Hiking Women Quotes

Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey−fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean−mindedness which she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers−out of unorthodoxy.

But the truth is, I want to be some woman's work boots, not her high heels." "Work boots?" What was sexy about that? And did women have work boots? "Yeah. You know, the boots she pulls out when she wants to get down and dirty, hiking or gardening or boating or painting the kitchen. The ones she relies on and trusts and lives her life hard and good and on her terms in. Her favorites.

Why don't you like girls?" Nicky looked startled by the interruption, but he rallied quickly and made a face. "They're so soft." Neil thought about Renee's bruised knuckles, Dan's fierce spirit, and Allison holding her ground on the court a week after Seth's death. He thought about his mother standing unflinching in the face of his father's violent anger and her ruthlessly leaving bodies in their wake. He felt compelled to say, "Some of the strongest people I've known are women." "What? Oh, no," Nicky hurried to say. "I mean literally soft. Too many curves, see? I feel like my hands would slide right off. It's totally not my thing. I like…" He drew a box with his fingers as he searched for words. "Erik. Erik's perfect. He's a total outdoors junkie, rock climbing and hiking and mountain biking, all that awful bug-infested fresh-air stuff. But oh my god, you should see what it does to his body. He's like this, all hard edges." He drew another box. "He's stronger than I am, and I like that. I feel like I could lean on him all day and he wouldn't break a sweat.

The clamor of 'What have I gotten myself into?' was a mighty shout. It could not be drowned out. The only possible distraction was my vigilant search for rattlesnakes. I expected one around every bend, ready to strike. The landscape was made for them, it seemed. And also for mountain lions and wilderness-savvy serial killers. But I wasn't thinking of them. It was a deal I'd made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn't long before I actually wasn't afraid.

I like my rough edges. Smooth women are too easy to climb. I don’t like easy. I want a man willing to hike mountains for me, or I don’t want a man at all.

Of course women's walking is often construed as performance rather than transport, with the implication that women walk not to see but to be seen, not for their own experience but for that of a male audience, which means that they are asking for whatever attention they receive.

How easily such a thing can become a mania, how the most normal and sensible of women once this passion to be thin is upon them, can lose completely their sense of balance and proportion and spend years dealing with this madness.

Within forty minutes, the voice inside my head was screaming, WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO? I tried to ignore it, to hum as I hiked, though humming proved too difficult to do while also panting and moaning in agony and trying to remain hunched in that remotely upright position while also propelling myself forward when I felt like a building with legs.

Just before his lips reached hers, she jerked her head back to whip it forward into his nose. A Glasgow kiss. Distinct cracking sounded. With his nose pouring blood, he squeezed her upper arms, "Holly, what the fuck—" Using all her strength, she hiked her knee up between his legs. His hands flew to cup his groin as his knees met the ground. "You're right, Cadeon." She dusted off her hands. "That really was fun.

Few things in this world evoke scrotum-shriveling fear in a man like a group of frowning women, enraged to the point of atypical silence, ambling toward him with an obvious agenda.

Walking in solitude fixes nothing, but it leads you to the place where you can identify the malady—see the wound's true form and nature—and then discern the proper medicine. My malady was submission. The symptom: my compliance. The antidote was loud clear boundaries.

You know, the cure for all this talk is really a good dose of incompetent government. You get that alternative and you'll never put Singapore together again: Humpty Dumpty cannot be put together again... my asset values will disappear, my apartments will be worth a fraction of what they were, my ministers' jobs will be in peril, their security will be at risk and their women will become maids in other people's countries, foreign workers. I cannot have that!" - Justifying million-dollar pay hike for Singapore ministers

We were all tired after hiking and were half asleep, sitting in a semicircle around the fireplace in the cabin, wearing big sweaters and woolen socks. The only sounds you could hear were the stew boiling, the sparks from the fireplace, and someone having a sip of mulled wine. Then one of my friends broke the silence. “Could this be any more hygge?” he asked rhetorically. “Yes,” one of the women said after a moment. “If there was a storm raging outside.” We all nodded.

Although I was reared on a junkyard by parents who did not waste time hiking or camping, I knew pine trees and pitcher plants, bobcats and brown thrashers, as my people.

When pressed, hunters who claim that they just want “to be out in the wilderness,” will admit that the kill is essential—or at least the hope of a kill. As it turns out, there is no correlation between hunting and hiking, climbing, backpacking, kayaking, or any other outdoor activity. Hunters do not purposefully linger in the woods after a kill, but quickly begin the process of preparing to head home with the corpse. For hunters, the kill is the climax—the most important moment. They are not driving into the woods (or sometimes actually walking) for the sake of beauty, but in the hope of a kill.

It was a deal I’d made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn’t long before I actually wasn’t afraid.

I like my rough edges. Smooth women are too easy to climb. I don’t like easy. I want a man willing to hike mountains for me, or I don’t want a man at all.

I was the director of my life, it was already true, and I would soon lead myself to my dreamed-of destinations. It was the task of my one thousand miles of solitude.

they’re going to blame the sorcerer for both those things as well as the hike in Calgary’s transit fares, middle-aged women wearing jeans that barely cover their asses, and SciFi canceling The Dresden Files.

It was a deal I'd made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn't long before I actually wasn't afraid. I was working too hard to be afraid.

People disappear hiking all the time, legitimately,” Rambam says. “In my opinion, that’s a great way to disappear. Especially if it’s a young or middle-aged female, because women are snatched off hiking trails all the time for real, and raped and killed and the body hidden. That’s semibelievable.

Guys that set off to hike around the world are a dime a dozen in California. Every day in this state women tell divorce judges, “He walked to the corner convenience store for a pack of cigarettes and decided to keep going, all the way around the world, and here is the postcard he sent to let me know.

I made a conscious effort to name my needs and desires. To carefully listen to and accurately identify what I felt. Hunger, exhaustion, cold, lower-back ache, thirst. The ephemeral pangs: wistfulness and loneliness. Rest fixed most things. Sleep was my sweet reward. I treated bedtime as both incentive and sacrament.

Some days I even think, Maybe being a witch isn’t so bad. When they were burned at the stake it was for being independent and strong-minded, for knowing how to cure illnesses with herbs, for hiking around in the woods to collect said herbs, and for being sexually uninhibited. Independent, wise, vigorous, outdoorsy, and sexy. I aspire.

More than six thousand people reported which sporting activities would make a member of the opposite sex more attractive. Results revealed that 57 percent of women found climbing attractive, making it the sexiest sport from a female perspective. This was closely followed by extreme sports (56 percent), soccer (52 percent), and hiking (51 percent). At the bottom of the list came aerobics and golf, with just 9 percent and 13 percent of the vote, respectively. In contrast, men were most attracted to women who did aerobics (70 percent), followed by those who took yoga (65 percent), and those who went to the gym (64 percent). At the bottom of their list came golf (18 percent), rugby (6 percent), and bodybuilding (5 percent). Women’s choices appeared to reflect the type of psychological qualities that they find attractive, such as bravery and a willingness to take on challenges, while men appeared to be looking for a woman who was physically fit without appearing muscle-bound. No one, it seemed, was attracted to golfers.

It was a deal I’d made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn’t long before I actually wasn’t afraid. I was working too hard to be afraid.

Sugar,” Jake said, “I’ve wanted you since the first time you sassed me.” “I wanted to punch you in the nose.” He laughed and kissed her forehead. “My advertising skills left something to be desired.” “You rooked three unsuspecting women.” “I know.” He kissed her lips, taking his time. “I’m offering you a chance for payback.” “And that payback is sex?” He smelled awesome, like a hot, sexy man who’d been in a kitchen trying to please her. Or maybe please himself. With Jake, you never knew. He pulled her tighter against him, kissing her slowly, thoroughly. “I’d do my damnedest to make you a happy woman the second time I sold you something.” Sugar looked into Jake’s eyes. He was too hot, too sexy, almost taking her breath away. “I think your gravy’s burning.” “Nice try. I turned it off.” He tugged her hips against him, kissing her as if he’d never tasted anything as good as her mouth. Sugar moaned and let Jake hike her up on his waist. “If I’m moving too fast, say so. I’ll back off and feed you the best shrimp and steak dinner you’ve ever had. Just good friends breaking bread together.” Sugar gasped as Jake sank his teeth gently into her lower lip. Heat and warmth filled her, stealing her desire to tell him no about anything. “I’m not really that hungry.” His smile turned dangerous. “I am.

Self-preservation and determination meant she could get away with anything. As her law-abiding, conventionally minded daughter, I secretly envied her this. She was not the clinging-vine type, nor one who could coax sugar from a lemon. Hers was the frontal attack with no inhibitions. She told the Nazis you could not trust Hitler, and they let her go. In the days of chaperones, she hitch-hiked a ride on a French destroyer along the coast of Crete; 'All quite proper, I had my cook with me,' she explained.

At Kokubunji Station, a group of elderly people dressed in hiking gear got on. There were ten of them altogether, five men and five women in their late sixties and early seventies. They carried backpacks and wore hats and were chattering away like schoolchildren. All carried water bottles, some strapped to their waists, others tucked in the pockets of their backpacks. Tengo wondered if he could possibly reach that age with such a sense of enjoyment. Then he shook his head. No way. He imagined these old folks standing proudly on some mountaintop, drinking from their water bottles.

It was a deal I’d made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. And I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn’t long before I actually wasn’t afraid.

Less apparent at the time, but in many ways more problematic, were deep-seated structural developments in the work force. By the late 1960s millions of baby boomers were already crowding the job market. Ever-higher percentages of women were also looking for employment outside the home. A rise in immigrant workers, made possible after 1968 by the immigration law of 1965, did not affect most labor markets but further intensified popular unease. These developments combined to hike the numbers seeking work by 10.1 million between 1964 and 1970, or 1.6 million per year. Many of these people landed in the service sector of the economy—as employees in fast-food chains, discount retail outlets, hospitals, and nursing homes—or as clerical or maintenance workers. Most of these jobs tended to be part-time, offering low pay and benefits.80

She browned onions and garlic, and from the pot on the windowsill, chopped a few winter-sad leaves of tarragon. The smell was green and strong, and she thought of spring. Spring in Dijon, when she and Al would hike into the mountains with the Club Alpin, the old women forever chiding her tentative steps, her newborn French: la petite violette, violette américaine. She would turn back to Al, annoyed, and he would laugh. Hardly his delicate flower. When they stopped for lunch, it was Mary Frances with the soufflé of calves' brains, whatever was made liver or marrow, ordering enough strong wine that everyone was laughing. The way home, the women let her be. If she wanted calves' brains now, she wouldn't even know where to begin to look or how to pay. She and Al seemed to be living on vegetables and books, tobacco, quiet. She blanched a bunch of spinach and chopped it. She beat eggs with the tarragon, heated the skillet once again. There was a salad of avocados and oranges. There was a cold bottle of ale and bread. Enough, for tonight.

When pressed, hunters who claim that they just want “to be out in the wilderness,” will admit that the kill is essential—or at least the hope of a kill. As it turns out, there is no correlation between hunting and hiking, climbing, backpacking, kayaking, or any other outdoor activity. Hunters do not purposefully linger in the woods after a kill, but quickly begin the process of preparing to head home with the corpse. For hunters, the kill is the climax—the most important moment. They are not driving into the woods (or sometimes actually walking) for the sake of beauty, but in the hope of a kill. The kill can be likened to male orgasm. Sex is traditionally thought to be over when the man has an orgasm, and the hunt is never so decisively over as it is after a successful kill. As a teacher, I impatiently listened to a young man matter-of-factly defend the importance of hunting because he found the experience “orgasmic.” From his point of view, all that mattered was how exciting and wonderful the experience was for him. The “side affects” of the man’s preferred action—the experience of the deer (and the woman)—are deemed to be so irrelevant that they are not even mentioned.

I brushed my teeth like a crazed lunatic as I examined myself in the mirror. Why couldn’t I look the women in commercials who wake up in a bed with ironed sheets and a dewy complexion with their hair perfectly tousled? I wasn’t fit for human eyes, let alone the piercing eyes of the sexy, magnetic Marlboro Man, who by now was walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I could hear the clomping of his boots. The boots were in my bedroom by now, and so was the gravelly voice attached to them. “Hey,” I heard him say. I patted an ice-cold washcloth on my face and said ten Hail Marys, incredulous that I would yet again find myself trapped in the prison of a bathroom with Marlboro Man, my cowboy love, on the other side of the door. What in the world was he doing there? Didn’t he have some cows to wrangle? Some fence to fix? It was broad daylight; didn’t he have a ranch to run? I needed to speak to him about his work ethic. “Oh, hello,” I responded through the door, ransacking the hamper in my bathroom for something, anything better than the sacrilege that adorned my body. Didn’t I have any respect for myself? I heard Marlboro Man laugh quietly. “What’re you doing in there?” I found my favorite pair of faded, soft jeans. “Hiding,” I replied, stepping into them and buttoning the waist. “Well, c’mere,” he said softly. My jeans were damp from sitting in the hamper next to a wet washcloth for two days, and the best top I could find was a cardinal and gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt from my ‘SC days. It wasn’t dingy, and it didn’t smell. That was the best I could do at the time. Oh, how far I’d fallen from the black heels and glitz of Los Angeles. Accepting defeat, I shrugged and swung open the door. He was standing there, smiling. His impish grin jumped out and grabbed me, as it always did. “Well, good morning!” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist. His lips settled on my neck. I was glad I’d spritzed myself with Giorgio. “Good morning,” I whispered back, a slight edge to my voice. Equal parts embarrassed at my puffy eyes and at the fact that I’d slept so late that day, I kept hugging him tightly, hoping against hope he’d never let go and never back up enough to get a good, long look at me. Maybe if we just stood there for fifty years or so, wrinkles would eventually shield my puffiness. “So,” Marlboro Man said. “What have you been doing all day?” I hesitated for a moment, then launched into a full-scale monologue. “Well, of course I had my usual twenty-mile run, then I went on a hike and then I read The Iliad. Twice. You don’t even want to know the rest. It’ll make you tired just hearing about it.” “Uh-huh,” he said, his blue-green eyes fixed on mine. I melted in his arms once again. It happened any time, every time, he held me. He kissed me, despite my gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt. My eyes were closed, and I was in a black hole, a vortex of romance, existing in something other than a human body. I floated on vapors. Marlboro Man whispered in my ear, “So…,” and his grip around my waist tightened. And then, in an instant, I plunged back to earth, back to my bedroom, and landed with a loud thud on the floor. “R-R-R-R-Ree?” A thundering voice entered the room. It was my brother Mike. And he was barreling toward Marlboro Man and me, his arms outstretched. “Hey!” Mike yelled. “W-w-w-what are you guys doin’?” And before either of us knew it, Mike’s arms were around us both, holding us in a great big bear hug. “Well, hi, Mike,” Marlboro Man said, clearly trying to reconcile the fact that my adult brother had his arms around him. It wasn’t awkward for me; it was just annoying. Mike had interrupted our moment. He was always doing that.

While his patience frayed, in the end, it was Meena who snapped first. Whether it was the fact a woman touched him, hanging on to his arm, gushing at how beautiful the wedding was, or the fact that Meena couldn’t handle the frustration of the last few days, it didn’t matter. With a snarled, “Get your hands off my husband!” Meena sliced through the crowd, skirts hiked. She leaped the last few feet and soared through the air to tackle the lioness at his side, who, as it turned out, was Loni’s cousin. But at the time, all he knew was his new wife was in full-on jealous mode and determined to scalp a wedding guest. As omega, Leo should have jumped in to calm the hot tempers— and stop the hair pulling. At the very least, he should have definitely pried Meena off the lioness before she got blood on her white dress. But… Well… He kind of liked it. While Leo had dated his fair share of women, he’d never had one show such a possessive side before. Definitely never had one go after a girl for daring to flirt with him. He didn’t know what it said about him, the fact that he enjoyed her jealous outburst. Feeling kind of smug about it, he took a moment to bask. Hers. Yes, he was hers, and she was his, at least on paper. Perhaps it was time to complete the bond and truly mate so that everyone would know they belonged to each other. Time to claim each other. First, though, he needed to pry her off the other woman before she literally spilled blood. Winding an arm around her middle, he lifted Meena, even as she continued to snarl at the woman on the ground. “Touch my man again and I will rip that hand from you and slap you with it!” Ah, the romantic words of a woman in lust. Tossing Meena over his shoulder, he ignored the amused glances of the crowd as he carted her away from the party. “I wasn’t done, Pookie,” she grumbled. “I’ve got better plans for that energy,” was his reply. And yes, she announced to all that, “Leo’s finally going to debauch me.” She wasn’t the only one fist pumping. The other ladies in the pride were cheering too while Leo fought not to blush, and poor Peter, he made a beeline for the bar. However, embarrassment wasn’t enough to stop him.

It seems Poppy was right about the mosh pit, after all. And there she is, right in the middle of it. The flowers bounce along the grasping hands to tumble to the dance floor, where the women scramble for it like football players going after a greased fumble. Caylee hikes up her dress and scoots back from the incoming wave of women with a shout encouraging them to ‘get it!’ It’s a heap of tulle, lace, and pretty dresses, but Poppy squirms over and around them, dodging and weaving before popping up with the slightly crushed flowers in her hands. “Boo-yah!” She holds it up high in triumph, and the other women laugh, instantly realizing that they were going ham over a dozen roses they could buy at the grocery store.

A shirtless photo by the beach – this shows off your body and gives you a better reason to be shirtless than posing for a bathroom selfie would (note: probably better to leave this pic out if you’re not in great shape yet). -          A travel/adventurous photo – this shows your adventurous side (can be a in a foreign country or even just going for a hike).

the two women donned the traditional dress of their respective homelands and hiked farther up the glacier, till they could see both the ocean and the high ice. And there they performed a poem they’d composed, a cry from angry and engaged hearts about the overwhelming fact of their lives. The

The first man I dated was just the relief I needed from stress. He was a very good dancer. In fact, he was very much a party person. I was ready for some fun. He liked driving to the ocean in his fully equipped, gleaming white camper. There he would hike around the area and spend some time just chilling. We dated only a few months before getting engaged. Yup. I did it again. I jumped at the first relationship that made me feel good. Then I discovered that he had another girlfriend along with me. (p. 49)

When they were burned at the stake it was for being independent and strong-minded, for knowing how to cure illnesses with herbs, for hiking around in the woods to collect said herbs.

When in doubt, don't think too much, and walk around the block in your hiking boots.

Porcupines will frequent shelters as they like to gnaw on the salt-encrusted edge of the platform floor – exactly where hikers tend to sit and congregate with their salty legs hanging over the edge.

So demanding. Are you this demanding with your other women?” “That was jealousy, sweetheart. I can admit it, unlike some,” he says, wiping something from my black dress. “How about this?” he croons, his fingers now on my lips. “I’ll hike up your dress, taste that sweet pussy, and you can take a photo. And if you feel the need to get jealous again, you can look at it. Fuck, you can even send it to whoever you think you need to be jealous of.” He winks. “You didn’t like my idea. I thought it was rather clever.” He smiles and he starts the car. “You just want to go down on me again.” “Fucking truth.

Hall became one of the SOE’s most tenacious spymasters, building a network of agents in Lyon, France. Pursued by the Gestapo, she hiked over the Pyrenees despite the impediment of a wooden leg she’d named Cuthbert. When she radioed back to SOE headquarters in London that Cuthbert was giving her trouble, the recipient, unaware she had blown one foot off in a prewar hunting accident and used a prosthesis, thought Cuthbert was a male companion. “Have him eliminated,” came the radio reply. —

My wife also contributed to my poison ivy education. She taught me women have an aversion to 'red, bumpy men' and are not the least bit aroused by any part of the male anatomy which happens to be infected. However, this was not a problem. My infestation was so severe, the act of scratching produced orgasmic waves of delight that made me consider scheduling weekly au naturel pilgrimages through lush, rolling fields of the devil vine.

...he will accompany us on a hike in the hills, leaping and whizzing back and forth, and coming when called as well as a dog. It is just that the organism, the whole pattern of nerve and muscle, is more complex and intelligent than logical systems of arithmetic, geometry and grammar - which are in fact nothing but inferior ritual. Life itself dances, for what else are trees, ferns, butterflies, and snakes but elaborate forms of dancing? Even wood and bones show, in their structure, the characteristic patterns of flowing water, which (as Lao-tzu pointed out in 400 B.C.) derives its incredible power by following gravity and seeking that "lowest level which all men abhor." When dance I do not think-count my steps, and some women say I have no sense of rhythm, but I have a daughter who (without ever having taken lessons in dancing) can follow me as if she were my shadow or I were hers. The whole secret of life and of creative energy consists in flowing with gravity. Even when he leaps and bounces our cat is going with it. This is the way the whole earth and everything in the universe beehives.* But man is making a mess of the earth be- *Harrumph! Excuse the pun, but it is important, because bees live in hexagonal as distinct from quadrilateral structures, and this is the natural way in which all things, such as bubbles and pebbles, congregate, nestling into each other by gravity. It will follow, because 2 x 6 is 12, that - as Buckminster Fuller has pointed out - as number-system to the base 12 (duodecimal) is closer to nature than one to the base of 10 (decimal). For 12 is divisible by both 2 and 3, whereas 10 is not. After all, we use the base 12 for measuring circles and spheres and time, and so can "think circles" around people who use only meters. The world is better duodecimal than decimated.

One of my cats was coughing and sneezing. She looked as if she had trouble breathing and took to hiding under a desk. Would she survive the night? Is it just a cold or something much worse like cat leukemia? The vet announced it only a virus – an answer to prayer.   On a four-hour hike with my mother, two aunts and my brother’s mother-in-law, the average age was 65. The terrain was full of obstacles with fallen trees, raspberry bush thorns, and slippery logs. We made the entire trip without incidence – an answer to prayer.   My daughter had fallen from the monkey bars and landed with an audible crack from her left arm. She cried and complained that she could not move her elbow. Hours (and a full set of x-rays) later showed that it was only a minor fracture – an answer to prayer.   If I were to start a journal, it would fill up rather quickly. I find God’s faithfulness inexhaustible. He is a caring, compassionate and concerned Father. How great is His faithfulness.       Prayer is security, having a connection to God. ~ Andi Harris         * Did you enjoy these devotionals? Please take a moment to write a review on Amazon. Share the blessings.   *   Sign up for Kimberley’s free newsletter for regular updates and offers. I promise I won’t share your email address with anyone else. And just for signing up, I’ll send you the devotional, Where Family Meets Faith   *   Visit Kimberley Payne’s blog for weekly posts and other interesting stuff to encourage women.   *   Where else to find Kimberley online: Facebook Twitter *   If you like these devotionals, visit Under the Cover of Prayer blog for more of the same.

It’s tempting to turn Clarke into a caricature or intellectual straw man: an easy grab in an attempt to show the ridiculous sexism inherent in Victorian ideology. Nevertheless, his theories became pervasive in American thought and defined expectations about access to wilderness for generations. Multiple outdoor organizations prohibited female membership, for example, including the influential hiking group the White Mountain Club. The club’s founder, John M. Gould, was a bank clerk and amateur Civil War historian. In his How to Camp Out, first published in 1877, Gould advised young men to view their expeditions as regimental exercises: hikes were best considered “marches”; male camping pals were instructed to form “companies” with clear duties and timetables. Most marches, he warned, would be too difficult for ladies, particularly if routes included loose rocks or tangles of low-growing trees. And because women ought not stray far from home, sites where they might camp must be chosen accordingly. Any overnight locations should be such that stoves could be delivered to make women more comfortable, along with discarded doors that women could stand upon while dressing. Sleeping outside was out of the question during any kind of precipitation; instead, schoolhouses or sawmills should be located as shelter.

In 1975, Dobson took it upon himself to articulate the “critical difference” between men and women. “Males and females differ biochemically, anatomically, and emotionally,” he asserted. “In truth, they are unique in every cell of their bodies.” He portrayed the distinction in stark terms: Men liked to “hunt and fish and hike in the wilderness” while women preferred to “stay at home and wait for them.” Men played sports as women watched, “yawning on the sidelines.” But perhaps the most profound difference between men and women, according to Dobson, was their source of self-esteem: “Men derive self-esteem by being respected; women feel worthy when they are loved.

Papa always included me in the same activities as my brothers, from Alpine hikes to carpentry. But Franklin women are meant to use their intellectual gifts for the betterment of mankind through charity, governmental positions, good works, and of course, a suitable marriage. Not a salaried position. After all, we needn’t undertake paid labor to support ourselves; trusts take care of that, as do our male family members who work in financial firms, bankers all.

Some days I even think, Maybe being a witch isn’t so bad. When they were burned at the stake it was for being independent and strong-minded, for knowing how to cure illnesses with herbs, for hiking around in the woods to collect said herbs, and for being sexually uninhibited.

From the moment Seadon set foot on this earth, we set our intention to build a sustainable outdoor brand and product experience that echoed the environment. One that worked with nature, not against it. All Seadon fabrics, materials and packaging are made from recycled resources to limit our - and your - environmental footprint. Operating as an official Climate Neutral company with WRAP compliance, we're all for being human-kind so nature's not left behind. We specialize entirely in men's and women's sustainable clothing that's ethical and 100% eco-friendly. From hiking pants to sustainable t-shirts to tote bags and more, we're committed wholeheartedly to our customers as well as our beautiful planet.

Besides being a professor at a prestigious women’s college in New England, Aunt Gert had worked for the United Nations on a special council on world religions during the Cold War. She’d hiked the Atlas Mountains and lived with Bedouins and studied the religious practices of remote tribes along the Amazon.

If I could mark clearly, convincingly and consistently what was good for me and also what was bad—if I could say yes and also no, as if it were the law—it would become my law.

Channels I Watch Often Darwin on the Trail (One of my two favorites) Flat Broke Outside Homemade Wanderlust (The other of my two favorites) Technomadia.com Books Read and Reread The Backpacker’s Field Manual, Rick Curtis Step By Step: An Introduction to Walking the Appalachian Trail, Appalachian Trail Conservancy The Best About Backpacking, A Sierra Club Totebook, Edited by Densise Van Lear The Modern Backpackers Handbook, Glenn Randall Lipsmackin’ Backpackin’, Christine and Tim Conners A Women’s Guide to the Wilderness: Your Complete Outdoor Handbook, Ruby McConnell Wild, Cheryl Strayed Girl in the Woods, Aspen Matis A Walk in the Woods, Bill Bryson Grandma Gatewood’s Walk, Ben Montgomery Journey on the Crest, Cindy Ross A Blistered Kind of Love: One Couple’s Trial by Trail, Angela and Duffy Ballard Appalachian Trials, Zach Davis Almost Somewhere, Suzanne Davis How to create more from what you already have

She was using the metal detector on Thursday morning, running it along the banks of the creek, when a pair of men’s hiking boots appeared at the edge of her vision. Her gaze traveled up a set of long, nicely muscled legs encased in faded denim, past a worn leather belt, over a flat stomach that vee’d to a man’s wide chest. She must have been staring, because Call reached over and shut off the metal detector. “Hi,” she said lamely. He cleared his throat and she wondered if he was as nervous as she. “I saw you working your way along the creek. I figured I owed you an apology for…for what happened the other day.” He glanced over her head, then looked back into her face. “I don’t usually attack helpless women. I hope I didn’t scare you.” She was a lot of things that morning, but afraid of those burning-hot kisses wasn’t one of them. “No apology needed. What happened was my fault as much as yours. Why don’t we just chalk it up to an adrenal rush with nowhere to go?” He nodded and turned to leave. “Actually, I was thinking of coming over to your place,” she said, stopping him. “I never thanked you for saving me. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I’d probably be bear food by now.” His mouth edged into a faint half-smile. “I doubt it. You don’t really need to be afraid of them. Most of the time, bears leave you pretty much alone. You just need to use a little good judgment and be cautious whenever one’s near.” She studied his face, the chiseled lines and valleys, the square chin and solid jaw. There was something different this morning, but she couldn’t quite figure… “You shaved,” she blurted out, feeling like an idiot the instant the words let her mouth. His lips curved up. She remembered exactly the way they felt pressing into hers and a little sliver of heat trickled into her belly. “Believe it or not, I shave every once in a while.” “You look good.” God, did he. If she’d thought he was handsome before, now she realized how disturbingly attractive he was. “Do I?” A hint of color crept beneath the bones in his cheeks. “Then I guess I’ll have to do it more often.

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I think we all know this, just as we all know that it’s risky for young women to hitch-hike, travel alone, or go back to a strange man’s house.

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He had attended meetings of the Mothers’ Union, the Women’s Institute and the PCC. He had organised the flower rota, and typed up a timetable for the church wardens, the sidesmen, and the volunteers to clean and polish the brasses. He had edited the monthly issue of the parish magazine, continued with the weekly Bible study group, and run a series of confirmation classes. He had even taken a group of Scouts and Cubs on a hike, supervised the building of the Christmas crib, organised the carol singers and set up a search for a lost cat. At the same time he had continued his teaching at Corpus. Any visiting archdeacon, sent to check up on him, would have no cause for complaint, but Sidney knew that he was not at his best. He had not visited the sick as regularly as he had hoped, he was three weeks behind on his correspondence and he had not even begun to write the big Advent sermon which he was due to preach in King’s College Chapel.

Drink some water and rest for a bit before we go on. I’m amazed that a woman in your condition could make this hike at all.” She followed my suggestion, but as she worked her way down the steep path, she asked me, “So you are one of those men who think pregnancy is a ‘diseased state’? You can’t even bring yourself to say ‘pregnant,’ can you?” “I was afraid you’d consider it rude.” Even to myself, I sounded priggish. Tires and scared as she was, she still managed a small laugh. “It’s only rude because you think how I got this way is something shameful. Well-bred women shouldn’t be pregnant. Isn’t that true?” I thought over her words, and then had to laugh with her. “You make me think about how I think about things, Epiny. You’re one of the few people in my life who can make me do that.” “If we both live through this, I intend to do a lot more of it. At this rate, I fear I will never have time to scold you properly for how badly you treated me by concealing that you were still alive. I want you to know I’m putting it off until it’s more convenient. I have not forgiven you.” “There, through those trees—see it? That’s the stream.” I forced myself to add. “I probably don’t deserve to be forgiven for that. I don’t expect it.” She halted for an instant and then stumped her way down to the stream, complaining as she went. “And that is probably the only thing you could have said that would make me instantly forgive you, no matter how much you deserve to endure my disdain and contempt for, well, at least months!

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