and where would we be without paying homage to Robert Service, of course, there are those who do not consider him a poet either......
with apologies to Robert Service.......
THE SONG OF THE WEST COAST TRAIL
There are those fools who decide, To test mettle and their pride And hike the temperate rainforests western rim, Where pouring rain and muck, Is the measure of your pluck And the backpack, of your vigor and your vim.
Over hill, through mired bog, Over greased and slippery log, Over tangled roots that trip you on your way, Just when the slogging's getting tough And you think you've had enough, The map reveals there's still another K.
In the campfires smoky heat When you're too damned tired to eat And you wonder why you started on this quest, Just then Pacific breakers roll And a sunset stirs your soul, You know by God, today you've earned your rest.
In the realm of breaching whale, Where muting fog or blowing gale Cloaks the Sitka spruce and cedars somber edge, The kelp beds heave and fall To the gull and ravens call And the breakers thunder on a rocky ledge.
As you eat nut and raison lunch And do the periwinkle crunch You make up time on shelves of hardened sand. Then there's the giant's cobblestone, A misplaced foot could snap a bone, Slowly pick your way and wish, for trails inland.
On the Cullites bolted rungs, As the breath rips through your lungs, Humbly recall, shipwrecks, in days of yore, Where a tar, sans boot and gaiter, From surf wracked and broken freighter, Unaided, scaled this treacherous height before.
You'll meet a hiker who'll report Someone's run this trail as sport, Racers time in hours and minutes, not by day. But the runner that's hell bent Isn't packing your food or tent And he missed the otter family hard at play.
For the hidden gold you seek, As you wade the icy swollen creek Is right there, in each footstep that you take, It's not just the getting through, That's the mother lode for you It's every living, breathing, moment wide-awake.
Salal bush wind clipp'd and bent By the western wind is rent Into bonsai gardens of the rain and storm. Sparkling silver sea and mist Has constant, held and kissed This wild topiary landscapes sculpted form.
At the Nitinat's tidal stand Meet the tenders of this land, Caretakers of split cedar boarded trail. For ten thousand years or more They have worked this windswept shore For the bounty of the salmon and the whale.
Just when you think this part's a lark, A Sunday stroll out in the park, Don't dismiss those paw prints in the sand, For the "cougar warning" on a sign Will send a tingle down your spine For you know who really rules this primal land.
And when the journey's through Pachena Bay comes into view, Remember in the elation of the day, Sometimes success is not all luck, Nor because of stamina and pluck, But the spirits there, beside you, on the way.