Part One
I find Old Glory: A Voyage down the Mississippi
to be the most effective because of its engaging diction and atmosphere. His
road trip is told as if it is a thriller. He focuses on describing the
landscape more than his car and his mood, which makes it more about the area he
travelled to than himself: “The road sliced through a broken, hilly landscape
of forest, corn and cattle.”
The way he turns
his road trip into a thriller not only engages the reader in the story, but
also draws the reader into the situation he is in: “I twiddled my way through
the burble on the radio.” He makes himself sound superior to his surroundings,
which is necessary in travel literature, even vice-versa.
Part Two
After what a
madman might call “rest”, my father and I woke to prepare for our journey in
the darkness. Once we had eaten a mediocre breakfast, we walked into the chilly
night.
Endless wooden
steps began to mark a pathway through mountainous forest. Crickets spurred on
the walkers with their soothing chirps, as did frequent breaks. Each step
seemed like an arch-nemesis as we crawled up the beginnings of the peak.
Massive slabs of
rock painted the second section like a post-apocalyptic final frontier. Torn
ropes were our only support now, with a three thousand kilometre drop either
side. But as the steepness died down, we had nut bars to feed our hungry leg
and arm muscles.
With only half a
kilometre to go, frozen plants were illuminated by the beginnings of a sunrise.
The top of this mountain seemed like the end of the universe, like a rocky
heaven with clouds far below. “We’re so high,” we joked.
Half a kilometre
turned into a third as we dragged our dying legs over the desolate plateau of
frosted rock. Little cracks where slabs joined gave me comfort, providing me
with something to observe.
The peak was a
random arrangement of boulders into a wave shape. Ropes were draped down our
destination, although they were of little help.
After fifty
thousand photos were taken, we edged back down the peak. Then galumphed over
the plateau before I leaped down the steps.
The nut bars had
kicked in.
With little rest,
I sped down the forest, rocks and ridges I had climbed before. Pitcher plants
turned into signposts as rock turned to dirt. The vapour dripped on my
shoulders no more, because tropical air was in its place.
It was only when
I hopped on the coach that I realized how hard climbing Mount Kinabalu was.
