蹦极装备:拜托帮忙翻译一下！！急！！！！

窝棚最喜爱的地方,但对我来说,这实际上是许多国家的地方. 它改变了多年来,我和我的情况已经改变. 我真的失去任何haven't从过去的最佳场所,虽然. 我不再是生活,但我的生活,部分记忆,存在于心. 这是一个把我家的夏季别墅在骑山国家公园的湖面清晰、丰富. 据了解,仅美湖. 在政府码头,这艘木楼梯到岸边所致,我们用吻一个令人振奋的危险降低陡峭自制分行和污垢货架步骤,通过随时瘦身高大致力与长树高和优美的少女,经过女士的毛下降原木及白色答应野生草莓花, 直到达成我们的辛勤和沙卵石的光明湾边缘冷泉,如果Fed在湖的夜哭loons仍然不明,在人际太令他们搬走北. 我国目前最大的地方很不同,但我想它的一些特性,长期来的地方. 这是一个很小的船舱柏树Otonabee河南安大略省. 夏天,很少住三、写作、赏鸟、riverwatching. 有时候我感到难过的人,他们在快艇上度过周末zinging落河约100万英里小时. 人人都有看到,也只可能是水与绿河本身的具体产生与胶烊. 凌晨前,少了鸟的声音惊醒,我可以说,鸟脚状的车舱和屋顶. 骂声稍止,暂时起身为凌晨仪式照明小朝老黑板(上午都在这里长大,即使在夏天),望着早在河中. 一寸寸可爱的水质量都在这个时候,完全薄雾复盖,空河的秘密会谈. 站起来的时候,我留下来,雾已经消失,显然Alebrown河,与太阳的光辉. 我喝咖啡,我望着坐在对面的岸边,那里有出色的景观绿巨人现在将凤凰树在今年秋天. 立场保守的橡树和Maples,灰色的骨架环死,甚至死亡gauntly美丽. 处于边缘的河,到处都是柳树、水上树,神秘树,苍白绿初夏,Silvergreen夏末,Greengold秋色. 我开始工作,我每次电梯的一页,看我的眼睛从外面,或者是看一些惊喜. 欢乐的舞蹈,如飞行的燕子. 橙-黑闪窝在他的棒球河. 了不起的飞跃红根Blackbird,展现出如迷地隐藏在深红色的翅膀黑暗. <flitteringgoldfinches的,他总是对国内旅行时,他那黑色的羽毛,她花黄色(天啊),雌鸟灰色绿黄色. 一双大蓝白鹤栩栩如生其庞大臃肿巢约50海里上溯,虽然很害羞,偶尔通过开放有人突然到来的尖峰航空(你可以听到它),抬头很快地看到宏伟扫面的有力翅膀. 其他的鸟,只有我可以提出这么多的移民加拿大鹅飞行的秋天,他们遥远旷野的呼声,预示着冬天. 许多这些水域航行的船只,都是值得考虑的结果,或缺乏精神,我. 如何在长期的估算大家在这段河有很大的游艇,其价值的渔船遭腰都礼貌放慢和平房区的暴力知原是我国海岸线进行擦洗. 排名最高我国好书都沉默unpolluting和独木舟系,明年他们的小汽艇舷外提出,沿puttuing携带渔民病人,houseboats自制,并unspeedy里有点看,上有爱心鸟画或花哨splodges抽象. 在寂静的下午,如无船四周,我看到了,看到半月实现了鱼、鲤鱼、muskie,瞬间人们的印象没有见过鱼,但都是轻. 在当天的行动,约4时00分,LindaSusan从农场到附近. 我请他们上网快的女孩. 伴随着笑声和狗,他们乘坐的马场为我,你把我从农村邮递路线一路邮箱. 夏天有几个老杰克曾经殴打他驾车到大众价邮件. 他是最好的、最出色的男子听到邻居都知道. 幼年十八,他homesteaded100英里的北里贾纳. 稍后,是一个熟练he'dtoolmaker与福特. he'd赴南美洲,做了很多了不起的事情. 他告诉他一个人的生命是很明智. 之后,他非常喜欢妻子去世,他走出来河,用很短的冬季,可能彼德伯勒,使回山寨第一人的春天,在河仍在洪水,他只能进出,hazardously,乘船. 我以前去了他的船与他已故的下午,我们将混日子沿河、看森林延伸和开放滚动农场和广阔的旧谷仓,并在较小的东西closeby、重型繁茂的蕨类在水的边框,几十个出门蠵龟与克林顿眼中,大大小小代龟部落, 晒自己倒下的原木河. 有一年夏天,老杰克的第82届,他花了一些时间对苗木种植枫树财产. 一年后,当我看见他死去,在我看来这些树he'd意味着一种遗产申报地. 我们沿着这些河在这里头忘记他,他也主张. 下班后,我出去散步、杂草的检验. 让我与杂草天然干花高达任何栽培植物. 很少听说有一年多是在milkweed,蝴蝶君也将拥有. 今年由于厚度均匀milkweed鲜花和高大的立场,果然,这里的数十君主蝶,像拿着飘扬Orange--天使在黄金位置. 凡是确定为我就要像许多植物,但少学习. 繁、破烂叶羔羊'宿舍、紫色、白色野phlox与其花费气味免费香水,粉红和淡紫野生群落,双正好黄色的小小的奶油与鸡蛋花,遭纵火焚毁Orange的魔鬼的画笔,坚定贵族的巨大紫色荆棘,几乎最好的一切, 这根长铺上白组小花朵,我终于查获野生我的花>-熊本植物无可比拟的巨大盾牌名称figwortmullein的家庭. 也许我们不能绝对天然干花步伐,但它却是最惊人的开山鼻祖. 现在是晚上,没有灯,我们除少数平房. 在黄昏,一个多小时前,我看着太阳的最后触摸荡漾河银光闪闪,好像有些海底世界所有蜡烛点燃了下来. 现在还不清楚. 晚宴结束后,我变成了灯的小屋,我看到星星. 黑色SkyDome(skydom或者像英国)还活着,下车. 明天周末开始,朋友们的到来. 捐一整天的会谈,可能是50日晚,将保持着良好的合作关系. 但现在有太多的内容仅是因为寂寞,好像存在.

The shack
The most loved place, for me, in this country has in fact been many places. It has changed throughout the years, as I and my circumstances have changed. I haven’t really lost any of the best places from the past, though. I may no longer inhabit them, but they inhabit me, portions of memory, presences in the mind. One such place was my family’s summer cottage at Clear Lake in Riding Mountain National Park, Manitoba. It was known to us simply as The Lake. Before the government piers and the sturdy log staircases down to the shore were put in, we used to slither with an exhilarating sense of peril down the steep homemade branch and dirt shelf-steps, through the stands of thin tall spruce and birch trees slender and graceful as girls, passing moss-hairy fallen logs and the white promise of wild strawberry blossoms, until we reached the sand and the hard bright pebbles of the beach at the edge of the cold spring-fed lake where at nights the loons still cried eerily, before too much human shriek made them move away north.
My best place at the moment is very different, although I guess it has some of the attributes of that long-ago place. It is a small cedar cabin on the Otonabee river in southern Ontario. I’ve lived three summers there, writing, birdwatching, riverwatching. I sometimes feel sorry for the people in speedboats who spend their weekends zinging up and down the river at about a million miles an hour. For all they’re able to see, the riverbanks might just as well be green concrete and the river itself flowing with molten plastic.
Before sunup, I’m wakened by bird voice and, I may say, bird feet clattering and thumping on the cabin roof. Cursing only slightly, I get up temporarily, for the pre-dawn ritual of lighting a small fire in the old black woodstove (mornings are chilly here, even in summer) and looking out at the early river. The waters have a lovely spooky quality at this hour, entirely mist-covered, a secret meeting of river and sky.
By the time I get up to stay, the mist has vanished and the river is a clear alebrown, shining with sun. I drink my coffee and sit looking out to the opposite shore, where the giant maples are splendidly green now and will be trees of flame in the fall of the year. Oak and ash stand among the maples, and the grey skeletons of the dead elms, gauntly beautiful even in death. At the very edge of the river, the willows are everywhere, water-related trees, magic trees, pale green in early summer, silvergreen in late summer, greengold in autumn.
I begin work, and every time I lift my eyes from the page and glance outside, it is to see some marvel or other. The joyous dance-like flight of the swallows. The orange-black flash of the orioles who nest across the river. The amazing takeoff of a red-winged blackbird, revealing like a swiftly unfolded fan the hidden scarlet in those dark wings. The flittering of the goldfinches, who always travel in domestic pairs, he gorgeous in black-patterned yellow feathers she (alas) drabber in greenish grey-yellow.
A pair of great blue herons have their huge unwieldy nest about half a mile upriver, and although they are very shy, occasionally through the open door I hear a sudden approaching rush of air (yes, you can hear it) and look up quickly to see the magnificent unhurried sweep of those powerful wings. The only other birds which can move me so much are the Canada geese in their autumn migration flight, their far-off wilderness voices the harbinger of winter.
Many boats ply these waterways, and all of them are given mental gradings of merit or lack of it, by me. Standing how in the estimation of all of us along this stretch of the river are some of the big yachts, whose ego-tripping skippers don’t have the courtesy to slow down in cottage areas and whose violent wakes scour out our shorelines. Ranking highest in my good books are the silent unpolluting canoes and rowboats, and next them, the small outboard motorboats put-puttuing along and carrying patient fishermen, and the homemade houseboats, unspeedy and somehow cozy-looking, decorated lovingly with painted birds or gaudy abstract splodges.
In the quiet of afternoon, if no boats are around, I look out and see the half-moon leap of a fish, carp or muskie, so instantaneous that one has the impression of having seen not a fish but an are of light.
The day moves on, and about four o’clock Linda and Susan from the nearby farm arrive. I call them the Girls of the Pony Express. Accompanied by dogs and laughter, they ride their horses into my yard, kindly bringing my mail from the rural route postbox up the road. For several summers it was Old Jack who used to drive his battered Volkswagen up to fetch the mail. He was one of the best neighbors and most remarkable men I’ve ever known. As a boy of eighteen, he had homesteaded a hundred miles north of Regina. Later, he’d been a skilled toolmaker with Ford. He’d traveled to south America and done many amazing things. He was a man whose life had taught him a lot of wisdom. After his much-loved wife died, he moved out here to the river, spending as short a winter as possible in Peterborough, and getting back into his cottage the first of anyone in the spring, when the river was still in flood and he could only get in and out, hazardously, by boat. I used to go out in his boat with him, late afternoons, and we would dawdle along the river, looking at the forest stretches and the open rolling farmlands and vast old barns, and at the smaller things closeby, the heavy luxuriance of ferns at the water’s rim, the dozens of snapping turtles with unblinking eyes,all sizes and generations of the turtle tribe, sunning themselves on the fallen logs in the river. One summer, Old Jack’s eighty-fourth, he spent some time planting maple saplings on his property. A year later, when I saw him dying, it seemed to me he’d meant those trees as a kind of legacy, a declaration of faith. Those of us along the river, here, won’t forget him, nor what he stood for.
After work, I go out walking and weed-inspecting. Weed and wildflowers impress me as much as any cultivated plant. I’ve heard that in a year when the milkweed is plentiful, the Monarch butterflies will also be plentiful. This year the light pinkish milkweed flowers stand thick and tall, and sure enough, here are the dozens of Monarch butterflies, fluttering like dusky orange-gold angels over the place. I can’t identify as many plants as I’d like, but I’m learning. Chickweed, the ragged-leafed lambs’ quarters, the purple-and-white wild phlox with its expensive-smelling free perfume, the pink and mauve wild asters, the two-toned yellow of the tiny butter-and-eggs flowers, the burnt orange of devil’s paintbrush, the staunch nobility of the huge purple thistles, and, almost best of all, that long stalk covered with clusters of miniature creamy blossoms which I finally tracked down in my wild-flower book—this incomparable plant bears the armorial name of the Great Mullein of the figwort Family. It may not be the absolute prettiest of our wildflowers, but it certainly has the most stunning pedigree.
It is night now, and there are no lights except those of our few cottages. At sunset, an hour or so ago, I watched the sun’s last flickers touching the rippling river, making it look as though some underwater world had lighted all its candles down there. Now it is dark. Dinner over, I turn out the electric lights in the cabin so I can see the stars. The black skydome (or perhaps skydom, like kingdom) is alive and alight.
Tomorrow the weekend will begin, and friends will arrive. we’ll talk all day and probably half the night, and that will be good. But for now, I’m content to be alone, because loneliness is something that doesn’t exist here.

send what发什么？传真fax？电邮email，还是短信MSM？