Clearing the Line

I spotted a thick iron tent stake jammed halfway into the gravel right across the trail, practically begging for a showdown. I marched straight up to it, bent my knees, and locked both hands tightly around the cold, hooked neck. Planting my boots deep into the dirt, I grunted and yanked back with everything I had. It resisted for a second, then broke free with a satisfying burst of dry sand and grit. I hurled the heavy spike aside onto a patch of moss. The way is clear now—nobody is tripping on my watch.