Poems of the Chilcotin

Today I’m twenty! Looking back, I see
shadowed visions of ‘what used to be’:
When, no matter whether it would rain or shine
my Mother’s kiss would ease this heart of mine.

And childish joy was found in little things
from fire-flies, –to candied popcorn rings.
How quickly tears sprang then, when tempers riled!
It seemed no one could understand this child

whose Universe was built on Outdoor Modes;
and a curious urge for travelling dusty roads,
–forever yearning to go just beyond
the rolling hilltop, or the shimmering pond …..

The start of School put brakes on what I did;
but there I learned to beat the neighbour’s kid,
and bring home good report cards to my Mom,
if only just to hear her say:”Well done”!

I grew to like it, though it curbed my feet,
and kept me sitting in a hardwood seat;
for while I sat, I dreamed of when I’d roam
away from all of this, that folks called ‘Home’.

When I might let my wandering feet go free;
unshackled by responsibility;
And turn my footsteps to a newer World,
where I, alone, might raise my flag, unfurled,
–without the aid of Family, or close friends;
well knowing they would always make amends.

At first the city, with its noisy glare
beckoned strongly, promising to share
my love for living. –But although so smart
it’s just an empty shell, without a heart!

Enough of that! I longed for something real:
the friendly grasp of hands, that make one feel
at peace with all Mankind, where friends are true;
and so, I journeyed to the Cariboo.

As ‘cowboy’ on a ranch I soon was hired.
Beneath these mountain peaks I grew inspired!
Here, then, is that something that I’ve sought
which neither hobo’s begged, nor money bought:
the Great Outdoors; the handclasp of a friend;
and room to spread ones’ shattered dreams to mend.

I’ve found at last the Land for which I’ve yearned,
where timber stands on sod that’s ne’er been turned.
–It seems I’ve seen so much, I should feel old ….
But today I’m twenty!–What might the Future hold?

Soft white hands and bearded face,
Strangers to both toil and sweat,
Never mind you’ll get there yet.
You’ll be this old world’s saving grace,
You’re the “back to the land” generation.

Where are my sons you say,
Where are my daughters?
Gone to the cities far away
Bored with the farmland that gave them birth,
They long for bright lights, music, mirth.
While I remain to till the earth
Alone, it must be done.

But here you are a city boy,
You had all that and left it too?
Searching my wide green field for joy,
Your city’s games gone, left behind,
Trading your way of life for mine.

It’s not for the money… there just ain’t none,
It’s a dedication to the soil, my son,
And besides that, you still gotta eat,
Come on, city fella, with your soft white hands.

If you care, I’ll share all that I’ve learned,
But you must be sincere to come around here,
Your pot and your vice must be spurned.

You’ll learn of true pleasure that comes from your toil,
At the end of a long busy day,
That great satisfaction a man gets from clean action,
The sweet smell of fresh mown hay, at peace with his soul.

Tonight I’m a tired weary cowgirl,
I’ve been riding the range land all day…
Longing to fly, to the heavens!
– would they miss me when I’m far away?

Then, when I get way up there yonder
and night falls on the world down below
I’ll make the Big Dipper my hammock
and dream while the moon’s swinging low

I’ll turn on a star by my bedside
and read fortune of folks held dear
I’ll tell them what’s going to befall them
As that’s something they all like to hear

When I see a “sunfishing” comet
I’ll rope him as he gallops by
Then saddle him up, and climb on in
and go bucking around in the sky!

And maybe I become thirsty
while dreaming up there in the sky
I’ll reach for the bright Little Dipper
and take a drink from the sweet Milky Way

Then, when the grey dawn is breaking
O’er the world down below, near and far
I’ll return to my pony and saddle
with my lariat coiled round a star!

The stalwart young Cowboy rode into the West;
Throughout the Chilcotin his steed was the best.
He rode through the grasslands, to the mountains so grand
Met a young Indian maiden, and asked for her hand ……

But She was a Princess; her Father, the Chief
Aghast was her family in their disbelief
That this handsome young Cowboy should be so naive
As to ask for this maiden, his heart on his sleeve.

The greying old Chieftain ….. the last of his breed ….
Scorned anyone White; so to mix with His seed
Was unheard of; unwelcome; and reason to fight!
So, while the drums sounded, they stole off in the night.

They rode through the dark just as far as they could,
Then, at last, made their camp in a sheltering wood.
Deep into the Mountains, where no man had roamed
They rode, ’till they found the right site for their home.

The Cowboy got busy: a log cabin soon stood
Near a creek, in a clearing surrounded by woods.
Moose and deer, wolves and coyotes, and even the bear,
Used to crossing the clearing, would stop, now, and stare …..

So meat for their larder was always at hand.
This practical couple could live off the land:
Dried berries; fish; roots; —she served a good stew,
Cozied in their log cabin when Winter winds blew.

The dried skins of beaver, of muskrat, and mink
Piled high in a corner, gave one pause to think
How this happy young couple were hatching a plan
To re-visit the ‘Outside’ for word of her clan

Come Spring-time they bundled the hides on a horse
And set out for Chilcotin, to fur-trade, of course
The Hudsons’ Bay Company then traded in skins;
Which made for a meeting with other Indians

By Mocassin Grapevine word reached them one day:
‘The old Chief (her Father) was wasting away’.
“I must go to see him, before he departs
She pleaded. Her husband agreed from the start.

And so they —together— returned to her kin
The family, rejoicing all welcomed them in.
The old Chief, now feeble, accepted the man
Who made off with his daughter, but honoured her hand.

He had proved her protector, the old Chief acquiesced,
And sounded the drums to announce a great Feast.
Reunited with family, they now could abide,
And join ever after at the Home fire-side

He is a horse of some renown
He never let his master down…
For 20 years he journeyed mountain trails,
When he was crowding 31,
his span of life was almost done;
But his memory will live, in glowing tales

He would ride, or he would pack.
Many persons knew his back.
From little tots, up to the age of 83.
Then, in our humble gratitude, ·
we guaranteed his choice of food:
we turned him onto knee-deep clover, roaming free.
He had no buddy any more ….
all his friends had gone before;
he was a loner, in his field of clover hay.
It was the least that we could do
to make his fondest dreams come true,
and give him comfort, ’till his spirit passed away.

It was a bright Chilcotin morn
on the day that he was born,
and we sure were seeing spots before our eyes!
He was a treasure, to be sure,
and more than we had bargained for.
We were delighted to be handed such a prize.

He was cute and very smart,
quite out-going from the start;
“Come and see me,” we would say, and he would come.
So that is how he got his name
on his merry road to fame;
he’d even kiss, –and shake a hoof, the little bum!

Though herding cattle was his game,
he’d do anything we’d name;
we could load him with a pack and turn him loose.
If a narrow trail he found,
he’d back out and go around.
How we marvelled at his little paint cayuse.

And riding under azure skies
up to our Mountain Paradise,
with a lady with an artificial limb;
he was trustworthy, kind and sweet,
and careful where he put his feet
as he bore her safely up to Heavens’ Rim.

We found him, cashing in his cheques
on his Home Ground, the Circle X,
as he hit the trail to Horse Eternity.
He’s done his job. And done it well
there’s a pasture for old ponies, such as he…

The rain came down like never before
‘Till the water ran in at our back door.
Then it turned to snow and was two foot deep
Before Ma and I could even get to sleep.

That November storm howled a lousy tune …
We had to feed cattle two months too soon
The haystacks smoked—they were soaking wet,
They heated and moulded right quick, you bet!
We broke out the stacks and spread ’em around,
Our cattle and horses were all snow-bound
Couldn’t hardly move in the heavy snow
Then the temperature dropped to 15 below!

With snow like this we’ve had to plow …
You can’t put snowshoes on every cow!
The hay crop’s spoiled by half or more;
No wonder a rancher stays so poor.

Mr Fraser said, when he last came through,
“I’ll see what the government can do for you:
It’s sure a disaster, it seems to me;
There’s been nothing like it in our history.”

Well, we ordered grain to stretch the hay…
(The trucker promised he’d come… some day…)
This sure costs dough, four cents above prime,
Hope the banker’ll wait ’til shippin’ time.

Well, we dream of spring while we feed the herd;
Of help from the government there’s not a word….
If we make it through it’ll sure be fine
We’ll celebrate, come shippin’ time

Mr. Whelan came out to Williams Lake
Just to offer us cattlemen a break:
“A Marketing Board and a Subsidy
Should be Canada-wide to work’; said he.
“Just look what it’s done for milk and eggs!
It will put your Industry on its legs”

There’s too many cows, all the experts say;
When you try to sell ’em, it seems that way …
But a little PRE-PLANNING could erase this crime
So there’d be some CARS come shippin’ time.

Well, the snow’s still here, and now the calves are, too.
We’re the luckiest ranchers in the Cariboo;
We’ve still got our cows,—but not a dime …
Hope the prices improve, come Shippin’ Time.

I glanced at you, –and planned your fate:
The sun was low, the hour late
the wind was down—your luck the same!
I’d planned to torch your crumbled frame.

But something in your crippled stance
had caught, and held, my casual glance:
although you’re wasted, old, and thin,
your ridge-pole still will not give in!

Your roof collapsed some years ago
through sodden weight of Winter snow;
the sod returned, from whence it came,
washed slowly down by Summers’ rain

Your shakes are sprung, or blown away,
your underpinnings turned to clay,
your friendly door, prostrate at last;
but still your backbones’ standing fast!

I mused about those early days;
our Pioneers; their hardy ways;
when children played about your door;
their mother swept your one dirt floor;

Their father warmed you with the wood,
brought from the forest, where you stood
robust and cozy in the clear
and neighboured with the moose and deer.

Somehow that backbone made of wood
Can claim Chilcotin Brotherhood
With folks I know, who gave their all;
Now old and bent, refuse to fall.

I walked away in reverie…
Perhaps you’ll even outlast me!

It was late in November, and already quite chilly;
(what I’m going to relate is the fate of poor ‘Willie’)
now just hang on a moment there’s this story to tell
about being caught NAKED! when things don’t go so well.

Len, our neighbour, awoke; it was time to get up,
to build up the fire, and let out the pup.
His wife let out ‘,Willie’; (he had to go pee);
then she stoked up the fire for their morning tea.

Then, from outside there came one sharp bark, and a clatter;
she looked out the door to see what was the matter?
There, in the snow, lay their poor little pup
with ‘something’ on top that was eating him up!

With not a ‘stitch’ on, Len charged through the door!
(See? This story gets better! hang on; there’s still more … )
A half-grown cougar was there in the dark,
had his dog by its tonsils and was strangling its bark!

Without hesitation Len joined the fray:
his hands on its throat –in the old fashioned way.
— no time for a rifle; no time for a knife;
Len followed his instincts to save his dog’s life.

But, even while dying, that cat was no dummy!
— Up came his hind feet to tickle Len’s tummy!
A most ‘chilling encounter’ (as related to me).
Len threw the carcass aside and went in for that tea.

Born of the Western Seas,
You begin as a gentle breeze;
Then, channeled up Butte Inlet
You blusterly do as you please!

Bursting through canyons and trees
You descend upon Tatlayoko Lake;
Now as a Gale, full-blown,
Destruction and death in your wake ….
Small ranches lie in your path,
Their ‘toys’ all on display—¬
Such fun to rip off their roofs!
And spin fence-logs into hay!

My sheltered cottage crouched,
While you roared overhead
Like a banshee-ridden freight tram
Packing a common dread.

There stood a leaning Aspen
Of three-score years, forsooth;
By day I’d watch it sway
And scrape my bedroom roof.

Your power over me
Was transferred to that tree
Which, though beautiful to view,
Became a devil when you blew!

Its snaking branches writhed;
Its trunk would dip and sway;
It moaned and cried for mercy
While –at night– in bed I lay ….

That’s when I crouched in fear
Of that Monster overhead
That could come crashing through my roof
And pin me to my bed!

Then, on one calm day,
(With please and prayers from me)
Son Alex took his chain-saw
And scaled that lofty tree!

Dismembered bit by bit,
Each lowered to the ground
Oh! What a joy to know
The roof–at last–was sound!

Now blow, wind, blow,
While I remain aloof
You no longer pack the threat
to pulverize my roof!

Blow, Wind! Blow!!
Just do your level best!
Now, calm to bed I go;
My nightmare’s put to rest.

We’ve grown accustomed to your moods;
We’ve triple-spiked our roofs, of course.
But, God have mercy on our souls
Should you reach Tornado Force!