It’s easy to be awed by a beautiful sunset or majestic mountain, but how do you describe that experience in words so someone else can see and feel what you experienced. Let’s see your description of a waterfall or sunrise or animal or…you name it…your favorite experience of natural beauty. Here are two descriptions that might get you started.
Taken from Mountain Rules, by Joe Novara
Mackenzie stepped out on the porch of her cabin. She felt much better after a shower and shampoo. With her contacts in place she strolled down to the main road in camp and made a complete circle studying the high wall of hills and mountains that surrounded the valley. TorreValley.
She felt like a tiny bug in the bottom of a bathtub. Up where the faucet would be was a huge patch of snow—a glacier on a mountain that melted into a stream that ran down a jumble of rocks to the valley floor where it twisted through the camp and eventually widened into three lakes that hugged the road into town.
She did a few deep knee bends, stretched and loosened her shoulders before breaking into a slow jog. I’ll just run a couple of miles today. Get some of that cramped-up airplane ride out of my system.
By the time she got past the parking lot and out to the gate, Mackenzie was breathing hard. She bent over, hands on her knees sucking air. What’s this all about? she wondered. I know I’m in good shape. Then she remembered. Altitude. I’m at 7000 feet. The air is thinner. Have to give myself a couple of days.
Here’s an example of a description of the Pacific Ocean.
Taken from, Time and Past Time, by Joe Novara (an adult novel)
The motor roared to life drowning further talk. The boat, powering through the four-foot breakers on its way to open water, raised a fine mist of spindrift causing Emily’s sun warmed legs to break out in delicious goose bumps. Facing front she closed her eyes drawing in the salt laden air, enjoying the whip and tug of ear-length hair dancing in the wind lash. That’s what she had come for, freedom from boots and coats and gloves and scarves.
As soon as they rounded the protective arm of the bay, the water rose around them like drunken foothills, staggering, lurching, leaning into one another. On the crest of one wave Emily glimpsed another boat, a fisherman tucked into the draws and hollows of the majestic ocean rolling all the way from Japan.
Ramon, steering extension tucked under his arm, watched Emily’s fascination with the wave action against the towering headland—the giant ooze of bottle green surging up the black fissured rock face, hanging for a count-one moment, then boiling down to fill the temporary valley below. I never get tired of watching that, he mused. All that power. Been doing that, like forever. Gonna keep doing it after I’m gone. And that blond lady, she’s digging it too. She gets it. Not like a lot of my customers who talk the whole time like they’re at the hair dresser’s or something.
Twenty minutes later, the launch hooked 90° in the washing machine chop caused by thousands of miles of sea cleaving against a bird-splattered cliff face to settle in the gentle roll of the tiny bay ringed by Manzanillo beach. Ramon cut the motor, swung an anchor over the gunwale and waved his arm over the rugged, ragged shoreline and reefs below as if to say, ‘we’re here, have at it snorkelers.’