The Hunters There were but two beneath the sky -The thing I wished to Kill and I. I, covertly, quietly sat andWatched him sense his eternity-From quivering brush to pointed nose.Slowly my gun to shoulder rose.And then I too felt (I could not see)Far off another hunter watching me.So slowly, slowly I put my rifle byFor there were two things who had to die -The thing I wished to kill - and I. American Indian Poems - Courtesy of Firstpeople.comA Wedge of History in the MoonlightThewedgeofwoodwaslyingbesidethemuddypathatthetopofthetrail. Wehadeyeditaswetrudgedpastitfivedaysbefore,butinthemoonlight, itwasmoreinviting.Itseemedtosay,"Hey,takemewithyou!"Wewereon anecessary2:30AMhomewardrun.Theslipperyhoarfrostgrantedpassage deniedbythesnowlessdaytimewilderness.Thestillnesswaspunctuatedby thefragranceofpinetargougedbyrocksfromthetoboggan'swood bottom.Westoppedtheelkhunter'smeathaul,tuckedthebeckoning trinket under the toboggan prow and headed down the mountain trail.Wedecidedtoexplorethewedgeofant-tunneledspruce!Somescrubbing andsandinglaidopenthesoulofthisbotanicwitness.One-hundredand sixty-sixseasonsthetreewithstoodthewintergalesandsummerwarmthin Colorado'sFlatTopsWildernessArea.Evenmuchearlieritwasaproudforestresidentbecausethetrailcrew'ssawhadnot cutnearitschildhoodheart.Themightytreefinallysuccumbedtomerebeetlesinthe1940s,shortlyafterwebeganour earthly odyssey.Curious,weconnectedourcomputer'shistorytimelinetothetreerings.Thehumanmiseryoftwomajorwarsbarely registeredsincetheyoccurredasthetreewasdying.Backintime,thewoodcellledgerwoundthroughtheCivilWar, Pasteur'sfirstvaccine,theLewisandClarkExpedition,andtheFrenchRevolution.Thistreewasmajesticevenwhen GeorgeWashingtonassumedoffice!About1840theringsbecameclosertogether,indicatingaclimaticchangetoward long-termdryness.Wasthisaresponsetotheeffectsofbeaverdamdestructionwithtrapping,ofwestwardexpansion underManifestDestiny,andtheplowingofverdantprairiesbyJohnDeer'ssod-bustingnewtractors?Didthebroadringsin thelate1880sreflectstratosphereashcloudsandcooler,wetteryearsfollowingthevolcanicexplosionofKrakatoaonthe othersideoftheworld?Ourmindswanderedandwondered.Itisamazinghowlongthistreestoodwhilehistorymoved by. Nature meets time's testing, but we boastful men prove mortal.Ourcuriosityofthetrailsidediscardprovidedunexpectedrewards.Itmadeusagaincognizantthatsimplethingscanbe muchricherthanallthetoysatKMartorCabela’s.Andasthewoodliesonourcoffeetable,weareremindedofhowlittle time we are given. There is too little time to be wasted, or unappreciated, or uncherished. (copyright 1995 P.K. Groth) A Skag’s LamentWhen your brash country whimpered to its rightful birthI was already tall and vibrant, of youthful forest mirthAnd stood confidently upon this mountain without fear,While from a church beacon's light rode Paul Revere.Three painful wars upon this land's newly tested soilAnd four more your sacrificed young men did toil.Domains of kings and tyrants and fools collapsedBut for me t'was merely time - time that lapsed.Through my boughs, winds wove your shuddering criesAs devilish dust bowls parched and passed crops by.And depressions stole from men their hopes and dreamsWhile "progress" defiled land and soiled your streams.Defeated I lay in curious, apprehensive trail-side sleepTo see what promises men will eventually choose to keepOf inspiring verdant prime forests and fantasy blue skiesForever harbored for the jubilation of next heirs' eyes.My woody soul now longs to melt, to return into my Colorado womb,Slowly carried by beetles, ants, fungus - to my eternal soil tomb.Friend, you too, old and beaten, someday may also accept to go,Reclaimed by the passages of life you've come to joyfully know.(Copyright P.K. Groth 1995)The Preacher and the ElkOur minister would fishSo well that I wish I could fish just half that way.While we could only wish, He'd say, The Lord favored me today".Time did indeed flyand the summer slipped by.Hunting season was upon us again.The Reverend announced his intentTo the Knight of the Leaky TentsTo join us when hunting would begin.Said, "I'll tell you the truth,I was quite a hunter in my youth."And spun them a long and tall tale.Said, "I'm good on my feetand I sure can use the meat.I'm sure that in elk I'll prevail."His luck was astoundingly profound, For each day, he soon foundElk just waiting to be shot.But for five days full,He missed his bull:A marksman, our minister was not!Nor our advice, he neither heededSaying none was really needed."At risk of bragging, I must sayThat I'm an excellent shot, -One of the best of the lot.The Lord was just merciful to elk today." Poem in publication by Eugene Shea, Wyoming poet, Hanna, Wyoming)Only A Mountain ThunderstormNoonday bright, the lightening flashedAnd split the coal black sky asunderAs old Bill rode out upon the mountain Amid the clash of booming thunder."Only a mountain thunderstorm," he saidAnd an old timer like Bill would knowAs he rode down the ridge to check onThe elk herd bedded in the valley below.Angry storm clouds swept down the peakBringing rain in sheets with the gale.Blinding lightening showed for a secondMuddy torrents of water down the trail.In time, the storm blew itself out.Settled down to just a hard cold rain.Only another thunderstorm.Old bill had been right again.But, the night went by with no Bill. What could delay so long his return?As midnight dragged on toward dawn,I was sure it was time for concern.At the first gray of morn, I was riding,And I must confess that I feared the worst.End of the ridge, I found Bill and his horse, But lightening had found them there first.CopyrightedpoemwrittenbyHanna,WyomingpoetEugeneShea,fromhis1993book "Antidote For Cabin Fever." October - 1885 Hunter’s PoemThere comes a month in a weary year, -A month of leisure and healthful rest:When the ripe leaves fall and the air is clear, -October - the brown, the crisp, the blest.My life has little enough of bliss:I drag the days of odd seven.Counting the time that shall lead to this, -The month that opens hunter’s heaven.And oh! For the mornings crisp and white,With the sweep of the hounds upon the track;The dark-roofed cabin, the campfire’s lightThe break of the deer, and the rifle’s crack.Do you call this trifling? I tell you, friend,A life in the forest is past all praise;Give me a dozen such months on end;You may take my balance of years and days.For brick and mortar breed filth and crime,And a pulse of evil that throbs and beats;And men grow withered before their prime,With the curse paved in on the lanes and streets;And lungs are choked, and shoulders are bowed,In the smoking reek of mill and mine;And Death stalks in on the struggling crowd,But they shuns the shadow of oak and pine.And of all to which the memory clings,There nought so sweet as the sunny spotsWhere our shanties stood by the crystal springs,The vanished hounds and the lucky shots.Unknown author. From The Humbler Poets, 1885We Are The Forest Ghosts We are the forms warped by twilight and dusk.The stumps which arise and begin to move,The cause for alighting of trickster raven.We are the white bones basking on knollsVisible at morning’s first emerging light. We are the bent trails in the grass of time,The subtle rustling of aspen leaves, The quick snap of a weary branch, orThe rumbling echoes of a falling tree,The forms roving in evening mists.Our spirits might be tent-side hoof beats,The dust in you squinting salty eyes,The cool breeze that caresses your cheek,The lurking shadows by evening trees,Or the sacred sudden hush at day’s end.We will be renewed with life With the bleating of our newborn,The suckling on patient mothers ,The cavorting of toddler friends And the desire for another spring.In our wind stroked alpine pasturesMay we become part of your life praisesWhen you graciously enter our realms.Take our bodies for your nourishment.Remember the amazing cycles of life,Honor the passages through which all life flows.Tread in syncopation to our realms’ heart throbs.View the forest as your and our cathedral, a refuge.Leave naught behind in true wilderness respect. Treasure the stillness of our eternities ~~~~ Travel like us - we, the elk ghosts of our forest. Copyright P. Groth. Cow and calf photos courtesy = S. J. Lindquist
The Hunters There were but two beneath the sky -The thing I wished to Kill and I. I, covertly, quietly sat andWatched him sense his eternity-From quivering brush to pointed nose.Slowly my gun to shoulder rose.And then I too felt (I could not see)Far off another hunter watching me.So slowly, slowly I put my rifle byFor there were two things who had to die -The thing I wished to kill - and I. American Indian Poems - Courtesy of Firstpeople.comA Wedge of History in the MoonlightThewedgeof woodwaslying besidethemuddypathatthetopof thetrail.Wehad eyeditaswe trudgedpastit fivedaysbefore, butinthe moonlight,itwas moreinviting.It seemedtosay,"Hey,takemewithyou!"Wewereona necessary2:30AMhomewardrun.Theslipperyhoarfrost grantedpassagedeniedbythesnowlessdaytimewilderness. Thestillnesswaspunctuatedbythefragranceofpinetar gougedbyrocksfromthetoboggan'swoodbottom.We stoppedtheelkhunter'smeathaul,tuckedthebeckoning trinketunderthetobogganprowandheadeddownthe mountain trail.Wedecidedtoexplorethewedgeofant-tunneledspruce! Somescrubbingandsandinglaidopenthesoulofthis botanicwitness.One-hundredandsixty-sixseasonsthetree withstoodthewintergalesandsummerwarmthin Colorado'sFlatTopsWildernessArea.Evenmuchearlierit wasaproudforestresidentbecausethetrailcrew'ssawhad notcutnearitschildhoodheart.Themightytreefinally succumbedtomerebeetlesinthe1940s,shortlyafterwe began our earthly odyssey.Curious,weconnectedourcomputer'shistorytimelineto thetreerings.Thehumanmiseryoftwomajorwarsbarely registeredsincetheyoccurredasthetreewasdying.Backin time,thewoodcellledgerwoundthroughtheCivilWar, Pasteur'sfirstvaccine,theLewisandClarkExpedition,and theFrenchRevolution.Thistreewasmajesticevenwhen GeorgeWashingtonassumedoffice!About1840therings becameclosertogether,indicatingaclimaticchangetoward long-termdryness.Wasthisaresponsetotheeffectsof beaverdamdestructionwithtrapping,ofwestward expansionunderManifestDestiny,andtheplowingof verdantprairiesbyJohnDeer'ssod-bustingnewtractors?Did thebroadringsinthelate1880sreflectstratosphereash cloudsandcooler,wetteryearsfollowingthevolcanic explosionofKrakatoaontheothersideoftheworld?Our mindswanderedandwondered.Itisamazinghowlongthis treestoodwhilehistorymovedby.Naturemeetstime's testing, but we boastful men prove mortal.Ourcuriosityofthetrailsidediscardprovidedunexpected rewards.Itmadeusagaincognizantthatsimplethingscan bemuchricherthanallthetoysatKMartorCabela’s.Andas thewoodliesonourcoffeetable,weareremindedofhow littletimewearegiven.Thereistoolittletimetobewasted, or unappreciated, or uncherished. (copyright 1995 P.K. Groth) A Skag’s LamentWhenyourbrashcountrywhimperedto its rightful birthIwasalreadytallandvibrant,ofyouthful forest mirthAndstoodconfidentlyuponthis mountain without fear,Whilefromachurchbeacon'slightrode Paul Revere.Threepainfulwarsuponthisland'snewly tested soilAndfourmoreyoursacrificedyoungmen did toil.Domainsofkingsandtyrantsandfools collapsedButformet'wasmerelytime-timethat lapsed.Throughmyboughs,windswoveyour shuddering criesAsdevilishdustbowlsparchedand passed crops by.And depressions stole from men their hopes and dreamsWhile "progress" defiled land and soiled your streams.Defeated I lay in curious, apprehensive trail-side sleepTo see what promises men will eventually choose to keepOf inspiring verdant prime forests and fantasy blue skiesForever harbored for the jubilation of next heirs' eyes.Mywoodysoulnowlongstomelt,toreturnintomyColorado womb,Slowlycarriedbybeetles,ants,fungus-tomyeternalsoil tomb.Friend,youtoo,oldandbeaten,somedaymayalsoacceptto go,Reclaimedbythepassagesoflifeyou'vecometojoyfully know.(Copyright P.K. Groth 1995)The Preacher and the ElkOur minister would fishSo well that I wish I could fish just half that way.While we could only wish, He'd say, The Lord favored me today".Time did indeed flyand the summer slipped by.Hunting season was upon us again.The Reverend announced his intentTo the Knight of the Leaky TentsTo join us when hunting would begin.Said, "I'll tell you the truth,I was quite a hunter in my youth."And spun them a long and tall tale.Said, "I'm good on my feetand I sure can use the meat.I'm sure that in elk I'll prevail."His luck was astoundingly profound, For each day, he soon foundElk just waiting to be shot.But for five days full,He missed his bull:A marksman, our minister was not!Nor our advice, he neither heededSaying none was really needed."At risk of bragging, I must sayThat I'm an excellent shot, -One of the best of the lot.The Lord was just merciful to elk today." PoeminpublicationbyEugeneShea,Wyomingpoet,Hanna, Wyoming)Only A Mountain ThunderstormNoonday bright, the lightening flashedAnd split the coal black sky asunderAs old Bill rode out upon the mountain Amid the clash of booming thunder."Only a mountain thunderstorm," he saidAnd an old timer like Bill would knowAs he rode down the ridge to check onThe elk herd bedded in the valley below.Angry storm clouds swept down the peakBringing rain in sheets with the gale.Blinding lightening showed for a secondMuddy torrents of water down the trail.In time, the storm blew itself out.Settled down to just a hard cold rain.Only another thunderstorm.Old bill had been right again.But, the night went by with no Bill. What could delay so long his return?As midnight dragged on toward dawn,I was sure it was time for concern.At the first gray of morn, I was riding,And I must confess that I feared the worst.End of the ridge, I found Bill and his horse, But lightening had found them there first.CopyrightedpoemwrittenbyHanna,WyomingpoetEugene Shea, from his 1993 book "Antidote For Cabin Fever." October - 1885 Hunter’s PoemThere comes a month in a weary year, -A month of leisure and healthful rest:When the ripe leaves fall and the air is clear, -October - the brown, the crisp, the blest.My life has little enough of bliss:I drag the days of odd seven.Counting the time that shall lead to this, -The month that opens hunter’s heaven.And oh! For the mornings crisp and white,With the sweep of the hounds upon the track;The dark-roofed cabin, the campfire’s lightThe break of the deer, and the rifle’s crack.Do you call this trifling? I tell you, friend,A life in the forest is past all praise;Give me a dozen such months on end;You may take my balance of years and days.For brick and mortar breed filth and crime,And a pulse of evil that throbs and beats;And men grow withered before their prime,With the curse paved in on the lanes and streets;And lungs are choked, and shoulders are bowed,In the smoking reek of mill and mine;And Death stalks in on the struggling crowd,But they shuns the shadow of oak and pine.And of all to which the memory clings,Therenoughtsosweetasthesunny spotsWhereourshantiesstoodbythe crystal springs,Thevanishedhoundsandthelucky shots.Unknown author. From The Humbler Poets, 1885We Are The Forest Ghosts We are the forms warped by twilight and dusk.The stumps which arise and begin to move,The cause for alighting of trickster raven.We are the white bones basking on knollsVisible at morning’s first emerging light. We are the bent trails in the grass of time,The subtle rustling of aspen leaves, The quick snap of a weary branch, orThe rumbling echoes of a falling tree,The forms roving in evening mists.Our spirits might be tent-side hoof beats,The dust in you squinting salty eyes,The cool breeze that caresses your cheek,The lurking shadows by evening trees,Or the sacred sudden hush at day’s end.We will be renewed with life With the bleating of our newborn,The suckling on patient mothers ,The cavorting of toddler friends And the desire for another spring.In our wind stroked alpine pasturesMay we become part of your life praisesWhen you graciously enter our realms.Take our bodies for your nourishment.Remember the amazing cycles of life,Honor the passages through which all life flows.Tread in syncopation to our realms’ heart throbs.View the forest as your and our cathedral, a refuge.Leave naught behind in true wilderness respect.