The Cremation of Sam McGee

For reading around a campfire:

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'Round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
That he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
Till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
To whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
In our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
Were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
Won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
Then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
Of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
So I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn;
But God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
That was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
And I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
Because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
To cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
In my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
While the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --
O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay
Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
And the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
But I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
And it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
And a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
It was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
And I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,
"Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
And I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
And I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --
Such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
And I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
To hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
And the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
Went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .
Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
In the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
And he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
You'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
It's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Crossing The Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

(Alfred Lord Tennyson)

Poetry: How shall I serve them?

My friends, my loved ones --
how shall I best serve them?
Toward them, promises laid before God,
my sacred obligation:

To help bear their burdens.
To mourn with them in mourning.
To share their joy and sadness.
To extend compassion and charity
without reservation or hesitation.
To stand as a witness of that Divine One,
the perfect example for all.

How many times I have failed
to serve those in need.

In blind selfishness, I cannot
see the needs of others beyond
my own bitter greedy demands.

What opportunities have passed,
because I could not see.

What great blessings might have been,
if only I had the faith.

Miserable servant that I am,
I continue striving to do my best.
Heavenly Father, please,
accept my flawed offerings,
bless my feeble struggles.

Snowshoes on Rampart Ridge

Looking forward to new tracks in the snow, I am revisiting other stories, written some years ago...


Snowshoes on Rampart Ridge


Bitter cold penetrates with a chill that cannot be dispelled, as we waddle along the trail, bundled in thick layers of clothing, clumsy burdensome snowshoes stealing all grace from our walk. Steaming clouds of frosty breath trail behind. Crusty snow emits weird squeaks and groans as our toes dig in.

We stop for a breather, at a vista overlooking the valley. Night in the deep woods is silent and brooding dark, swathed in a blanket of snow. Nature's array is spread forth before us in the moonlight, hundreds of acres of evergreen pines and spruces and firs, looming black and secretive in the still night air, climbing the hillsides and standing stern and motionless sentinels along the ridge tops.

Crossing a thick stand of brush, we stumble across a resting elk, who springs up in alarm at the disturbance. Which of us was frightened more? With sweeping strides and massive power, plunging headlong through the undergrowth at a thundering gallop, he escapes from our threat, and is gone from view almost before we realize what we are looking at. We stand there for a moment in amazed silence, gaping at each other like wondering fools.

Later on, crossing our trail like a silent wraith, a red fox flashes by and disappears into the chaparral. From time to time we hear a great owl, his muffled query floating across the dark forest, as he glides through the night sky, scanning the snow for prey.

We are the strangers here. This is no longer our world, we find no warmth in nature. We have too long allowed ourselves to be enticed away, wrapped in the insulating comfort of technology. In our complacence, we have been robbed of natural rapport with the forest. Now we stumble as aliens through this seemingly stark wilderness, interlopers for an hour, feeling as if we could barely survive a few miles trek through this unfriendly locale. To every creature of the forest, we are a threat and a foe. We don't belong.

In the end, we circle back to the car, arriving in relief back at civilization, anxiously looking forward to the comforts of home, and a long hot shower.


Symbols in the Snow

I think the fresh snowfall represents renewal. It is a tangible representation of the repentance process. New snow erases the old tracks and ruts, leaving a cold, clear surface upon which to begin again. It is a symbol of surpassing whiteness and purity, so clean and pristine. Waiting to receive whatever new impressions may come, tracks laid down over the smooth white surface. The snow uniquely records our passages and progress, the trail a chronicle of coming and going embedded in icy footsteps.

In my back-yard treks, I follow an established snowshoe trail climbing up to the nearby summit of the mountain. I have found that after each new storm it is far easier to follow the old track to the top, rather than break from the trail on a new course. Under the top layer of unpacked powder, the firmer base of compressed snow offers better support for my ponderous advance.

Over the past couple of months, my tracks through the snow have gathered in wandering footsteps of nearly every other creature happening by. Rabbits. Birds. Deer and elk follow the path, herd animals filing serially, each carefully placing feet precisely into the steps of the leader. I never see these creatures in the flesh, but they leave their tracks. I have been mighty curious about how the "footed-ness" of these animals might affect their gait. Do clumsy inept deer ever have trouble staying inside the lines? To my amusement, I sometimes find signs that these animals have as much difficulty navigating through the deep drifts as I. Occasional deep belly-marks. Errant tracks that diverge from the path, then join back. Though I suppose that with them, it is no laughing matter to forage in the desperate cold and barren winter-clad slopes seeking food.

I wonder about whatever unidentified dog-like creature happens to own those frighteningly large canine feet that also trail along in my footsteps. Sometimes the snow records the signs of their predation. Scattered tufts of fur and feathers. Bit of bones. Crimson blood spilled on the cold white snow. How much can such animals read from the tale of _my_ three-foot long treads. Are they ever watching me from among the trees along the bluff? Do they ever follow the scent of my slow and labored passage and dream about spilling more hot blood onto the cool clean snow?

Lessons from the Trees

A couple of prosaic pieces I wrote some time ago, reflecting upon my relationship with wilderness.

Legacies of Endurance

I made a pilgrimage this weekend to the slopes of Mount Evans, to pay my respects to a grove of peculiar trees that inhabit that locale.

These the pines of a particular breed that choose to live their lives out, at forbidding lofty heights, where other species abjure. Fire and rain, wind and snow, all the elements combine to blast these enduring creatures without pity or respite.

Not the towering graceful beauties of the forest, these. The aged pines are twisted and gnarled into bizarre stunted gnomes. Battle scars from aeons of withstanding the destructive forces of nature cover their flanks.

And yet they endure.

Some of the oldest patriarchs, clinging to life by the thinnest of threads, have witnessed the awesome pagent of an unimaginable span of ages, as time passed before them, hundreds upon hundreds of seasons spinning by, a thousand generations in the lifetime of men.

I consider these trees, with their stunning longevity. They do not complain about the travail or suffering, though many of them have obviously suffered greatly. They do not question their purpose, or falter in the mission -- to live, and keep on living. The trees endure, and do not ask why.

There is an incredible, priceless beauty in endurance. Perhaps it is beyond our understanding today. I feel certain that the trees possess this secret knowledge.

How long will it take us to learn?

Great and Small

Towering firs raise into the blazing blue,
their boughs reaching up in mighty supplication.
Framing the world across mountain tops and airy ridges,
seemingly, holding up the sky.

On forest floor below, humbly graced,
with lacy bracken ferns, lush green, so pleasing to the eye.
Bowed with fronds sweeping low to the earth,
catching the sun's few spare rays.

Climbing Paradise Ridge

I owned the tops of the mountains today. No others tracked the smooth white surface of the cold, clean snow. The mountain heights and I held our secret soul tryst, a chaste and joyous virtue only open to the lone and lonely.

I traverse the high passes, seeming so near to the pale blue sky, bracing against the fierce onslaught of the merciless freezing north wind. Howling gusts sweep up gritty blasts of icy snow grains in a ground blizzard, below a dark horizon troubled by passing storm clouds. As I struggle upward, the icy wind steals my breath away with each passing burst.

In the shelter of the deep shady canyon, I pause before tall green firs swaying and sighing as the force of the gale funnels up the slope, the wind whistling and moaning through the tossing boughs like the keening of mourners. The feet of the great trees stand deeply buried beneath the drifts.

Laboring to slowly climb the steep slope, bundled heavily against the freezing cold, my body is soon dripping with sweat. As the moisture accumulates under my hat and across the back of my neck, a rime of ice quickly forms around my head, into the simulation of a frosted white helmet.

I stop at the summit for a brief respite, in the lee of a swarm of boulders. I comb the ice out of my hair. Over the top of the broad peak, bare crusted snow is sculptured by the wind. The blowing snow appears to form sinuous snakes that writhe and coil and dance like living creatures. A sort of white noise, the continuous susurration of millions of snow grains skittering and slithering along, masks the roaring of the wind and creates a deep dynamic silence. Pressure against my back builds and ebbs from the force of the wild wind.

I have overstayed my welcome. The wind intensifies and the snow turns into heavier pellets that plaster across the front of my jacket and trousers, until I start to resemble an animate snowman. I hasten down the front side of the mountain, and as I pass, drifting snow quickly obliterates the traces of my passage.

Slowly Fading Away

Caring dies the slowest death,
drudging along the dreary road
to personal extinction.

Thoughts take ever longer
to flower and blossom --
longer and longer,
the barren pauses intervene.

Blood stirs seldom into heat,
The heart grudgingly murmurs
its constant monotonous complaint,
but passions never kindle,
all joy ceases.

The man who wished to be,
loses his vain grasp
on one ambition after another.
And incrementally surrenders
to the endless array
of interminable
damning
obstacles.

Slowly fading away
like the mucous streak
left by a passing snail --
an insignificant trace of slime
sliding silently
across the bleak dirty window
of life.

Finally,
emptiness prevails,
the soul withers,
deflated and flat,
despair and despondency
are the only feelings
left filling the void.

Setting Sun

There it is, the setting sun, laying a blazing trail of gold along my path!

How many days, how many miles I toiled and trod unaware, ere I chanced to notice the treasure, a ransom of kings, so casually strewn beneath the feet of careless passerby.

Caught by the fleeting moment of surpassing beauty, breathless with wonder, and taken aback to recall, with what haste I sped through so many days, seeking that which does not abide, while unheeded visions of inspiring splendor were spinning out before; that shining, glorious path.

So many evenings, unseeing eyes partook not the drama of the spreading aura in the sky. Ever hurrying, searching for momentary rewards, then these ephemeral pursuits suddenly halted by the sober realization: Staggered by the missed opportunities to be entrained in true lasting joy, worthy of highest admiration yet wasted on the unappreciative unseeing eye.

I might have turned away from the wealth, in a blind rush to finish the day’s journey, turning away and bypassing that most memorable road of light, there where it shimmers, the setting sun!