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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