numbers began to drop. Some transferred; some just dropped dead. All were required to vacate the operating sector by 22:00 hours so that it could be “defunked” for the next day. Roland, of course, oversaw this expedition, which usually consisted of hanging out in a hazmat suit and surfing what little internet they were allowed access to while the facility was cleansed. The longer she sat at the computer, the more severe her migraines would become, which she chalked up to blue light exposure. 

But when the urgent email alert – MOUNT MASSIVE ASYLUM STAFF EVACUATION – popped up in her notifications, the pain in her skull went from throbbing to blinding. The computer mouse flew from her hand and shattered on the floor as she dug the heels of her palms into her eye sockets, desperate to relieve the pressure behind them. Searing white heat tears at her retinas and she’s utterly convinced that her brain is hemorrhaging. 

Through that glaring light appear misty shadows of men in lab coats, blurred as if through a foggy camera lens: men with clipboards and scalpels and blue latex gloves. A scrawny lad in his early twenties wriggles futilely on the table, strapped to the gurney by too-tight leather restraints around his limbs and forehead. He’s fully conscious but barely cognizant of anything but fear. She can hear the low timbre of male voices floating around her, murmuring words she cannot or perhaps will not comprehend. Her focus is on the young man before her and the muffled syllables he attempts to utter from beneath his oxygen mask. Cutting through the underwater noise is the sound of her own name, sharp and deliberate, and her gaze falls to the laryngoscope clutched tightly in her left hand. 

Shifting behind the boy on the table, she adjusts her grip on the tool and removes the oxygen mask from his face. He’s drooling quite profusely. With the sleeve of her right arm, she gently mops up his mess before prying his mouth open with her fingers. At this moment, his eyes snap up to hers, pupils blown wide with terror, and though his movement is highly restricted, it’s evident he’s trying to shake his head. The raspy frantic whisper of “no, no, no” does nothing to phase her colleagues. She attempts to quiet him with a soft shushing (to absolutely no avail) and inserts the curved blade into his throat. Tears, mucus, and saliva flow together as he struggles to breathe; his eyes plead for mercy, the lightless gaze of a soul all but relinquishing itself to the higher power of Death. As she preps the endotracheal tube for insertion, Jenny tries to swallow her nerves but they catch in her throat, dry and brittle. Guilt won’t save them now. 

“Oh, God, please—”

Roland’s torn out of the vision by the inescapable urge to vomit and she rolls onto her side to wretch away the venom in her memories. With no recollection of how exactly she ended up on the floor ten feet away from the monitors, she pushes herself up and wipes away the acid from her lips. Just like she had in her memory. 

And she feels sick all over again, but not just for the fate of that patient: for all the rampant fuckery shoveled upon her by Murkoff. Psychological manipulation, radiation poisoning, blatant sexism. She enlisted in this army to study genetics, not to torture the cognitively vulnerable to the brink of insanity. 

Fuck Jeremy Blaire. Fuck Murkoff. Fuck this Project Bluebird bullshit. 

On the way out the door, she flicks a half-smoked cigarette into the server room trashcan to trigger the emergency sprinkler system. Whoops.

                                                     * * * * * * * * *

She never liked the company cars, anyway.

As the frame of the Mercedes rolls into the lake behind her (and with it all traces of her identity), Jennifer Roland makes her way through the Mount Massive Wilderness Reverse to the runoff reservoir. Armed with only an industrial flashlight-stun gun and her unlisted phone, she’s well aware that this mission will more than likely be her last. But when you’ve got nothing to lose and an insatiable hunger for vengeance, death doesn’t seem so bad.

Tucking her hair up under her cap and securing her phone in the zippered pocket of her plastic splash suit, she hoists herself up into the drainage pipe that pours into the lagoon from the sewers. The hospital isn’t even visible from this side of the mountain; according to her map, it’s about ten miles through a sea of blood, shit, and god knows what else to Mount Massive Asylum. If she’d ever wondered how Andy Dufresne felt escaping Shawshank, this is about as close as it gets.

Rats and snakes are her only company for the first several miles but in the last stretch of three, the scent of fresh death hits her like a brick wall. Mutilated corpses litter the pathways, slipping into the murky sewage and compounding the horrific stench. The closer she comes to her destination, the more pungent the odor becomes until she’s stumbling upon half-dead patients and doctors alike, as lifeless and miserable as the Temple Gate victims. The feeling of another impending migraine strikes her but she presses onward. She’s not sure what’s more unsettling: the gut-wrenching screams coming from above her head or the periodic gaps of silence between.

Drenched in blackwater, Jenny navigates her way up into the hospital block, only to be met with the gory sight of her colleagues and former patients strewed about the ward like discarded toys. She stands gravely still listening for anything — a scream, a whisper, a breath — but no sound breaks the stony silence. The only living presence in the block appears to be a few very persistent bees buzzing around her head. The doctor carefully peels away her suit and the clothes underneath, tucking them away in an air vent and replacing them with the least fluid-drench patient uniform she can find. Thank you for your sacrifice, 937. 

Jenny’s exceedingly careful not to cause too much commotion with the beam of her flashlight as she stalks into the hospital security station and logs in under one of her former colleague’s ID. The security footage tapes appear to be highly corrupted, with some of the cameras shorting out completely, but through the hazy grey static, she can just make out a man’s shadow: impossibly tall, grainy, almost translucent, as though it were comprised solely of smoke. Shredding through its victims like razors through tissue paper. Clearly, this storm of fuck is just beginning.

“Ain’t a perdy sight, is it?” 

Hot, humid breath hits the back of her neck before she can react and a spindly hand clamps down on her wrist. 

“Not as perdy as them nails, brudder.”

“Don’t talk ‘im t’death. Get the goat and go.”

“Awful s-sorry ‘bout this, boy, but I gotsta.”

Jenny’s not keen to stick around to find out what exactly it is this dissociative man “gotsta” do. Firing up the switch on the stun gun, she jabs the pointed prongs into his throat and digs in. His grip on her tightens before it releases, the perp collapsing to the ground and clutching his bleeding neck with a frankly overdramatic gurgle. 

Roland flees through a labyrinth of plastic wrap and broken gurneys, but the heavy slap of bare feet limping on the floor behind her soon catches up. And just as she looks over her shoulder to catch sight of him, her ankle snags against a tripwire, knocking her face-first into the bloodied tile. That fall triggers the release of two sheets of barbed wire that rattle towards her, coiling around her legs and torso; clearly, this trap was meant for a bigger monster than her. The barbs easily rip through the uniform fabric to sink into her thighs, calves, stomach. The more she wriggles, the deeper they sink, and the shards of shattered glass on the floor only amplify the pain.

Her only chance to protect herself is the flashlight that launched no more than a foot away during the fall. If she can just tear her arm free-

The arch of a dirty foot secures its grip on the flashlight handle.

“Just like a coward t’run. That won’t do at-tall, Dennis.”

“You shouldn’ta run, boy. Now you’ll be all bloody fer the weddin’.”

He picks up the flashlight and turns it over in his hand, checking the weight and feel of it; he decides he likes it. 

He likes it even more when it cracks like a Louisville slugger against her temple.

                                                     * * * * * * * * *

Her muscles are stiff and achy when she regains consciousness, somehow sore and numb at the same time. The swelling beside her left eye blurs her vision slightly, but she knows she’s in some sort of chop shop, upright in a DIY-patient restraint system that would make even Hannibal Lecter shudder. Her instinct is to attempt another escape, to writhe her way out of these straps if she has to chew her shoulder off to do it. There’s no telling how much time she has before someone-

...Whistling.

#Eddie Gluskin: Lord Eddard of House Gluskin #Dennis: Goat Boy #Billy Hope: Anyway Here’s Walrider #Jeremy Blaire: Cokehead Elon Musk

[cliffgrove]

“But All She Can Hear Is The Deafening Wisdom Of The Crowds.”

#Landscape Photography #Jennie Lakes Wilderness #California #The Overstory #Richard Powers