#East Coast Food Exploration | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

script-a-world · 6 months

Note

hello! i'm currently building a world for a wild west themed ttrpg. the continent the game takes place in is a desert that's been cursed to be isolated from the rest of the world—no one can go in, no one can go out. anyone that tries to escape finds themselves lost in an endless expanse of sand. but i digress, anyways! the main issue of this continent (isolation aside) is the fact that it has no access to water at all. how people hydrate is through this fruit which has a liquid inside that the people can drink. think of a coconut but it can grow properly in a desert since it's magic.

i'd just like to know if there's any sort of worldbuilding advice or questions that could help me explore this idea in a more meaningful way? i already have some of the logistics of how this sort of thing could be distributed in a world like this but i want it to be more grounded. magic exists in this world so that can help explain some things but i want to be careful not to make it so wishy-washy, y'know? thanks so much!

Tex: Even the largest of deserts have an end, be it another biome or a body of water because the continent can only be so large across a planet. Aside from that, clouds will not inherently respect anyone’s boundary on where they can move as part of the water cycle and the natural unevenness of terrain means that water will eventually pool up somewhere, creating oases. Mountains, perhaps, may slow the movement of humidity in the air, but unless you’re willing to make a very, very, very large volcano that’s dead enough and large enough to accumulate sand (which in that instance would be more akin to volcanic ash and as sharp as ground glass), water will still naturally get in and settle into bodies of water. Accordingly, the “wild west” only existed because of the rapid development of trains and railroad lines, so even historically they were not actually isolated - merely delayed, in terms of what they were able to ship. By 1900, someone could travel from the East Coast of the US to the West Coast in approximately a week, depending on the route. If fresh food is packed well (say, seafood in ice), it wouldn’t even spoil for the duration of that journey. For desert flora that can act as reservoirs of water, the Saguaro cactus is a very good example of this (Wikipedia), as are many types of melons (Wikipedia).

Feral: The biggest concern historically, including during the Wild West, in desert climates was not getting hydration for the people but for the horses. Horses drink 5 to 10 gallons (20 to 40 liters) of water a day. Humans need 0.5 to 0.8 gallons (2-3 liters). Although humans/player characters of whichever races you’re using can probably get by with the sources of hydration Tex mentioned, but if they have mounts, there’s going to be a problem. With a ttrpg, this could just be flavor or it could be an actual resource mechanic. To make it more on the believable side, I would recommend wells being a thing. Maybe in towns or along common routes. Also keep in mind, fruits that provide hydration do not spontaneously create water; they absorb it, so there must be water somewhere, somehow.

Wootzel: If this magic fruit is legitimately the only source of drinkable water, does that also apply to whatever other plants that grow? Are all animals in this area dependent on the fruit as well? Are people having to break the fruits over their crops?

I’m taking a wild guesstimation that if EVERYTHING that needs water has to get it via this fruit because there’s almost no ground water and no precipitation, then 80% or more of the plants growing in this area are the plant that bears this fruit. Or can other plants draw water from the ground in some way (but is it not accessible via digging or drilling a well or whatever because magic curse?), and it’s just fauna that have to drink via fruit?

Do the fruits or their liquid spoil easily, or at all? Do they ferment and become alcoholic? Do the local jackrabbits get drunk on them like deer with apples, and stumble around the desert at night?

What else is in the fruit-liquid? Is it just as functional a source of hydration as water, or are there any other substances in it that the body needs to process out… maybe via the kidneys… resulting in needing to drink more of this liquid than one would need to drink water?

Does evaporating this fruit liquid and trapping/condensating the resulting water work well enough if someone needed plain water for wound care, baby care, or whatever else?

How does anyone bathe?

Are many conflicts involving control of these fruit and the plant they grow on, since having that resource cut off is quickly deadly? Meaning, even if the conflict wasn’t originally about fruit-control, someone burns down someone else’s orchard and now that’s the main focus? Or is this stuff so prevalent that you could try to kill it and it just starts growing back from a crazy tap root the next day?

You have a premise that’s not highly plausible, and it would probably make life rough and precarious for the people and animals who live in this area, but it’s not impossible for human ingenuity to figure out how to make it work anyway. If you choose to keep your water-fruit as the only source of hydration, life is going to look QUITE different in this area.

Addy: I've got a couple thoughts, some are more rambly than others. The first question I've got is no water at all vs no water that's suitable for humans. There's a fair amount of difference in what those will imply for plant and animal life.

Most deserts have some amount of life, after all. Lizards, insects, jackrabbits, cacti, scrub brush, aloe very and other succulents, snakes, birds, foxes, dogs, etc - those all need water to survive. That water might be deep underground, it could be rare rainfall, it could be occasional floods (like what causes arroyos), it could be all sorts of things.

And what about horses? If you've got a wild west setting, horses (or similar mounted animals) and cattle are staples of that kind of setting. What do they drink? Horses need lots of water, especially if they're exercising. What do they eat? No water means no grass, no scrub, nothing to eat. Even if you're riding giant lizards, those lizards gotta drink.

So either this fruit (what season does it grow in?) is cultivated en masse for liquid extraction, or there is some other source of water that's cursed to kill sentient creatures, so you've got stuff that animals can drink but people can't. Still have the plant cultivated en masse, but you've got some more flexibility on it. Your people will need to bring their own water along, but they can stop by rest areas, etc to let their animals drink.

Either way, farms are going to be absolutely crucial logistical standpoints in this setting. Cattle can move themselves (which makes them easy(ish) to steal), but plants need careful tending in an unmoving place. I'm seeing some kind of fortified settlement, where you've got the water farms heavily defended by whatever militia/military forces you've got in the area (having some kind of control system over the water would make it easier to manage people to your desires), with towns surrounding them.

If you've got a strong magic setup, maybe the plants grow best over certain ley lines/underground magical "currents," so you've got isolated strongholds

The strongholds have a heavy amount of control over their local area, since they're the ones who have the ability to produce the fruit on the scale required, but trying to transport that water raises issues of thievery. So once you get outside, say, half a day's ride, you run into logistical issues + thievery problems. That's about 15-20 miles if it's flat, or 10-15 miles if it's hilly, by horseback. A covered wagon can cover ~8-20 miles per day, so that lines up pretty well with a day's distance for a shipment of water.

And then, outside of those strongholds, you can get smaller crops of water-fruit, but not much. You could get bandit outposts that focus on raiding water (or that have their own secret ley line water nexus growing spot), so as to keep them outside of the law. If you have scrub that animals can eat (even if the groundwater would poison humans), then that also frees up a lot of possibilities for stuff like cattle rustling, since you'd be able to actually keep the cattle watered at watering holes.

That's one way to do it, and sort of the general trend I could see happening (people need water to live, whoever controls the water controls the people). If there's no water, at all, besides what's produced by this one plant, this plant better grow really easily, or else there's nothing around to live off of. Also, if it's a fruit, then the harvest season would be a big deal.

#anonymous #biome #climate #desert

19 notes · View notes

iasmelaion · 2 days

Text

Fun and/or delightful things said by my assorted tour guides during this trip to Lisbon:

After I asked if people study Spanish in school in Portugal: “No, it's too close to Portuguese. Of course, we all think we can speak Spanish, but we can't.”

During our food tour (with Devour btw, highly recommended in any of the cities they do tours in!), our half Italian, half Ethiopian tour guide who’s been living in Lisbon for a decade: “I don’t know why the Portuguese don’t eat vegetables. They have them. And yet on the menus it’s all meat and fish.”

(This dude also gave us the A++++ tips of: enter the Livraria Bertrand via the cafe entrance on the side, much less crowded, and visit the Estufia Fria, which was a truly lovely and surprisingly big botanical garden. A quiet and peaceful respite during the trip!)

(Also, this dude’s tragic backstory: half Italian, and allergic to tomatoes :( Though he did constantly shit talk Italian food for being too boring and set in its ways lol.)

When we got to the big market with fresh fruits and veggies: “See, they have vegetables!”

About all the explorers and colonizers etc: “You know, they say these guys did it all for the glory of Portugal, but come on! They did it for the money!” (Appreciated that this guy also mentioned, hey, we have all these monuments about the Age of Discovery, but none memorializing its evils and horrors.”)

Dueling opinions about the pasteis de nata: food tour guy said Manteigaria has the best (though he allowed that Castro’s were pretty good too), other guide said the originals in Belem are the best. First tour guide said forget about pasteis de nata, Sintra’s pastries are where it’s at.

Coolest sights:

Unfortunately, the major parks and sights in Sintra were closed due to wildfire risk. It was still neat to visit the town though!

Cabo de Roca, the westernmost point of continental Europe was a surprisingly neat stop on one of our tours. Super windy, but neat to say you’ve been there.

The Jeronimos Monastery. Should you ever go, I really recommend booking a tour if only to skip the longest line, because holy shit that line was enormous. Anyway, the Manueline architecture is gorgeous.

Igreja de Sao Domingo. Fascinating story and interior. We stopped in during our food tour, and it’s so interesting to see the building’s history of disaster and reconstruction written on it so plainly.

The enormous Time Out Market that houses curated restaurants in a food court setting one one side and a traditional market on the other is just super neat and it’s worth it just to take in the atmosphere.

The MAAT museum was fine, but tbh, the view of the Tagus River and statue of Christ Redeemer from their cafe was lovely. Worth eating a light meal or having a coffee here and just relaxing!

God I wish we had a culture of nice, big public squares with great architecture and plenty of cafes and benches in the US. I know there are some on the East Coast, but here on the West Coast, we just have the occasional little park :( Every single such square we saw in Lisbon was lovely.

The Estufia Fria, as mentioned above.

The National Tile Museum! Sounds boring, but it was both interesting and super impressive.

Gulbenkian Museum. Now this is how insanely rich dudes should spend their money: collecting massive amounts of art and then putting it all on display in a museum in perpetuity after their deaths. Great collection of Egyptian, Near Eastern, Chinese, Japanese, and European art, plus a stunning though small-ish Lalique collection.

Mostly though we just wandered around, which is honestly my favorite thing to do in a new to me city, and while the hills are punishing, Lisbon is a great city to wander in.

Most delicious things I ate:

Gotta agree with food tour guy, it was the Mantegiaria pasteis de nata for me.

Meat sushi??? It was cooked, but it still felt like a great sushi innovation.

Chocolate cake from Landeau. Life-ruiningly good. All other chocolate cakes will pale in comparison.

Some astonishingly good Indian/Nepalese food, somewhat surprisingly. Some of the best naan I’ve ever had, and their dishes were presented so beautifully. Like, I like Indian food just fine in America! It’s basically always tasty! But this was on another level, and still comparable in price to the nicer Indian restaurants in the States.

Some of the best roasted chicken I’ve ever had in my life. Very simply prepared, but so tender and tasty.

Ate at one (1) fine dining restaurant, and damn, okay, that’s what the prices are about. I had duck breast and the dish as a whole was just exceptional.

Some very good gelato at the packed and bustling Time Out Market. Such a cool spot, I honestly wish every city had a version of this. (I know LA kind of does, but I like that the Time Out Market is curated.)

At the other end of the spectrum, a suspiciously cheap restaurant near our hotel that nonetheless had phenomenal food. Straightforward Portuguese with a twist food, presented beautifully with pretty generous portion sizes. Seriously though, it was so cheap I actually felt kind of guilty about it. Also they were cash only?? And had weird hours?? So maybe it’s a front? But the hotel recommended it and they’ve been in business for 50 years! So whatever, if it is a front, thank you to whatever mob boss is supporting their relative’s culinary dreams. Anyway, best chocolate mousse and sangria I’ve had to date, and the mains were good too. Truly felt like we got away with something eating mains, drinks, and dessert for two for 36 euros.

Our hotel brought us fresh pastries for breakfast every morning, and the chocolate croissants were especially delicious.

Okay, I know ginjinha is traditional and all here, but. Listen. It tastes like especially alcoholic cough syrup. (The booze-soaked cherry included in the shot glass was good tho) The white wine port I had at the suspiciously cheap restaurant, on the other hand, was absolutely delicious.

#travel

3 notes · View notes

scotianostra · 1 year

Text

18th August 1773 saw Samuel Johnson and James Boswell set out on their three month tour of the Highlands and the Inner Hebrides.

Boswell enticed his famous English friend Samuel Johnson to accompany him on a tour through the highlands and western islands of Scotland.

James Boswell, 9th Laird of Auchinleck was a Scottish biographer, diarist, and lawyer, born in Edinburgh, like many young men he longed to visit the bright lights of London and in 1760 he deserted the family home to live in the English capital for a few months. It was during his second stay in 1762-63 that he met his literary hero and model, the poet, essayist and dictionary maker Dr. Samuel Johnson. In August 1763 Boswell embarked upon a 2½ year Grand Tour of Europe, during which he met many notable men and women, including Voltaire and Rousseau. On returning to Scotland he practised law as an advocate. During this time he made occasional visits London to spend time with Dr Johnson and others of his circle, including Oliver Goldsmith, Sir Joshua Reynolds and Edmund Burke. He was also on familiar terms with David Hume, Adam Smith and other leading figures of the Scottish Enlightenment.

Johnston and Boswell set off less than 30 years after the '45 Uprising, when whisky was still distilled illegally, roads were scarce and travel was by foot, bone-jangling carriage, horseback or over very turbulent seas in a rickety boat.

Their extraordinary journey to the Highlands and the Hebrides during an autumnal season of relentless rain and storms, took Johnson - plump, partially deaf and blind and who had rarely travelled outside of London - on a grand Scottish tour which led to two of the earliest travel books and paved the way for centuries of tourists who would also explore the nation’s wild islands and highland

While for the then 32-year-old Boswell there was a chance to witness Johnson up close for nearly three months, providing a wealth of material for his admired biography, Life of Samuel Johnson. The travel journal was a massive hit and a humorous account of their journey.

Boswell was Scots to his roots and is very defensive about the Scots and Scottishness, while Johnson has this very English take on it all. These two things fuel the humour, Johnson is like this English bulldog and Boswell is like a Scottish terrier. Together they are a hoot! Add to that the facts that as you would expect from a Scotsman, Boswell was a heavy drinker and Johnson was teetotal, which leads to all kinds of escapades. It’s like 18th century Laurel and Hardy.

Boswell, quoted their first conversation in the biography, Life of Samuel Johnson, saying: “Mr Johnson, I do indeed come from Scotland, but I cannot help it”. To which Johnson replied: “That, Sir, I find, is what a great many of your countrymen cannot help.”

It set the scene for a friendship driven by verbal sparring, with Johnson’s deprecating remarks about Scots robustly foiled by Boswell’s defence of homeland.

Their travels began in mid-August at Boyd’s Inn in Edinburgh, where the cleanliness dismayed Johnson. Boswell wrote: “He asked to have his lemonade made sweeter; upon which the waiter, with his greasy fingers, lifted a lump of sugar, and put it into it. The Doctor, in indignation, threw it out of the window”.

The pair then travelled up the east coast, stopping at St Andrews to indulge their interest in John Knox and Mary, Queen of Scots, Following the coast towards Aberdeenshire, a bit like today’s NC500 tourists plotting their route, they took an anti-clockwise course along the Moray Coast to Inverness and then to the Western Isles.

At times their journey resembled a lengthy pub crawl as they noted the quality of the inns and the food.

In Montrose, Johnson noted: “At our inn we did not find a reception such as we thought proportionate to the commercial importance of the place; but Mr Boswell desired me to observe the innkeeper was an Englishman, and I then defended him as well as I could.” Dundee, it was noted, was “dirty, despicable”. They even recorded their first taste of Arbroath smokies.

Having travelled through Glen Shiel, the pair arrived at the inn at Glenelg. Often praised today, Boswell and Johnson gave it the equivalent of a one-star TripAdvisor review. Having arrived “wearing and peevish”, they discovered “no meat, no milk, no bread, no eggs, no wine. We did not express much satisfaction.”

The Highland terrain posed even greater stress. Dangerous and often impassable except on foot, they were often in remote spots, miles from inns or shelter or ankle deep in a peat bog. Nevertheless, they trudged on through stormy weather and with Johnson often suffering from colds, increasing deafness and seasickness on the journeys between the islands.

The trip from Coll to Skye was undertaken during a vicious storm, with Boswell fretting over whether the boat might sink or explode, and troubled that he couldn’t understand the sailors’ Gaelic! Johnson was no great fan of the language, describing it as “the rude speech of a barbarous people, who had few thoughts to express, and were content, as they conceived grossly, to be grossly understood”.

But in Skye, they were delighted to meet Flora MacDonald, and slept in the same room that Bonnie Prince Charlie had slept in. “Both were over the moon because they were besotted with the story,” he wrote.

Don’t judge Johnson on his dislike of the Gaelic language though, the pair told of finding the Highlands still occupied by military garrisons, cleared by immigration and spoke of the suppression of Highland culture and oppression of the clans.

The isle of Raasay turned out to be a favourite spot, where the pair enjoyed the clan chief’s hospitality and a raucous ceilidh, with Boswell dancing a jig on the flat summit of Dun Caan. Both felt that in Raasay they had come close to authentic old Gaelic culture and way of life.

By October 1773 they were in the Saracen Head Inn in Glasgow’s Gallowgate, revelling in a roaring coal fire and conversation with professors from Glasgow University.

The trip would come to a sorry end, however, at Boswell’s family’s Ayrshire home at Johnson and Boswell’s father had an enormous row; they were total opposites in religious and political beliefs,

Johnson was a kind of father figure to Boswell. He knew Boswell could be a bit out of hand, but he also knew he was a real literary talent.”

Johnson’s A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, was published in 1775, followed a exactly decade later by Boswell’s The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson. Both wrote their own versions of their tour differently. They go to the same places but see things differently.

#scotland #scottish #English #road trip #history #Diarist

21 notes · View notes

stoked2surf · 4 days

Text

Today was pretty chill we helped sew the shade net for the soccer field and got some pretty good progress on that! We decided that we wanted to head into town early to maximize the nice weather today. Just before leaving we welcomed a new volunteer to Mangrove, Mackenzie.

We went to our usual spot that is pretty much at the very end of what we’ve explored so far in Santa Teressa, it a a small L shaped road that leads to the beach and had parking. since it’s the offseason we’ve had no issues getting a spot there.

The parking is literally on the backside of the beach behind some trees and palms on what would be considered a dune area on the east coast. the view is impeccable and you can glance through tree clearing to see the waves break and what the ocean is offering for the day.

today it was super blown out and high tide, the water was rough and brown. it’s usually a beautiful blue and green color that is mostly clear but today the recent storms washed in murky water full of debris like trees,driftwood, and some trash (which sucks to see in such a beautiful place). We ventured down to the only open beach not swallowed by the sea and plopped down to read our books.

After and hour or so we headed into town to go to Ear Street, one of our favorite spots it’s town. It’s a few different food and drink places inside shopping containers that all look into a magnificent covered outdoor area. Like a food hall or mess hall type of vibe but aesthetically pleasing and outdoor forward. We grabbed an espresso from the coffee place (Sunrise Cafe) and sipped that while reading and then some cocktails from the bar ( Agave Bar and Lounge).

I ordered a Tropical Whisky and Annagrace got a Spicy Avocado margarita, both were fantastic. It’s crazy to me that the best two cocktails i’ve ever had at a craft cocktail place were here, take notes US. Then we went and I grabbed two slices of pizza from Pizza Tomate and they were honestly the best pizza slices i’ve had since being in the north east PA and NJ.

Overall another great day(:

3 notes · View notes

days-like-these · 15 days

Text

setting: san isabela, california

located on california's central coast lies the bustling city of san isabela. halfway between los angeles and san francisco, it is renowned for its infinite white sands, postcard sunsets, boardwalk attractions and nearby state park. the city sits south of the san luis obispo county, with an average of 300 days of sunshine per year. san isabela perfectly blends urban sophistication with beach-town vibes, giving a small town impression beneath its cityscape facade.

with beachside attitude and big city excitement, san isabela has limitless potential. it has a thriving urban core complete with art, dining and a night scene easily rivalling the nearby cities. explore san isabela's diverse coastal, urban and inland neighborhoods; each with its own unique palate. enjoy a day out on the beachfront of penn harbor, then head down to sunset plaza and indulde in its sizzling nightlife and rooftop bars. alternatively, the pizzazz of the astoria hills serves a more exquisite late night experience. devour the city's art and culture in the hub of san isabela's history, old beal city, or befall the quaint amenities of newbridge. otherwise, serenity is waiting to be discovered in the nature reserves of north passage.

whether spending a few days infusing in the city's myriad of beaches, visiting the waterfront amusements, or exploring the inland offerings of the city, san isabela refuses to disappoint. its golden shorelines are endless in the hearts of locals and tourists alike.

neighborhoods: astoria hills

often labelled the 'little hollywood hills', astoria is one of san isabela's more affluent neighborhoods. its hills are adorned with lavish mansions and backyard pools, with a fusion of styles old and new. on all parts of the hills are luxurious hotels, upscale restaurants and a decadent nightlife completely opposed to the plaza. while a lot of wealth surrounds astoria hills, its charming eateries and clothing boutiques take its desirability to a completely new level.

average rent prices: 1 bedroom $3500, 2 bedroom $4800, 3 bedroom $6200 notable attractions: san isabela regional airport

neighborhoods: newbridge

take a walk through the tree-lined streets of newbridge with its quaint, family-friendly feel. this neighborhood offers a blend of small-town charm and big-city amenities from its thriving small business scene to the university of san isabela, located to the south of the city. newbridge is often referred to as 'san isabela's hidden gem', with a unique variety of boutiques, restaurants and cafes alike.

average rent prices: 1 bedroom $2300, 2 bedroom $3100, 3 bedroom $3600 notable attractions: university of san isabela, california

neighborhoods: north passage

the majority of north passage is made up of the nearby state park with fewer than 20,000 living to the south of the neighborhood. the community of north passage is historically diverse, and in recent years, significant development has started to take place with locals campaigning to prevent further expansion into the forests. the outdoorsy feel of the area makes it particularly individual from the rest of the city, promising many prime locations for walking and biking.

average rent prices: 1 bedroom £1400, 2 bedroom £1900, 3 bedroom $2500 notable attractions: north passage state park

neighborhoods: old beal city

located east of downtown san isabela lies old beal city. this historic neighborhood retains its antiquity with a mixture of beautifully preserved victorian homes nestled between high-rise infrastructure. with over 200 years of history, it's known for its buildings, some of which can be dated back to the gold rush days. this effervescent community offers a diverse food and drink scene, museums, art galleries, and so much more.

average rent prices: 1 bedroom $3500, 2 bedroom $4500, 3 bedroom $5500 notable attractions: old beal memorial hospital

neighborhoods: penn harbor

due to its proximity to the bay, penn harbor was once a thriving industry which boasted warehouses and docks. whilst the latter remained, the warehouses have since been converted into condos and offices, proving popular for students and young professionals. not surprisingly, penn harbor is most notable for its seafood cuisine, with many restaurants lining the boardwalk.

average rent prices: 1 bedroom $2800, 2 bedroom $3500, 3 bedroom $4200 notable attractions: penn harbor boardwalk, the harbor, the pier

neighborhoods: sunset plaza

as san isabela's central hub for music, art, food and nightlife, 'the plaza' acts as the city's main metropolitan area. it's the heart of san isabela, with the police headquarters to the north of the neighborhood. it's easy to immerse in the vibrant streets of downtown, with nightclubs, cocktail lounges and dive bars galore. sunset plaza is renowned for its dynamic culture, and this is truly shown in the pulse of the city.

average rent prices: 1 bedroom $2500, 2 bedroom $3200, 3 bedroom $3800 notable attractions: san isabela police headquarters

#site buzz #jcink rp #city rp #x

2 notes · View notes

dailyanarchistposts · 25 days

Text

Empty Handed

All along the west coast, indigenous peoples TRAditionally collected herring roe as a food source. Today, many different people come annually to the Gulf Islands of what is called British Columbia, in the Coast Salish and Kwakiutl territories, to participate in the herring run. Incidentally, while the group of islands are collectively known as the “Gulf Islands”, they are located in a strait not a gulf. This is because a European explorer named them without traveling the full length of the waters in which they are located.

In any case, some who attend the annual herring run are newcomers while others have been doing so for generations. They harvest the roe and net the fish along the shoreline or from boats. Traditionally, the roe, or eggs from the females, is collected on hemlock or other evergreen boughs or kelp that is floated in the water until they are saturated. On many islands, families and friends also collect the roe, which washes onto the shore mixed in with the seaweed, for their families, and for their gardens, providing a rich source of minerals for their compost.

All this is collected on a small scale, harvested without machines or wage slaves. Oftentimes, the fish itself is harvested, not just the roe. Using different preservation techniques, like pickling, this bounty is stored for future use. Some use the herring as bait for other fish. All of this activity is and has been pursued on a scale commensurate with sustainability for generations.

But, according to Dave Wiwchar in a report published in the Nuu-chah-nulth Southern Region Reporter, “...over the last few years, First Nations (indigenous) fishers who drop hemlock trees or kelp bundles in order to harvest the traditional dietary staple of siihmuu (herring roe) have come up empty handed. Boughs that would normally be laden with numerous layers of roe, two inches thick, are being hauled up with barely a single egg. Traditionally, herring spawning areas were heavily protected by Chiefs, and Nu- chah-nulth spawn-on-kelp/bough fishers used special “silent paddles” whenever they ventured into herring spawning areas. The report continues:

“Siihmuu/Kwaqmis is traditionally very important to us as it is the first resource to return to our territories after the winter,” said elder Nelson Keitlah. “In the days of my grandpa, no one was allowed to go into the spawning areas where the herring were looking for a place to spawn. Not even a noise from a canoe was allowed. People had a very high respect for the herring as they are a very important part of the food chain, and our diet,” he said. Keitlah fears the noise from the vessels, machinery and sonar are driving the herring down to depths where their eggs will not survive. “We’ve been saying for years that the sonar and machines are a total disrespect to the herring, and as a result the herring are now spawning in deep water, and not coming near shore where we can feed on them,” he said. “We haven’t had siihmuu/kwaqmis in recent years as it has been very scarce. We need to be able to harvest them in a natural, normal way, which is a much better way to do it than to harvest the roe by seiners.”

And in an article in the Globe and Mail, Reg Moody of the Heltsiuk people in Bella Bella said in a statement:

“Who knows, maybe this province and country will soon see scenes on national TV of what took place with our brothers from Burnt Church on the east Coast. These stocks mean that much to us. Our way of life is at stake here . . . To protect the future of the central coast region, the Heltsiuk and Kitasoo Xaixas have been instructed by their people not to allow a sein or gillnet sac-roe fishery in their traditional territories for the next season …”

The traditional method of stringing fronds of seaweed in spawning areas allowed the herring to lay their sticky eggs on the seaweed and then swim away. But the commercial method is harmful and unsustainable. The seiners are noisy, scaring the spawning herring away into deep waters, and the fish are killed to extract the egg sacs rather than allowing them to swim away. Combine this with industrial activity on or near their spawning grounds and the herring are increasingly threatened.

2 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 1 month

Text

There is no substitute for eating a dish in its place of origin, preferably made in a home kitchen by hands that hold the muscle memory of thousands of meals. For me, a close second is stumbling across a recipe, trying it out, and feeling transported to a new place by its flavors. The vastness of the Jewish diaspora has gifted us with a wealth of interesting types of culinary mergers, and I particularly love exploring the Jewish food of India, where Jewish communities date back thousands of years.

There are three distinctive Jewish Indian groups that happened to be largely isolated from each other: the Cochin Jews of Kerala in South India, the Bene Israel Jews of India’s West Coast and Mumbai, and the Jews of Kolkata in East India (formerly known as Calcutta). In “The Book of Jewish Food,” Claudia Roden recounts how Shalom Cohen from Aleppo was the first known Jew to settle in Kolkata in 1798. Soon after, Syrian and Iraqi Jews followed and developed a strong community there, where they worked as merchants and traders and lived in harmony with their neighbors. Things changed in 1947 when India gained independence, and again in 1948 with the creation of the State of Israel; anti-Semitism grew as the Jews became associated with the colonial British power. During that time, most of the Jews from Kolkata immigrated to Israel, the U.S., U.K. and Australia. This once vibrant Jewish Indian community is now all but gone from Kolkata.

While only a handful of Jews still live in Kolkata, the food from this community has traveled with its people. Their style of cooking involves a combination of ingredients and preparations from the Middle East, with the spices and techniques of Indian cuisine. There are several cookbooks and articles devoted to Sephardic foods and Indian Jewish cookery that have documented some of the dishes of the Jews from Kolkata. I was first struck by a recipe I found in both Copeland Marks’ book “Sephardic Cooking,” as well as in “Indian Jewish Cooking” by Mavis Hyman. Mukmura (or mahmoora) is a dish of chicken and almonds in a slightly sweetened tangy lemon sauce. I like any recipe that looks like it is simple to prepare but still offers big flavors, and this was clearly that. This chicken dish calls for easy to find bold ingredients like ginger, garlic, ground turmeric, lemon juice and fresh mint. The chicken is braised, which means the meat won’t get dry, and it can easily be made in advance for entertaining, Shabbat and holidays. By slowly simmering all of the ingredients together you develop a slightly sweet and sour sauce with all those warm spices and aromatics. This dish is simultaneously comforting and exciting.

Note: This can be made a day in advance and reheats well.

5 notes · View notes

captain-of-silvenar · 4 months

Text

Somehow I forgot to post the second chapter of my fic here as I was finishing up chapter 3. Well here is the 2nd chapter, and the 3rd will be posted right after and I hope you all enjoy it!

----

Drovas was right, Gjalund did arrive and with it a fresh import of goods and letters. The whole of the marketplace was bustling with activity that nearly made the place look lively. It looked more desperate, really. Arano was directing food relief and supplies toward the Temple where they would be distributed later. Glover and Milore were carrying supplies back and forth from the pier to replenish their dwindling supplies. Even Drovas was here, probably at the prompting of Geldis, carrying bags of food back into the Retching Netch.

Teldryn held the door open as Yera followed behind. They were going to shop around and he was going to show her the important places in Raven Rock before heading into the wilds. It reminded Teldryn that the place was despairingly small despite all the work that was once put into this place.

“Raven Rock hugs the coast line in a U-shape, with the Bulwark blocking the east portion of town from ash and reevers. The south west is a small peninsula with the Earth Stone, some Skaal holy rock or some sort to the All-Maker of theirs. The Retching Netch we came out of is basically one part of the market center. Glover is across the way, Fethis is right next to the Retch, and Milore is next to Fethis. Anything we need, or can scrounge out, can be found right here.”

Yera listened attentively as Teldryn described the area around her, and then discussed what kind of supplies she was looking for. A map would be a start, but it was mostly for Teldryn’s sake and not Yera’s. Any potions was also a must if they were going to travel into the wilderness with nothing but exploration in mind. Geldis could provide some dried provisions for the road and Yera promised she was an excellent hunter (so long as he told her where to shoot). They both agreed it was best to see what kind of alchemical supplies were available and headed over to Milore.

“Welcome!” Milore greeted them upon arrival. “If it’s potions and alchemy ingredients you need, I might have them.”

“Strange question, but do you have any potions that aren’t made of plant matter?” Yera asked immediately.

“No plant matter? Hm… I highly doubt it. Most of my potions are made of whatever can be found on Solstheim, plants included.”

Yera seemed to expect this answer and instead turned to Teldryn.

“Buy whatever you need, I have the funds to cover for it.”

An interesting quirk, he thought. Teldryn vaguely remembered something about Bosmer being strictly carnivorous but he thought that was old traditions. Another surprise from his new patron. And a very generous one as well.

He quickly finished his shopping with Milore’s by buying the few health and magic regeneration potions she had in stock. As promised, Yera reached into a coin purse on her belt to give exact change. Already 500 gold pieces lighter, his new patron seemed easy to part money with at this moment. Was it from all that treasure hunting, or from something else?

That wasn’t really his place to question, he was getting supplies free without having to pay himself. It was better than trying to debate with a patron which supplies were more important than others and then having to turn around and buy the supplies with his own coin when they didn’t relent. He just hoped with how willing she was to buy everything that he could squeeze some of that gold into his pocket. Then maybe he could finally get off this dying rock.

Next was Fethis in search of a map. Teldryn knew this island fairly well enough but it was always safer to have a map on hand than to try to go off memory when one is in the middle of the forest. While he focused on finding a map that didn’t have stains on them, Yera was doing some research of her own.

“Fethis, heard anything interesting going on this island?” she asked. “Something someone foolish and reckless would be interested in exploring?”

“The only thing interesting is you, outlander,” he responded. “And strange questions to ask when I just saw you stumble off that boat not too long ago. What brings you to Solstheim, anyhow?”

“Treasure hunting and exploration,” she easily responded. “Heard from a source that something interesting might be found here.”

While Fethis mulled over her answer Teldryn also began to wonder what he got himself into. Surely this woman wasn’t some harebrained adventurer who jumped head first into danger. The way she held herself, the worn look of her armor, it all told of someone who knew their way around danger. He did, however, fail to properly question her about her reasons for coming to this place. Was it really wealth she was searching for? Or was there an ulterior motive to all of this?

Solstheim has barely been a blip on the map for a good few decades since the mines dried up. No one but the stubborn and poor and local stayed here. Those who couldn’t afford to pack up and leave survived on these ashy beaches. Those who first came to this island for a new life were clinging onto that original hope that brought them to this place. Barely anything exciting happened here beyond the occasional scuffle with reavers and peaceful meeting with the Skaal up north.

So what ‘source’ did Yera have that said something interesting was going on this island? Why bring yourself to a nothing island?

All good questions he should’ve asked before agreeing to… whatever Yera was going to drag him into. The casual way she handled coin and her confident aura threw him off and he scolded himself for this lapse in concentration. By the time he came back into the conversation Fethis and Yera were done.

“I appreciate the info you’ve shared. If I find anything interesting out there I’ll be sure to bring it back here,” Yera said before turning toward his direction. “Find any good maps yet?”

“This one is the best so far,” Teldryn answered. “Missing a few caves but nothing serious enough to pass over.”

“Perfect, we’ll buy this one.” Again, Yera passed the coin and the two of them left with a decent map and some other miscellaneous supplies.

“Fethis mentioned something about a Telvanni Tower and some wizard named Neloth. What can you tell me about this?”

“Neloth?” Teldryn exclaimed. “He told you about that old wizard?”

“Oh? Is this someone worth visiting?”

“It’s a possibility,” Teldryn answered. “He’s been on this island longer than anyone at Raven Rock. I don’t have half a clue what he’s researching or why he’s been here so long, but he could be useful. If… we can get an audience with him.”

“You make that sound difficult,” Yera said. “He doesn’t like visitors?” “No Telvanni Master likes visitors. They’d rather stay holed up in their Towers doing whatever wizards do for the last thousand years. If he’s kept to tradition like I last remember, he’s going to turn us away before we even get in the front door.”

“But do you think that if we needed to get some information, he’d be someone worth going to?” Yera insisted.

"If we must,” Teldryn replied. “If we can convince the mer, then it's possible he knows more about the island if anything is happening on this island. I've lived here for decades and nothing exciting has happened since the mines dried up.”

“A pity that is,” Yera commented. “Heard that the mines here were rich with ebony. Strange that they dried up so fast.”

“Nothing strange about it. Just bad luck and an old miner who keeps insisting there's still more of it down there. Old Crescius will tell anyone who'll listen that the East Empire Company is behind all this and it's a conspiracy.”

At this, Teldryn felt a hand around his forearm and looked down to see Yera smiling. Oh no, that could only mean a few things to an adventurer who described herself as ‘foolish and reckless’. He was not doing this again!

“Want to find out if it really is a conspiracy? 100 gold that we're able to find something.”

“Absolutely not, sera!” Teldryn objected, tugging his arm out of her grasp. “To say nothing of those mines being dry for nearly two centuries, what's to say it won't crash down around our ears and we die a slow and boring death of a cave-in?”

She was still smiling, and he thinks she enjoyed him objecting to her idea. What in the world was he getting himself into?

“And what's to say the opposite? Maybe there is something lurking in the mines that caused it to close off and no one's been able to find out. Maybe just one last look around will be our luck instead.”

“Says someone who sounds like they want a cave-in. I thought you hired me to be a guide?” Teldryn asked.

“As you are, and I am putting my trust in you right now that you're the mer for the job and will keep me safe. So how is an old and empty mine anymore dangerous than a cave we'll explore later outside the Bulwark?”

He wasn't going to fall for this, this had to be a kind of test. His judgment couldn’t have been this wrong to tie himself to someone willing to go blindly - literally! - into an old mining shaft abandoned for nearly a century just for fun. No, he was putting his foot down like he's done before and holding his ground.

“If you need me to spell it out for you, I will,” he started. “Who knows how long those walls have eroded away and are structurally unsound at this point. And if we ignore that, I'm sure all those nooks and crannies are filled with all sorts of skeever or whatever beasts crawled their way in from the outside. Should we get in a cave-in but survive then we’d have no way of getting back out on account of the fact there’s only one way inside. You can try to convince me, sera, but there is no way I am getting anywhere near those mines or Azura help me-”

* * *

"But mark my words, these mines hold a secret that could put Raven Rock back on the map."

Teldryn watched as Yera conversed with old Crescius and let him ramble on about his great-grandfather and how he found an unsent letter that was the base of his whole theory. The East Empire Company sure were bastards of their own right, but blaming the misfortunes of the mines and Raven Rock on a singular group was taking it a step too far. He was still glaring at his patron through his goggles, not like that had any effect on her.

Somehow she had twisted his arm and convinced him that exploring the mines would be a minor task, if anything. They would explore and investigate and if it was empty like Teldyrn said it was, he was going to be 100 gold richer and she would listen to his advice without disregarding it. If Yera was correct, however, he would have to eat his words and cough up a portion of his initial pay. He was really hoping that it was the former, and that he didn’t need to go down a dusty old mine shaft.

Aphia was standing with him, a worried look engrained on her face. In past conversations Teldryn knew that she was nearly at wits ends to try and keep her husband out of the mines. Now there was a new face believing his ‘wild tales’ and that was sure to spin Crescius into another fervor. He empathized with her, but he was bound by contract and coin to follow Yera down there and try and prove it this time. Maybe. He was still betting on nothing being down there and Teldryn was this close to just walking her in a circle to prove it was empty.

“This letter, what did it say?” Yera asked.

“It said something about a ruin being found near one of the mining shafts. My great-grandfather was called in to investigate since he was a native to Solstheim and probably knew the place better than anyone. But whatever happened down there was enough for the East Empire Company to lock it up and keep everyone away after he died.”

“And you have a key?”

“Yes,” Crecius answered, producing it from his pocket. “I bet you it’s for the mines they blocked off, but I haven’t been able to find it. I keep searching but all I find are rocks and dead ends.”

Yera pondered the information she had, head tilted to one side. Teldryn didn’t have that great of a read of her expressions just yet but she seemed to legitimately consider this line of thought. Which was fun. Amazing even. Amazingly stupid. And it was all confirmed when Yera silently held out her hand for the key.

“I’ll go down and take a look.”

The sound of joy from Cresiucs was the happiest he’s ever sounded. He gladly placed the key into her hands and started to describe the places he’s been to and known weaknesses in the mines. Teldryn could already feel his lung aching from the stale air and dust he was sure to inhale as they ran circles and circles down there. He really needed to recheck his instincts, this woman was going to drive him mad.

“Teldryn, are you just going to let her go down there?” Aphia whispered next to him. “I don’t want to be one to judge but… how safe do you think it is for someone like her to go down there?”

Anyone from an outside point of view would think the same. Sure, Yera was an adult woman who could make her own choices and Teldryn believed that she was a seasoned warrior. But that hardly accounted for the fact that she couldn’t see at all, and the mines were dangerous enough for someone with full capacity of their body. Yet something about her said that it was perfectly fine. A gut feeling perhaps. If all else fails, Teldryn was going to be a proper bodyguard to keep her from hurting herself down there.

“I tried to convince her otherwise, but here we are,” Teldryn whispered back. “I’ll keep her safe, and it’ll keep Crecius from wandering down there again until we come back up. He even said that if we don’t find anything that he’ll finally let go of this issue.”

That seemed to put Aphia at ease as she let out a deep sigh. Conversation over, Yera came over to the two of them to begin the descent into the mines.

“I’ll be sure to bring answers for you husband, Aphia,” Yera told her. “It’s probably strange to hear this from a person you just met, but I keep my promises. One way or another, I’ll find a way to bring peace to Cresius’ mind.”

How confident and compassionate it was said, Teldryn was sure this wasn’t the first time she has done this. Just what kind of adventurer she was to listen to the pleas of strangers and help them with no obvious reward at the end? He was just going to have to find out himself.

“Let’s head out Teldryn,” Yera said as she started toward the stairs. Immediately he took point, committing himself to being a proper guide and helping her navigate the dark and stifling place that were the Raven Rock Mines.

Abandoned as it was, it was still surprising to see how dark it was as they walked down the stairs into the mine proper. Old wooden platforms and bridges creaked and groaned as their weight shifted them down. Teldryn was ready to bail at any moment and couldn’t help but put an arm out behind toward Yera to support her.

“Careful sera, it’s pretty rickety down here.”

“It’s fine Teldryn, it’s not going to break apart any second now,” she said to him. “Also, I’m blind but I’m not infirm. So don’t worry about my steps unless there is a gigantic hole in front of me that I didn’t notice yet.”

As if to prove the point, she went around him and easily walked into the darkness down the stairs and across the bridge. Her footsteps the only thing telling him where his patron was as he hurried to catch up. Just in time too, as he heard the telltale sign of a skeever cry as one jumped out at her. Hand on his sword ready to attack but it wasn’t necessary as Yera quick as an arrow actually stomped on the thing and finished it off with a dagger he previously didn’t notice she had.

“Something is down here for sure,” she said as she pulled her dagger out and shoved the skeever away. “Let's hope it's not just pests.”

Well maybe Teldryn hoped it was just nothing. But away they went deeper down the dark tunnels that lead to nowhere. They encountered a few spiders that were hardly worth mentioning but all that was left were empty webs and empty tunnels. Yera wasn’t about to give up, though, as they back tracked to the center room when she asked him,

“Teldryn, describe this area to me.”

He took a look around, and couldn’t help but notice the gigantic hole just to the side of them. It was the one place he definitely didn’t want to go down. Mostly because it would be impossible to get back up. The other part because he really didn’t want to discover what was down there. He doubted Crescius himself went down there due to his health. Aphia would have his head if she even got wind of him doing something as dangerous as that.

But he was paid 500 gold to do a job, and he wasn’t about to slack on his professional title.

“Behind you are the tunnels we just came out of; behind me is the way we came in. To your right is a giant hole that goes down at least 20 feet down. There is a railing that goes around it, but no scaffolding on the way down and no clear way to get back out of that hole. There seems to be a bucket pulley over it, but I can’t say how good it is at holding our weight, if at all.”

“Three guesses where we’re going next, the first two are free,” was Yera’s response as she dropped her pack to rummage around in it. From the depths of it she pulled out a whole bundle of rope and tossed it toward him.

“Find something sturdy to tie that around, that way if there’s nothing down there we can get back up.”

Teldryn summoned a magelight to better illuminate the walkway they were on for something to tie this rope around. There was a convenient slab of rock that was large enough to safely anchor the rope to and he made quick work of it with a few strong knots. When he turned around to throw it down the hole he realized his patron was gone.

He quickly made his way to the edge of the railing to see Yera climbing down the hole already, seeing cane tapping away on the rocks and thin ledges.

“Sera, what in the world are you doing?!” he yelled down at her, his voice echoing around the room.

“Exploring!” she answered up at him. “This had to be a man-made tunnel, so they had to have made ledges to climb down.”

“That’s not what I’m asking!”

Yera ignored him as she descended deeper into the darkness and Teldryn swore under his breath as he took the rope and started to rappel down after her. Sure enough, there was a ledge a decent distance from the lip of the tunnel but still he questioned the sanity of his patron. Jumping off a ledge without knowing how deep or how far away the next landing is, foolish enough with eyes and even more so without! Yet he couldn’t deny the speed and agility she had climbing down. By the time he reached her she was already tapping at the wooden planks supporting the walls for something.

“You may not see it, sera, but there is nothing down here as well,” Teldryn drawled. “Crescius couldn’t find anything, and neither are you in this dusty place. Let's turn back now.”

Again, she ignored him in favor of tapping against the walls. The hollow sound of wood bounced back at them as she made a circuit around the bottom of the pit. He couldn’t discern the meaning of them or if he was supposed to gain anything from it but Yera did. He realized this when she kept hovering over one particular place in the walls and started knocking on the planks with her knuckles.

Oh. Now that he was listening. Those planks sounded more hollow than the others. As if they were…

Yera extended her hand with her seeing cane out to him and he took it without thinking. He also needed to take a step back as she suddenly reared up and kicked at the planks of wood. With shock and horror they buckled under her boot, revealing a path behind them. He continued to stand there in silence as Yera then started to rip the wood down with her bare hands, throwing them into a small pile next to him.

And sure enough, dimly lit under his magelight, was a locked grated door. And sure enough, that was Yera with a key in her hand, a wide toothy grin across her face.

“So what was that about finding nothing?”

By the Three, what had he gotten himself into?

#tesblr #skyrim fic #tes #teldryn sero #dunmer #bosmer #elder scrolls #raven rock #yera oakvine #shadyfics

3 notes · View notes

potchatok-art · 10 months

Text

Another Culture

While the Eastern coast and sea lives its own life, far inland another society is forming. The descendants of Middle East Steppe populations, with a varied array of tools they keep on their person at all times, have managed to explore deserts, savannas, steppes and temperate forests. Having started on shores of desert rivers, they learned to be both opportunistic and pacient, and, most importantly, crafty. While the Kaikainuchwer had a break from predators, having developed on islands, These people, the Kastakaama, have to be constantly on alert. While sometimes gender dictates a huge part of identity, in this society a huge part plays a shift one particular Sutviprra (Göts, in this language) choses to operate in.

By themself, Sutviprra are not tied to time of day to function. Their ancestors could sleep for only four hours, but the newly grown brain demands much more “maintenance time”. So, to accommodate healthy sleep, while remaining constantly on guard, they adapted three shifts per day. The shifts are established in teens, when individuals decide on a graphic that is more comfortable for them. After that, in their adult life, they stay in their zone, while either staying on guard or performing their tasks. If their shift happens during dusk or dawn, a group of scouts set off to forage. As they return, food is prepared and saved, so currently sleeping members also get their share. During the day, the most dangerous factor is the environment - desert heat, sandstorms or floods. Most animals also avoid this time of day, but semi aquatic animals don’t have this constraint. Gafölatotsun is a giant ancient animal, convergently resembling crocodilians, though its four jaws give it more freedom of snapping. These animals rely on cover of water and ambush, but if they detect sleeping prey in the eyeshot, they would not miss their chance. Daytime centuries have to either scare off the predator, or wake everyone up. Though adult Göts is only quarter size of an adult Gafölatotsun, the river reptiles are very much aware of their disadvantage above the water surface. Worst case scenario is a genuine group of these beasts overwhelm the guardians. Mostly, the cause for wake up for all are natural disasters - flash floods from the rivers, coming from the mountains to the west, in cases of which Göts must retrieve to the highest point. Generally, those places are unstable sand dunes or rocky hills. Opposite of this situation is high temperatures. In those cases, Kastakama create communal dirt baths, though that usually puts them close to river shores, and therefore kastaGafölatotsun. Best natural solution to this issue are caves - any water-erosion caused pockets of shade, though there’s no telling if it’s already taken or not. So, in any crucial points of the families' yearly journey, one could find Gatozhanunu - a half underground building, constructed as a point to establish temporary camps inside and around it. Its subterranean nature and placements usually on the shallow shores, makes them vulnerable to floods. It frequently gets covered with sediment or even collapses. However, it is designed to withstand coverage. In fact, when the tribe leaves the Gatozhanunu, they cover entrances and windows with plastines of bone reinforced burnt clay, and as it gets buried, the house becomes sealed. When the family that built it returns, they excavate the building and unseal the building, with assurance that no unexpected dangers wait inside. Sometimes, the tribes perish, leaving the Gatozhanunu with no hosts. These rooms may be rediscovered during this age and adapted as new families safepoint, or, perhaps, these rooms may outlive this way of life, inspiring myths or providing knowledge for future generations.

#sutviprra #art #speculative biology #worldbuilding #spec bio #alien design #exobiology #spec evo #speculative evolution #speculative culture

8 notes · View notes

imagine-silk · 10 months

Note

Could you do Yandere Curie with a Darling that wants to travel and explore the wasteland of North America with her, from not only east coast to west coast, but also Canada, the Midwest, South, the Great Plains, everything interesting with only the two of them? Could you also have Darling be a Courser that wanted to start a new life after the institute was destroyed, so both of them are Synths who don't Age?

》Sorry this took a while, I've been indisposed to put it lightly.

Curie is pre-war, yes, but she wasn't made to go outside. She knows as much as the average person back then.

Even if running around is not her idea she supports it wholeheartedly. All she hears is you are going to be with her alone for the unforeseeable future because the world is a big place. And as far as she knows you'll be wandering around for the rest of time.

To make the time even longer she'll make up places. She swears there was a monument of Sole and it was in the south region. She really really wants to see it. Then there's the world's longest stump. Not the biggest. The longest.

You're not safe by any means however. Though that could be said for a number of reasons. Synths are still a strange thing and have proven dangerous after the Institute was destroyed. Taking away someone's life, their home, doesn't breed good will. Not all of the synths wanted to leave.

Money isn't an issue. Curie is the wasteland's best doctor and there was no shortage of people with boo-boos. Sometimes she'll even rip people off by saying she has short supply so it cost extra. Not very ethical but her main priority was you and you needed money to stay happy, healthy.

When you can you travel with caravans. They share food, water, shelter, and company. Though if anyone gets a little too cozy she won't take too kindly to it. Very bluntly she'll threaten them so casually it's hard to tell if she's serious. She is and you have to stand in to say so.

There is also the issue of age. You'll never die of age but if you see other's too long you'll see them age while you don't. It'll hurt on all sides. But that's why Curie keeps you moving once she figured that out.

Years will go by in the blink of an eye. Another few years you see MacCready, a gray-haired mercenary who's skill is almost unmatched. And he's not amused when he sees the two of you. But catching up is nice.

Somehow everyone you once knew is long dead and you've not seen everything because Curie keeps making the list longer and longer. At a certain point you lose track of time trying to keep her reigned in. And that's what she wants. You are all hers.

#ask and you shall receive #fallout 4 #gender neutral reader #fallout imagines #fallout x reader #yandere #curie #yandere imagines #yandere curie

18 notes · View notes

swaggypsyduck · 2 years

Text

thank u for the tags my loves @han-merlin @cherishlalune.

rules: tag 10 people you want to get to know better

relationship status: single(?) possibly might change if i dont get the ick

favourite color: blue

song stuck in my head: blicky– fresh x reckless (dont ask)

song i last listened to: stone wall stone fence– gregory and the hawk (i love this song so much its so green and foggy)

three fave foods: maghrebi couscous w lots of smin, canadian costco poutine, and shfinj (a moroccan doughnut) but i dip it w maple syrup instead of honey (EVERYONE IN MOROCCO MADE FUN OF ME FOR IT UNTIL THEY TRIED IT AND BEGGED ME TO SHARE... yes i brought my own maple syrup to morocco. sue me!)

last thing i googled: all quiet on the western front wins. eeaao deserved everybit of praise it got! but the book for aqotwf holds a soft spot in my heart.

dream trip: i want to go to japan and/or scotland. not like big cities i wanna be by the seas or in the mountains or walk near the plains and stay in old family run hotels. i love walking and exploring. for those asking why not someplace warmer? bc im terrified of bugs. (but i do want to visit peru and chile for the same reasons) oH and i have to visit italy and brazil for @mchiti and @lesbionel!!

anything i want right now: to visit my family on the east coast. i miss my aunts and uncles. also to have deep fried calamari. ugh im craving tunisian calamari sooooooo badly (i think they got it from the greek but like tunisians do it better imo. or maybe its just the tunisian families and restaurants ik)

uuuh idk who to tag so if u did it already that's chill. feel free to do it if i dont tag u!! @mchiti @mrs-bellingham @mavieesttriste16 @kylianmbappeh @karotland @anchyxsblog @liverpool-enjoyer @prettypleiades @roobylavender @rashbeans @lesbionel

41 notes · View notes

traipseartist · 2 months

Text

July 4th - 7th - Yokum's Right of Seneca Rocks, West Virginia

I claim to be a Rock Climber™ but the majority of my experience is actually clinging to plastic rocks inside of blissfully air-conditioned warehouses in the part of town that's definitely getting gentrified.

I discovered I liked to climb at a time in my life when I was desperate to find something athletic that didn't make me want to walk into the sea. My body image after high school was in shambles and I developed a certain hatred for treadmills and ellipticals--symbols of punishment for over-indulgence or a demand I adhere to some kind of standard that I never really could buy all the way into. Needless to say, exercise was always a means to an end. If I could have put my brain in a jar and made my legs run the necessary number of miles to make me a size 0, I would have. Gleefully. Surely athleticism was mastering the ability to fully disconnect your body from your brain? Who wanted to be present for the heaving and the sweating and the oh-god-oh-god-this-is-how-I-die feeling that hangs in the balance?

Then I had a long-distance boyfriend who fell headlong into the sport and in my soft loneliness, I connected to him via chalk-coated climbing facilities. We would chatter on the phone about climbing problems, the world of outdoor climbing, competitions, characters at our respective gyms. When his life drifted away from mine, I stayed close to the wall. I felt not just the urge to be stronger and solve more difficult problems, but the desire to start speaking my body's language instead of pulling out the duct tape every time I needed to push through something that felt physically hard.

-------------------------------

So, yes yes, a beautiful back story. An illustrative origin that does nothing to explain why I'm clenching a stubborn half-sapling between my thighs and trying to keep all of my pistachio shells in my hat as I dangle my ankles thousands of feet above the valley floor in Seneca Rocks, West Virginia.

My partner Vincent and I are out with the Explorer's Club of Pittsburgh (some 20+ riotous humans with a distaste for a particular kind of self-preservation) on this fine holiday weekend when we agree to do something relatively stupid and exactly what we came for. We want to stand on the top of the biggest piece of exposed Tuscarora Quartz in the north east and shake in our boots while doing it even though we're mostly little indoor-monkey gym-rats.

Seneca Rocks, West Virginia is not like other climbing destinations. Some crags, especially those on the west coast that attract climbers from around the world, have their own sprawling ecosystems born of their touristic revenue. Joshua Tree has the strangest assortment of desert-proof fast-food establishments. Yosemite and the Sonora Pass have many of the trappings of a mountain get away: Adorable high streets in small boom towns scattered throughout the region, themed restaurants, condos and vacation homes stacked high and wide for visitors and returning locals alike. Something (wineries and theme parks and tucked away spas) for the person who has no desire to really disconnect from society, thank you very much.

Seneca Rocks, West Virginia has:

Yokum's Vacationland - a truly grandiose title for a double-wide cabin that feels like a themed gas station with a root-beer stand tacked on the back and some motel rooms up top. All the same, totally beloved.

Harper's Old Country Store - honestly, much cuter than Yokum's but probably less trafficked unless Yokum's runs out of ice or chocolate milk

Princess Snowbird's Indian Village & Campgrounds - not touching this one. It's been here for a second. It has RV hook-ups and could not be more American in nature.

The Gendarme - your local spot for outdoor guides, good advice, and the climbing gear you forgot.

There are campgrounds (Seneca Shadows) up the hill from Yokum's, and a little science center filled with dusty art-deco furniture across the way. All of this within the cast shade of the mountain you came for, and that is that.

The end.

Yet, despite the almost video game-esque limited nature of this local map, Seneca Rocks is obviously its own ticking entity. There are people who live here. The pepperoni rolls for sale in color coded zip-block bags (RED - Pepperoni and Mozzarella, BLUE - Mozzarella only, GREEN - EXTRA Pepperoni and Mozzarella) deposited in big wicker baskets by the cash register at Yokum's are made by a woman named Betsy. The local guides that cart litters of injured recreationalists down from the mountain are no NPCs.

So when you're teetering on routes with names like "Muscle Beach" and "Ecstasy Jr." that drape the mountain high above our tiny valley below, it's hard to feel that same uncaring maw of the great wilderness that I've felt so many times before when I've been playing with my own safety for fun and un-profit far from the sympathy of other humans.

Still, when a rope strains on a carefully placed nut in the crevices of Whorl's Thicket or you see some cotton slings tangled in the branches of a marooned tree under Traffic Jam, you are reminded that your survival--that any human's survival on this little quartz dinosaur spike--is purely by permission and tolerance only. There is no conquering here; there is only playing on the shoulders of a giant. It's reckless, even though it is surely allowed and time-tested.

I learned very quickly that the people I was climbing amongst, however, did not always have a passion for the reckless nature that is the hobby. Some of them had the exact opposite problem with their bodies and their minds that I found I had. They did not wish to separate their mind from their body so that they could push through the soul-crushing boredom of exerting physical labor without feeling much reward or time passing. Instead, they wished to sever the connection so that they could overcome the crippling fear of hanging on the edge, of being too frightened to progress--something I enjoy playing with, fiercely.

-----------------------------

At the summit of Seneca, there is a small metal lockbox the size you'd see keep cash in a concession stand on the perimeter of a high school Softball field. This box is full of notes, little plastic figurines, found treasure, a cow bell, a whistle. Well wishes, banal little messages for those behind or in front that may find themselves up here soon and again.

At base camp, there is a loose huddle of chairs around a dimming campfire and the air of survival from something we chose. Another day on the rock, another meal to remember the day we didn't fall off of it. Someone mentions a plaque affixed to a large boulder along the path up to the crag, seen just before the turn off to a torturous route upward to some other famous trad classics named "Stairmaster." It's a commemoration to a woman who was part of the Explorer's Club of Pittsburgh. She stepped backwards off of a steep step-around route on the mountain and fell to her death a week before her wedding in the early 2000s.

Someone says they wish they hadn't named her specifically on the plaque--it made the club look careless. Untrained.

There is a long pause before someone else says that her fiance wanted to bury her in her wedding dress. I put my mind back into my body, and my body back into my tent, and I am thankful to sleep on a solid, flat surface yet again.

#travel #seneca #climbing

4 notes · View notes

helianskies · 1 year

Text

They called him the Son of the Devil. 'They', however, did not know what the Devil truly was...

a gift for @needcake! this is just a lil' something hehe, but feliz aniversário e espero que você se divirta! 🌊

[ read the full fic on ao3 or down below! ]

They called him the Son of the Devil.

‘They’ were the Portuguese, God-fearing, almost as much as they were Devil-fearing, evidently. From those unfortunate enough to meet him by land, to those even more unfortunate to meet him at sea, they were his adversaries, his victims, his entertainment.

The Portuguese ships—whether merchant or naval—who clung too close to his territory for too long were taught fast what it really meant to fear. Cannonfire was child’s play. Never did he miss, nor did his men ever hesitate when he made the call. That had bought him his name—a personal ferryman for Davy Jones, delivering souls to their watery graves like the swift turning of the tide.

Meanwhile, those who resided in the areas navigated by his ship did not venture too close whenever they docked. While some were sympathetic to the attacks against the Portuguese, and were kind enough to keep his crew stocked up and sustained with both food and leisure, others were sure to keep their distance when they could. Perhaps that was wise of them. Even the too-curious were at risk. And perhaps being feared like that, too, brought only a greater thrill.

A force to be reckoned with, was what he was. Fierce as the pacific seas he had come to claim as his own. So many ships had been sunken, so many men slain—and it had made Abel a man wealthy not only in riches, but equally in reputation.

At present, Abel and his men were venturing the Coromandel Coast of India. The growing spice trade was teeming with opportunity, markets, clients, and the easterlies made it an easy route to take before swooping back around towards the East Indies. It suited them well. Here, they had been welcomed more openly than they were used to.

To make the most of a final night in their current host town, Abel had been generous and granted the crew an evening to explore and enjoy themselves. For the majority, that had meant a night wandering from tavern to tavern, tankard to tankard, and Abel had gladly joined them.

At least, for most of the evening.

As the moon was approaching its highest point in the sky, however, and as the stars came to shine their brightest, Abel found himself alone at the beginning of a beach. He couldn’t remember how he got there. He couldn’t tell if he had just arrived, or if he had been standing there for an hour. But the sea was calming, the breeze light, and the ‘how’, ‘when’ and ‘why’ were so suddenly, incredibly unimportant.

Abel wandered forth and welcomed the feeling of sand beneath his boots, sturdy yet not, gentle yet not. There was a bottle in his hand, he soon discovered, from which he took a healthy sip of spiced liquor. Life felt perfect.

The sea before him was illuminated by the moon and the stars and the ghosts of his victories. It was his—all his. It was an immense feeling, a sobering tidal wave (well, figuratively sobering, that was).

A younger Abel, who used to quietly watch from the window as his father went out to sea to catch fish before the sun even rose, would not have imagined this future for himself. He used to hate the sea. He used to hate how it stole from him. The day his father had gone out for work and not returned—not that evening, nor the day after, nor even within the next year—he had sworn vengeance.

But now, he was the one who stole, and the sea no longer laughed at him but respected him. It was no longer the enemy, but a friend. If his father had gone out to sea and drowned, then all Abel knew was that his father had simply not been strong enough a man to live…

…he took another swig from the bottle.

What made him do it, he lacked an answer (or at least, answer he was willing to admit, even to himself) but with a mere blink he was sitting down, and with another, sand cradled his body and he stared up at the dark blanketing sky.

Serenity was generally a foreign concept to Abel—otherworldly, even. But there it was, all-encompassing, all-consuming. How… freeing. He closed his eyes and breathed it in and felt that internal reminder why this life was all he needed.

Abel lay there for a while, basking in the swelling night and sea. He could have fallen asleep right then and there—perhaps he even did—but just as all of his senses ebbed and flowed and threatened to leave him in the arms of Morpheus, something distant drifted through the haze. A voice. A chorus.

It was angelic, if he had to try and describe it. A madman would have thought that they were dying and being greeted from on high. But Abel, far from losing his wits, had no other explanation for it.

Sitting up, it was clear that no one else was around on the beach. Even his own footsteps now had been sifted by the wind and cast away. So his head turned back to the sea—could there be a boat? sailors?—but no vessel was there, either, and his confusion remained.

The voice was impossible to pinpoint. It truly seemed to surround him. The more he listened, the more he felt a pull, and the more he listened again, he began to make sense of the words filling the air—words that, at first, had not sounded like words, but which now sung of riches, home, and the sea in a language he knew—a language that was his own.

And then he heard a splash. It had been small, but noticeable, and it drew Abel's gaze towards the South, where rocks trailed from the edge of the coastline and dipped down into the waters.

At first, he wondered if he was, in fact, out of his mind. But he blinked, and peered harder through the night, and found his eyes still did not betray him: there upon the rocks was a figure—the source of the melody, and the object of Abel's fixation. Surely not. But surely, yes.

He was on his feet. He was not sure when or how he had moved, nor why he then proceeded to venture across the sand towards the outcrops, but he did, and he did not fight it. As he neared, the music grew stronger yet softer, more delicate and whimsical, but no less powerful. It called to him. He couldn't fathom why he felt that way, but he did—it was as though the performance was all for him, and he so desperately sought a closer audience.

Before he knew it, the distance that had separated them had shrunk to span only metres. Being so close, he could see the figure somewhat easier—a figure with long hair that they carefully groomed with their own fingers, and legs that appeared to vanish into the water. A midnight swimmer, perhaps? A woman who, like him, had maybe had one drink too many?

Nevertheless, as he stepped onto the rocks themselves in order to get closer still, the beautiful singing, so gentle and smooth, suddenly subsided.

Abel blinked. He stared. Hands dropped away from flowing locks, and a head turned so that two eyes could gaze upon him, and he could gaze upon them in turn.

“I thought it was considered rude to stare.”

The lump in his throat took a few attempts to swallow. “What are you doing out here?” he deflected, gesturing with his bottle (he was amazed he was still holding it) towards the sea. “‘S a bit cold for a swim…”

The other hummed. “Maybe I like the cold,” they—he—could they be a man, with such a frame, and such mystical hair…?—replied. And, just like that, he slipped himself right into the water.

It felt like the other was trying to put distance between them again (Abel did not like that). It also felt like he was trying to prove a point, based on how he did not seem perturbed by the chilly depths. The sailor felt himself shiver just at the thought of the water, but, just as he found himself growing wary of the swimming stranger, he became, once more, the only thing Abel could focus on.

“You seem lost,” the other said, bringing himself to the edge of the rocks, whereupon he rested his arms and held himself against the ledge. “You are not from these lands, are you?”

“No, I am not,” Abel slowly returned as he crouched down, and once more bridged the gap between them. “Though, you hardly seem to be a local yourself. You… barely seem to be of this world, in fact.”

An invisible smile seemed to appear on the other’s face. “Is that a compliment, or an insult?”

“A compliment,” the blonde assured him.

He tried to read the other as he spoke, just as he would read any other person, but all he could think about was how curious this stranger was—how the moon almost seemed to make him glow. And surely it was not his imagination: the other was not only in the sea, but naked, a man who must have had more drink than Abel several times over!

“Do you have a name?” he then asked, hoping to put some pieces of this pretty puzzle together.

To that, the other gave a soft hum. “Everyone has a name,” he replied. “Do you have one?”

“I have a few.”

“Greedy.”

Abel cracked a small smile of his own. “Tell me yours first, and then I will tell you mine.”

The proposal was considered for a moment. A lot of thought seemed to take place—eyes watched closely and the other had to fix his posture—before he finally said, “João.”

His smile suddenly tensed along with several other muscles in his body. “João,” Abel repeated, giving it a taste, letting it dance on his tongue. “Sounds quite… Portuguese.”

“Well,” João responded, “maybe that has something to do with the fact that that is where I come from, no? Now, no distracting yourself,” he went on with ease, “you owe me your name.”

Remaining somewhat wary, but equally as tenacious, the sailor provided what had been requested: “I’m Abel. Though, I must admit, your people tend to use a different name for me…”

It almost felt weird to say so out loud. Perhaps that was the effect of facing someone like João, clouded in mystery, seemingly carefree, Portuguese. What if he already knew of Abel? What if underneath the water was concealed a weapon? What if—?

“'My people', huh? And what name might that be, sailor boy?”

And like that—the very second Abel looked at the other, looked him in the eyes, and was met by a sort of wonder—the care was washed away by the ebbing sea.

“They call me ‘the Son of the Devil’,” he said, “when they are not busy trying to run away.”

The revelation did not quite inspire the fear or wariness he had expected it to, however.

“Seriously?” João reacted instead, as though unimpressed, or unconvinced. “You hardly seem like a demon to me.”

“How would you know?” Abel asked somewhat pointedly, and just as fast as he had spoken before, the other lost his voice.

Abel wondered if he had come across too harsh. Conversely, had that not been the idea? To prove himself? But then, had it been deserved, he had to ask himself. João was one of few people to have ever engaged in a conversation longer than thirty seconds with him. Where others kept their distance, João almost seemed to want to close it between them again.

"Tell me," the sailor said, wanting desperately to amend his prior cruelty, "what has driven you into the water? Not me, I hope."

At that, the other's amusement grew. "Why?" he questioned. "Should I have reason to run from you, too?"

"Or swim away, in your case."

He received a tut. "Well?" the stranger prompted. "Do I?"

"You might," Abel answered in earnest, lowering himself even further by taking a firm seat upon the rocks. "I'm not liked by many people. They prefer to avoid me, if they can."

That, however, only seemed to draw the other in. The gap narrowed even more.

"Does that mean you're dangerous?" he asked.

The word brought Abel, in turn, a small burst of excitement. So much for wanting to make a better impression.

"They have not given me my nickname for no reason."

"Mmm,” João grinned, “that's good. I like danger."

"Oh?"

"Danger can be fun," the other mused. And then, after a short pause—a moment to think—he added, "I can be dangerous, too, you know."

To Abel, it was a laughable notion on the one hand, but equally quite cute that the man in the water did not seem to grasp what danger truly was. Abel had killed, and sometimes just because he could. But this person before him, with their wondrous hair and heavenly voice and gentle eyes (and very naked body), hardly looked capable of anything more sinister than ordinary wit.

Still, he found himself humouring this fantasy. Something about the other made him want to talk more, and enjoy his company.

"How scared should I be of you, then?" Abel asked, to which he received a sort of proud smile.

"No, no. Not scared," João warned him. "Danger is fun, remember."

"Not my kind of danger."

"Only a coward thinks danger is dangerous," however. "So are you dangerous, or scared?"

He couldn't quite work out how they had arrived at such a statement, inflammatory and unnerving. It threatened Abel in so many ways. It was a challenge to his very name, the thing he had spent years of his life carefully constructing . He was hardly going to sit there, and take it.

"I," he said as clearly as possible, "am not scared."

"No?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Very."

"Then get in."

The Dutchman stopped. He blinked. He blinked again. And then, he considered in brief the dark but tranquil sea.

"Come on," the other insisted all the while, gently pushing away from the rock in order to fully embrace the waters around him. "Come in for a dip," he pressed, "and prove to me that you are not scared, sailor boy.”

It was an ask that felt like— No, no— It wasn’t too much—Abel was perfectly capable of getting into the water and going for a swim and had done so many a time—but the bottle in his hand felt heavier than before, and he wondered if perhaps this was all a falla—

A cold hand found his face, held his cheek, and offered a solace that Abel had not requested, but one that… he liked.

“Come,” the other’s voice delicately urged again, “I promise it will be worth it. A quick dip, to prove to me that the Son of the Devil really is as bold and fearsome as he claims…”

Something about the way that João looked at him was utterly magical. He felt awe, he felt hunger, he felt desire. He had not often seen a man and had thoughts of such a nature, but he would allow himself to make an exception.

He got lost in that world for a moment. He could still see and feel João there, reeling him in, but at the same time all Abel could think about was how it would feel to kiss him, to hold him, to have him in bed, to drown in him entirely. Abel wanted it. He wanted him. There was something so suddenly carnal about it—something so imperative, for the sake of his survival.

He was just so… so enchanting. It was impossible to look away, or think of anything—anyone—else. And the nearer João pulled him, the deeper Abel felt ready to—

The water was freezing. It smacked him in the face, merciless and harsh. The moment his body fell into the sea, Abel’s instincts screamed for him to swim, to get back out, to seek warmth and dry land—but as he tried to bob and find air and something to hold onto, all he found was João amongst the bubbles and commotion.

João, who had pulled him right under the surface. João, who smiled at him and held onto him. João, who… did not stop pulling, or holding, or smiling.

It was only when Abel could no longer reach his hands above the water or remember the last few minutes in detail or feel enough air in his lungs that reality, at last, made itself known to him. Too little, too late.

Abel was about to learn what it was like to be condemned to a watery grave of his own.

#hetalia #hws netherlands #hws portugal #nedport #helia writes #happy birthday cake!#i dont know if youll remember but this fic comes from a prompt you sent me so 😇#nothing can go wrong 😇😇

22 notes · View notes

rebeccathenaturalist · 1 year

Text

My apologies for the radio silence, folks! The past couple of weekends have been super busy--but with a lot of great stuff!

Weekend before last was Wings Over Willapa, the birding and nature festival that happens on and around Willapa NWR in the very southwest corner of Washington. It's one of my favorite events throughout the year, and I have been involved from the very beginning back in 2018. This year I actually got to be a tourist in addition to a tour guide, getting to explore the old growth cedar forest at Ellsworth Canyon with a Nature Conservancy employee. it was incredible getting extra perspective on this special place. I also got to guide tours through even more old growth cedar at Long Island on Saturday, someplace that I never, ever, ever get tired of. I love how the thousand-plus year old cedars have crowns on the top, since the storm winds often shear off the trees' leaders, so another must then sprout. It gives them more personality.

Right after that I hustled on over to Loomis Lake State Park to lead my beach tour. We explored the dunes, and I showed the participants how to tell the difference between the native Leymus mollis dune grass, and the invasive Ammophila grasses that have taken over that habitat. We found some neat things while beachcombing, like marine snail egg casings, and had some great wildlife sightings, like lines of brown pelicans coasting over the waves, and a lone Hudsonian whimbrel picking its way along the beach in search of food.

That evening we were treated to the keynote speech by author and conservationist Paul Bannick, who spoke on how woodpeckers and owls are very often keystone species in their habitats. I had just enough time that night to get some sleep before peeling myself out of bed for an 8am tour that I led around the Art Trail and Cutthroat Climb at the old Refuge headquarters. I am in love with that place, and I am overjoyed the trails are open to the public after extensive improvements were made earlier this year.

This past weekend was just as much fun! I have been very excited to see the development of Snow Peak's new campfield in Long Beach. For those who aren't aware, Snow Peak is a quality outdoor supply company based in Japan, analogous to REI or Patagonia. Each of their flagship stores has a campfield within a couple of hours which has camping and events. The Long Beach location is associated with the Snow Peak store in Portland, and is just about ready for a soft opening!

I have been hoping to get in touch with folks there since I really, really want to see more ecotourism out in the Long Beach and Willapa Bay area. We're so lucky to have so much beautiful nature out here, and I want to see more people getting to enjoy it. I was thrilled when a representative contacted me some weeks back inviting me to teach a couple of mushroom foraging classes during this year's Snow Peak Way, an annual camping event that draws hundreds of people and which was held this year over on the east side of the Cascades in Tygh Valley.

To say that I had a great time would be an immense understatement. I have been to a lot of festivals, conventions, and other events over the years, and this had all the things that I love about these events, without the things I find obnoxious. I made a lot of friends and connections, was fed VERY good food, and if my experience with borrowed gear is any indication, Snow Peak is well worth the hype. I am very much hoping to get to partner more with these folks once the campfield is open and running.

There's no time for downtime right now, though. I'm back in Portland later this week for several classes, and I have less than three weeks before I'm on the road to Missouri again for my fall visit. In between now and then I have several writing projects due, including the first deliverables for The Everyday Naturalist, plus various other tasks around the home and farm. Things will slow down once we get closer to the holidays, but for now it's all go, all the time!

#camping #forests #Wings Over Willapa #Willapa National Wildlife Refuge #Washington #Oregon #Snow Peak #Snow Peak Way #old growth forest

8 notes · View notes