A Trek to Nowhere :: Example Personal Narratives

A Trek to Nowhere         Ã‚  Ã‚   The occasional banging of an oar on the edge of a canoe is the only significant noise that accompanies us on our way to the waterfall.   The boys had been fishing by the waterfall and mentioned its existence to us, so we've decided to check it out.   There are twenty-one of us on the Bureau Valley High School Science Club's trip to Boundary Waters, a wilderness camping and canoeing area in northern Minnesota.   A small group of us enjoys exploring the terrain, especially as opposed to the monotony of fishing, and we are now on a waterfall mission.        Ã‚  Ã‚   It is a gentle June morning, still a bit chilly for we Illinoians.   We are subject to erratic periods of sunlight, as the sun discards one garment after another, unsatisfied with her immense cumulus wardrobe.   There are only tattered bits of mist still hanging over the lake; most of it has already noiselessly dissolved.   The breeze cajoles straying wisps of my hair, and as we row steadily toward the waterfall I consider the serenity of the wilderness: the complete peacefulness.   I revel in the absence of snorting mufflers, rambunctious screeching tires, innumerable Super Wal-Marts, and ever-encroaching subdivisions.  Ã‚     Ã‚  Ã‚   My appreciation grows as I compare the previous year's vacation to this year's at Boundary Waters.   Not that the Badlands weren't a sight to see -- they were.   But the whole Badlands/Blackhills area was literally infested with tourist-related billboards (all displaying nearly the same overly-enthusiastic tidings) and informational pamphlets (in every public building, including the podiatrist's office).   And no telling which pamphlets were fact and which were part fabrication.   Wall, South Dakota, was a choice example of the tourist-nabbing chaos.   Along the interstate, approximately every five minutes, billboards would proclaim the number of miles remaining before Wall, South Dakota, as if speedometers didn't exist.   Upon arriving in Wall, one's hopes were treacherously dashed.   Wall was a tourist town like any other, only it was larger, and junk was more prolific.   It was a frail excuse after such a dramatic drumroll via the billboar ds, signs, and pamphlets.      Ã‚  Ã‚   A loon's bittersweet call imposes on my reflections, and I realize that we have reached our destination.