hilly terrain

travel times DIY

bc apparently this is all i’m thinking about right now

fair weather, flat terrain, roads

  • foot: 20 m/day
  • forced march: 30 m/day (unsustainable for long periods)
  • horse: 40 m/day
  • fast carriage: 60 m/day
  • horse relay: 80 m/day (changing horses at each town)

fair weather, hilly terrain, roads (or flat terrain, bad weather)

  • foot: 14 m/day
  • forced march: 20 m/day
  • horse: 25 m/day
  • fast carriage: 30 m/day
  • horse relay: 70 m/day

fair weather, mountainous terrain, roads (or hilly terrain, bad weather)

  • foot: 9 m/day
  • forced march: 15 m/day
  • horse: 20 m/day
  • fast carriage: 40 m/day
  • horse relay: 60 m/day

fair weather, wooded terrain, off road

  • foot: 8 m/day
  • forced march: not here you’re not
  • horse: 20 m/day
  • fast carriage: see forced march
  • horse relay: ditto

fair weather, mountainous terrain, off road

  • foot: 6 m/day
  • forced march: don’t do it
  • horse: 10 m/day
  • fast carriage: ur not getting a carriage up here m8
  • horse relay: there’s nowhere to relay ur horse up here

fair weather, experienced sailors

  • decent-sized merchant ship: 80 m/day (brig/carrack/cog type)
  • fast/unladen ship: 100 m/day (caravel/clipper/corvette type)
    • in peak conditions, you could comfortably get up to 150 m/day
    • these boat speeds include some margin for days when little progress is made vs days when lots of progress is made
  • for bad weather, just add on a day or two i guess

other modes of transport

  • horse & cart: 10 m/day
  • fully laden soldier: 15 m/day
  • rowing: 3 m/hour (quite fast, 1 mile can be covered in anything from 15 to 45 mins depending on how experienced you are/what type of boat you’re using)

things to note

  • walking speed: 3-5 m/hour (on average)
  • walking for 7-8 hours a day
  • riding speed: 25 m/hour gallop ; 13 m/hour canter ; 9 m/hour trot ; 4 m/hour walk
    • obviously it’s unsustainable to ride at a flat gallop all day, unless you’re changing horses at each town
  • riding for 10 hours a day
  • 1 knot = 1.15 m/hour

Los Haitises” means “little hills” – so it’s easy to see how Los Haitises National Park got its name. Located in Samaná, the park is most easily accessible by boat from Samaná town. The hilly terrain is home to birds and other wildlife, as well as many caves where visitors can swim in fresh water. The ancient Taino people used some of these caves in ancient times, and their paintings and carvings can still be found throughout the national park.

“Los Haitises” significa “pequeñas colinas” – Es muy fácil de ver de dónde el Parque Nacional Los Haitises obtiene su nombre. Por su ubicación en Samaná, es más fácil acceder al parque en bote desde el pueblo de Samaná. Su terreno abrupto alberga aves y otras especies silvestres, así como muchas cavernas donde los visitantes pueden nadar en agua fresca. Los antiguos taínos usaban algunas de estas cuevas ancestrales en los tiempos antiguos y sus pinturas y tallados aún pueden ser encontrados por todo el parque nacional.


It would come as no great surprise to an experienced traveler of Cyrodiil’s back country if I were to give them the warning, “avoid Ogres if you can. They are dangerous indeed.” Such a person may well ask for more obvious pronouncements. Perhaps “the grass is green, so be aware of that.” In fact, a legendary foul temperament and overall capacity for effective physical violence are hallmarks of the Ogre race, known all too well to woodsmen, mercenaries, and apprentice mages hoping to collect fresh Ogre teeth for bonus points in Alchemy 101.

A rather primitive race of large, brutish, vaguely humanoid creatures, Ogres seem to prefer hilly or mountainous terrain and are more common in the North, and in Colovia than in the Nibenay Basin. They are considered Goblin-ken, along with Goblins and Orcs, and Malacath is their patron deity. He considers them his ‘little brothers’ and becomes quite angry when people go out of their way to mistreat them. A popular folktale from the end of the Third Era claims that a questing hero and Malacath devotee - most often an Orc in their oral traditions - freed some Gold-Coast Ogres from a haughty nobleman who had enslaved them, and the Ogres in turn forced the nobleman to work the fields instead as they supervised him. It’s unlikely this fanciful tale has any basis in reality: such reversals are common in Colovian folk tales, and serve to impart moral lessons upon their readers and listeners.

Ogres are known to have an obsession with finely crafted human materials, and shiny things in particular, whether natural or crafted. They often steal heirloom swords and large gems to satisfy this obsession. Most Ogres wear crude hip packs and loin cloths of hide. It is speculated that they do have a rudimentary culture and can use tools, although most fight unarmed, preferring to batter opponents with their tough, rock-like fists. There are unconfirmed reports that the more intelligent members of their species can sometimes be outfitted for war in oversized suits of armor, and can be trained to wield heavy weapons effectively. There are even fanciful tales of Ogre magi casting powerful sorceries, imbued with the malice and wit of Malacath, but these are most often found in cautionary tales for children, or the epic poems of yore.

Ogre blood ancestry is unknown, but many people believe they can and do interbreed with Orcs and Goblins on occasion, and one infamous Imperial man believed his family was descended from them, although it is reported that his quest to reunite with his “long lost kin” ended in his untimely but inevitable demise. Like many Tamrielic creatures, their bodies contain magic, which can be imbued into potions. Alchemists prize their teeth and pay high prices for them, often attracting the attention of competing mercenary guilds. Adventurers questing in the Colovian Highlands and Bruma county are advised to tip their swords or arrow heads in poison as this primitive race has a particular weakness to it - one of the few pieces of folk wisdom surrounding Ogres which has been shown to be objectively true. Adventurers who believe they can confuse Ogres with riddles or bribe them with large potatoes might find that too much reliance on folk wisdom can be fatal, however.

(Writing: Pilaf the Defiler / Art: Lady Nerevar)

Pig Wk 18 Sunday

The Hansons prefer you do your “long” run at a pace somewhere between easy and race pace. From the chart in their book, a 2:45 marathon equates to 6:53/mi pace for these runs. Not terribly difficult compared to a 6:18/mi marathon pace, but not a slam dunk either.

Add in my recovery from injury, cold temperatures, and lots of rolling hills, and now you’ve have something to be a little nervous about. I still have anxiety before tough workouts and races. Usually I can swallow it because I know I’ve done the work and the confidence from that flows. Once I start running, it all seems to fade away.

My first mile was okay, but then the next 3 were really cruising. Noting in my head that I was going too fast and might not be able to sustain, I pulled it back for the second east loop of the Morton Arboretum. Very happy with the effort vs results, especially on the hilly terrain. The worst climbs are in miles 10 + 11, yet I still hung in there. The last mile is mostly downhill. What a blast to crush the pace at the end after being out there so long!

As I pulled back into the parking lot to wrap things up, I click my watch to stop and stare at the average pace – 6:50/mi. Hell yeah!

Margarine Sandwiches and Cross-cultural Cross-dressing

Last spring, my study abroad group spent a week living with host families in a small rural town near Oulmes, Morocco. Our hosts spoke only Tamazight, the indigenous language - though some of them knew a little Arabic. 

It was an amazing week, and probably the highlight of the whole experience for me. We were the first students to visit that town - unlike our host families back in Rabat, who’d hosted students many times and had lost interest, the people who took us in were curious and eager to have us. It was incredibly refreshing to feel wanted again, and in a very short time, we’d all grown very close. A great deal of love had grown between us through endless games of charades and confused laughter. 

We ate a lot of bread and margarine that week. Our hosts were lean and muscled from lives spent on hilly terrain - our brother Ali was a champion marathon runner (he’d flex proudly in front of us and say, ‘John Cena!’). The same could not be said of us. We were always hungry and exhausted, and the only expendable food was bread. Our hosts had picked up a tub of margarine at the weekend market because they knew it was American food, and we were Americans (they didn’t think we’d like the real butter made from the cow in the back yard). We ate margarine sandwiches ravenously, distantly disgusted with ourselves, and made silent prayers that our digestive systems would be merciful while we used the squat toilets. 

One night near the end of the week, another student tried to explain to Ali what a toga party was. I tried to signal for him to change the subject; it seemed in very poor taste to discuss heavy fraternity drinking with our abstinent Muslim hosts. He was not to be dissuaded. He wrapped a bed sheet around his torso like a toga, struggling in vain for the vocabulary to express what he was doing. Ali laughed and came to help him. Assuming my classmate was attempting to veil himself, he arranged the sheet like a woman’s garment. His brother and sister began giggling uncontrollably. Soon enough, it turned into a full-blown costume party - the whole family was in on it. Every camera in the vicinity was commandeered to document it. We were shuffled into one outfit after another, unable to protest and helpless to stop it. 

Our host sister Malala (top row, second from right) pulled out her fanciest traditional attire. My classmates were clothed in djellabas and Ali’s hunting fatigues. I was too short for the men’s clothing, so I was draped with a Malala’s shawl and told that I was “zwina” (Darija for ‘pretty’). I don’t have a picture of it, but Ali and his brother Munir (…a beautiful, beautiful man) ended up kneeling in front of us with their sleeves rolled back, flexing impressively while holding two-liter bottles of orange soda and a hunting rifle.

The whole episode lasted nearly two hours, until the battery and storage space on every camera had been exhausted. We all laughed until our sides hurt, both out of bewilderment and true delight. It was the strangest and most tender of evenings - a silent comedy writ in the universal language of gut-busting laughter. 

A Happy Accident

fanfictionfromerebor || imagine

It had been a long day of hiking with the company of Thorin Oakenshield and all were ready for a hot meal and rest. As you were moving through such hilly terrain, it was impractical to ride the ponies, so everyone was groaning about having to be on their feet all day. Thorin had called everybody to a halt, and was surveying a sheltered area at the side of a huge grey cliff that went up into the clouds. It was the only almost level land that he had seen all day and he gave the order to set camp there. Everybody rushed to get as close to the fire as possible, just like your bad luck you ended up in the spot behind Bombur. The heat of the fire would literally never reach your tired bones now. You sat down in a huff, crossing your arms and frowning. You could hear muffled laughter coming from just behind you, you turned to see Thorin trying to stifle his laughter behind his hand.

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The Pershing was a heavy tank of the United States Army. It was designated a heavy tank when it was first designed in WWII due to its 90mm gun, and its armor. In 1957, the U.S. developed the M103 tank, which had an even larger 120mm gun, and the M26 Pershing was re-designated as a medium tank. The tank is named after General John J. Pershing. It was briefly used both in World War II and in the Korean War. Intended as an improvement of the M4 Sherman, the prolonged time of development meant that only a small number saw combat in the European theater. In service during the Korean War, the M26 was an overmatch for the T-34-85 in terms of firepower and protection, however the tanks proved challenged by the hilly and muddy terrain and as a result were withdrawn in 1951 in favor of its improved derivative, the M46 Patton, which had a considerably more powerful and reliable engine as well as an advanced and improved suspension to better meet the demands of the specific terrain it operated in.

requested by graf-spectre

Being back home, we gravitate rather quickly to our favourite spots. This hilly terrain is home. This morning we welcomed the sun at one of my most sacred spaces on the planet. I come here to ground myself often enough whenever I’m in my hometown. This is also where I first started shooting the Find Momo project.
There’s always an inukshuk at the highest point here, but it’s never been this big. I’ve read that a larger inukshuk can often indicate that it was built by a group.
Where’s your sacred space? ❤️