An Ode to Hood

I had to write this for an english project and thought why not post it on here, some might enjoy it. (i know its nothing special)

Cole Carlston: Ode to Hood
Slowly, effortlessly, the white and wispy clouds of Oregon roll around the tall omnipotent spire of Mount Hood, embracing it warmly like a lost son to a Father. The soft glow of orange, yellow, and even purple hues barely recognizable in the distance ad the sun begins to make its daily round. Several thousand feet below from old hotel rooms, dilapidated cabins, temporary campsites, and vans that would have been considered state-of-the-art in 1992, the uniform ring of iPhone alarm clocks spread through the misty and mysterious wood. Sluggishly, but not without purpose, the fearless wanderers rise from their insufficient hours of sleep towards another day not unlike the day before. The worn out door of a once gold Toyota Previa pops open as the lid of a soda can would, nearing explosiveness as a result of the contents inside. The independent man who bears little difference from the others who share his passions is greeted coolly by the fleeting night air. He is encompassed as an old friend by the sensational forest aura; his dirty flannel, spotted beanie, and untrimmed facial hair all tokens of gratitude towards its accepting nature. Leaving the comfort of the van he stretches out his overused bones and tranquilly reminds himself how lucky he is to be this damn free. The ski bum pours himself a pot of coffee and unplugs his phone from hits solar box companion. Like a turtle to the sea he coaxes himself toward the shallow but unbearably frigid waters that run rampantly like dogs through the base of the thunderous mountain. Those with financial stability may leave their hotel room not unlike you or me before finding themselves at a quant sit down breakfast and not before long enjoying a butter smothered stack of fresh pancakes. As day break has gone each and everyone of them abandons whatever their comforts may be and begin their ascent, by car, van, or hike the begin their personal pilgrimage up the lower portions of the ancient Mountain. Through the longstanding pines and past the glacial boulders towards the mecca that lay above. The air slowly cools from the warm summerly embrace of the comfort they left earlier that morning. The welcoming reflection of the sun and the soft glittering gleam of ice and snow soon fill their eyes. Unanimously the spirits return and once again, after, and again, they find themselves sitting but moving only a hundred feet above, containing their excitement at the prospect of soon reaching the summit, top of the mountain, and peak of their existence.