The awkward case of 'his or her'. Identify the word pairs with a common ancestor. Test your knowledge - and maybe learn something along the way. Do you know the person or title these quotes describe? Definition of in high places. Learn More about in high places.
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Share in high places. Resources for in high places Time Traveler! Explore the year a word first appeared. Dictionary Entries near in high places inhibition inhibitor in high dudgeon in high places in high spirits in high style in hock. If you are adventurous you can always take a donkey ride, but watch those corners! Your destination steps up the mountain! As you climb the steps take some time to look around. Near the bottom of the stairs there appears to be some exposure platforms. Farther up the stairs, one can trace where the ancient stairs and processional path must have gone.
As you walk imagine what it must have been like to have been in an ancient procession with colorful priests, musical instruments, and animals bearing the wood to burn the offering.
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One thing is for sure, incense was probably part of the ancient form of worship. Obelisk near the mountain top. As you reach the top of the mountain you will come to what is known as Attuf Ridge. On this ridge are two obelisks, such as are found in India. They are carved out of solid rock and are over 6 meters high. They have been noted as Nabataean as one of them still has the typical Nabataean style of haching etching on the side that is protected from the prevailing winds.
The picture on the right is taken from higher up looking down at the two obelisks. Notice how the mountain has been cleared away and a flat surface surrounds the obelisks. On the north side of the Attuf Ridge is a huge pile of stones and the remains of an ancient wall.
This is all that remains of an crusader castle. Often, as I have climbed through these ruins to continue up to the high place, I have wondered where the crusaders got all their stones from. I did 89 missions in Iraq. Not good for my marriage or my health. But it was my job, you know? Little Dave looked at me.
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I considered several answers, but decided the question was rhetorical. You go through 20 years of all kinds of hell with your brothers, and you expect to retire with them. Dave leaned over and picked up a small rock. He flipped it down the hill and it rolled and bounced until it hit a tree trunk. Dead in a fight, medical discharge, divorce, suicide. The color drained from the valley and the air stood still. The deer by the river was in the open now, but the muted light faded him into a blocky blur.
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I knew it was ending bad. I knew the steel inside Humvees had rattled his brain. I knew his chute failed to open on a drop, and his spare slowed him down just enough to save his life. I knew about him leading his team out of an open field with mortars raining down around them. I knew he was running, yelling at the new guys to move, move, move, when a mortar hit in front of him, lifting him up, throwing him back 10 feet.
Dave laughs when he describes opening his eyes, unable to hear but seeing two of his men yelling at him to get up. Well, he thought, if they want me to get up, I must still have my legs. Fluid seeped from his ears after that concussion. We sat, quiet, for a long while. We were submerged now in the shadow and it was cold. When we both shivered, Little Dave stood and walked to a big pine and stripped a handful of needles from a branch. The sound of it filled the space around us, and we stepped into it together.
The deer feeding along the river probably raised his head and looked our way, then lowered it again, keeping his big fuzzy ears pointed at us as he nipped at the grass. That night Little Dave fed the stove until the smoke stack glowed red, and Mike stirred a big pan of stew. No one felt the need to speak. I was looking at two of the toughest men alive, I thought, but something was missing—the swagger, the bravado, the pride.
It had been chiseled off by combat, maybe, or stripped away by the sand and heat, or by the loss of friends or children in the crossfire. With that crust gone, there was a softness about them that I tried to define but could not nail down. Fatigue, maybe, or a numbness from years of stress.
Then it came clear to me that what appeared to be softness was honesty, every wall knocked down, every filter burned through. Each seemed to be at peace knowing they were all the man they would ever be, and it was enough. He had slept with it for the last five nights. Maybe I was looking at some advanced form of courage.
Aside from the bravado, something else was missing. My heart dropped and my mind raced back through the week, through days of walking and talking, through our toasts over Irish whiskey, back to the moment we shook hands in Stanley. Not once that week had either of them talked about killing a man in combat.
The hurt looks on their faces came back to me, rain drops hanging off their noses. And I saw, for the first time, Hemingway in his farmhouse just down the road in Ketchum, alone, pressing his favorite shotgun to his forehead. The knot in my gut returned as we stepped into our last afternoon together. I pointed up the mountain and looked at them.
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They assured me they were good, of course, so we left the comfort of the trail and climbed. The wind calmed but the snow continued to fall. Gotta keep moving, his instincts told him. We yearned for the ease of the trail as we climbed, and every lip we peeked over turned out to be another false horizon. You guys can pick me up on your way down. He studied the area then backed into a downed tree, pulling brush in and around him, laying prone with his rifle propped on his pack. Mike and I churned up the mountain through fresh powder as more fell.
When we stopped to strip off a layer of clothes I caught a glimpse of a garish tattoo on his shoulder.
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After they retired me, I drank a bottle of whiskey a day for a year. My wife told me to knock it off or she was leaving, so I knocked it off. I keep these ugly things to remind me. We got that going for us. We cut the tracks of a good buck and followed it until it turned downhill.
We both looked uphill and pointed, thinking the same thought—we were hunting a bull or the top of this mountain, whichever came first. Most never see it. Tim Hankins never did. Mike took a few steps and stopped. He adjusted his rifle sling so the rifle rested higher on his shoulder. He took a deep breath, looked up through the branches, and exhaled. Light was fading as we crested a ridge and stepped into the tracks of a lone bull. I knelt and touched the edge of a track.
It flaked off like flour and fell into the print. We slipped our rifles from our shoulders, nodded at each other and stepped forward along his trail. It led us to a half-hearted rub on a pine and a melting pee spot, then meandered over the top of the mountain and down its back side. Cueing off each other, we slowed our pace, certain each move forward would uncover the bull behind a tree trunk or deadfall. He was now walking with purpose. They led us toward a rock outcropping that jutted off the eastern face of the mountain.
We followed them onto the rocks and up to the edge and stopped. We looked left, right, behind, then over the edge. I decided to circle around and drop down to the base of the rock ledge while Mike went back up to search along the ridge. I looked up at the rocks above me and down at the snow.
I picked up a rock and flung it down the mountainside. It skipped off a boulder and thudded against an old hollow log, striking a chord that reverberated like the last note of a sad song. Why did I do this to them? Why would I drag them through an elk hunt in the mountains? I crested the ridge where I expected to find him but saw only ragged tree stumps and stubborn, crooked trees clinging to the slopes.
Then I saw Mike, a stubborn snag, standing still and uneven among the stumps. The scene was serene, ethereal. The moment passed, and he was alive to me again, and strong, and stubborn, at peace. Some light lingered in the clouds. I reached up and pulled my stocking cap off my head. As the air wicked heat from my damp hair, my spirit lifted. Maybe we never were. The next morning, they would pack and thank me, and I would protest because I was also grateful. With grim resolve, Little Dave would admit he was a guest. I would glance down at the fierce grip with which he held his shemagh and shake my head.