Trafika Europe 3 - Latvian Sojourn

direction, we discover orientation signs, hidden with pine boughs. A cardboard sign reading “CP-8” – there is a small map and a symbol, our goal is marked with a colorful arrow. Around my waist, under my T-shirt, our team’s flag is twisted and tied into a knot. We pass it around, taking turns carrying it. The fake silk of its cloth soaks up the childish salt of our sweat. Now, in my memory I notice that despite the sweat and grime, my body did not give off a scent. And so… ...woods, pines, firs. Cedars. Sharp green needles and wide leaves. We run on the silent moss, in step, our knees and shins scratched from the still-soft milk teeth of wild roses, of blackberry bushes. Our elbows and shoulders stinging from the little whips of jutting branches, the thick hazel trees. And all of a sudden amidst the bottomless green: a dark blue spot, movement with a persistent color.

Strange white shoes, hair swinging in a ponytail. One moving spot, and another one right next to it. I saw her.

Wilderness orientation – from CP-7 to CP-6

I lost sight of the vision. The ghost born of entangled, blinking eyelashes flew away quickly, like a bird amidst the branches. At least that’s how it seemed to me. It’s just a

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