To the Mountains, Mon Ami!

"To the Mountains, Mon Ami!"

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

Woolen clad and leather shod,

You may see this man as odd.

For his love of winter's woods,

Is not always understood.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

Pack basket upon his back,

Quiet steps will leave their track.

With joy his burden he hauls,

He sings as the forest calls.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

Shoes of wood and rawhide frame,

In the woods they know his name.

One big dog pulls a full sled,

By the other he is led.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

Through fresh snow deep they must go,

A steady pace, but not slow.

Before dark, a camp to find,

Done with a calm, easy mind.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

Each cold breathe makes him feel free,

Tonight beneath a great tree.

A small fire to cook his feed,

This simple meal fills his need.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

The snow falls silent, light fades,

Begins the wolves' serenades.

His fusil kept close at hand,

As darkness covers the land.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

Embers burn low at day's end

'Neath kettles, copper 'n tin.

Tired dogs curl up, their work's done,

His bed made warm, robes of bison.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

Some tobacco, a pipe full,

Peaceful thoughts and hope to mull.

He is ready for earned sleep,

For tonight's beauty he'd weep.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

He welcomes winter sunrise,

Nothing as pure to his eyes.

Make the fire, and rouse the dogs,

The morning's promise his grog.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

A meal eaten on the run,

There's always work to be done.

Loads to dog and man harness,

Onward! To the wilderness.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

To see what's beyond the creek,

Is no labor for the weak.

Look! Late season berries!

He'll pick all he can carry.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

There! Climbing a wooded hill,

An elk! He keeps the dogs still.

Moving upward, 'tween the peaks,

Comes closer to what he seeks.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

The farther in he will roam,

Nearer he will be to home.

Barren trees, clear frigid streams,

These are the things of his dreams.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

Ravens, squirrels, evergreens,

Rabbits, foxes - senses keen!

Dead, the winter world is not,

It is the life he has sought.

To the mountains, mon ami!

For fortune not, nor glory...

High in the mountain valley,

To here he treks to rally.

The sharp cold bites at his skin,

And his warm heart fills again.

To the mountains, mon ami!

Oh what beauty might we see!?!

-- J.R.H.