Appendix I — Young Men Camping in Yellowstone Wilderness
An adaptation of Rudyard Kipling’s
“The Feet of the Young Men”
By Merrill D. Beal
When Yellowstone Park is opened then the smokes of council rise,
Pleasant smokes ’ere yet twixt trail and trail they choose.
Then the ropes and girths are tested while they pack their last supplies,
Now the young men head for camps beyond the Tetons!
Faith will lead them to those altars, hope will light them to that shrine,
Pilot knobs will safely guide them to their goal.
They must go, go, go, away from home!
On the summit of the world they’re overdue.
Away! The trail is clear before you,
When the old spring fret comes o’er you
And the Red Gods call for you!
They will see the beaver falling and hear the white swan calling,
They’ll behold the fishhawk fumble as bald eagle takes a tumble to rob him of his haul.
They will lie alone to hear the wild geese cry.
They may watch the blacktail mating as they work the chosen waters where the mackinaw are waiting
And the cutthroats jumping crazy for the fly!
They must go, go, go, away from here!
On the summit of the world they’re overdue.
Begone! The way is clear before you
When the old spring fret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
They will see the lakeside lilies where the bull moose meets the cow,
Or maybe silver grizzlies nurse the sow.
They must climb the blue-roofed Rockies and observe that windy rift
Where the baffling mountain eddies chop and change.
They will learn the long day’s patience, belly down on talus drift,
And hear the thud of bison on the range.
It is there that they are going where the bighorn and the ewes lie,
To a trusty, nimble ranger that they know;
They have sworn an oath to keep it on the brink of Mitsiadazi
For the Red Gods call them out and they must go.
Let them go, go, go, away from home!
On the summit of the world they’re overdue.
Be off! The trail is clear before you
When the old spring fret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods make their medicine again.
“So it’s onward ponies, sally, this is not the place to dally!”
For the young men’s thoughts are turning to a camp of special yearning,
Hidden in a hanging valley.
They must find that blackened timber, they must head that racing stream,
With its raw, right-angled log jam at the end,
And a bar of sun-warmed gravel where a lad can bask and dream
To the click of shod canoe poles ’round the bend.
It is there that they are going with their rods and reels and traces,
With a silent, smoky packer that they know;
To their beds of fleecy fir-mat with the star light on their faces,
All are ready now to hold the evening show.
So they go, go, go, away from here!
On the summit of the world they’re overdue.
So long! The trail is clear before you,
When the old spring fret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call you forth and you must go!
In the afterglow of twilight, tales of wonder find their voice,
Trapping, fighting, robbing, poaching yield a choice:
There’s John Colter’s mighty run and Jim Bridger’s towering fun,
There’s Everts’ five-week fast and Ed Trafton’s crimson past.
There’s George Cowan’s rugged vim; there’s Buckskin Charley,
Beaver Dick and Yankee Jim!
Nez Percé Joseph’s flight and capture will fill each soul with rapture
In this camp of keen desire and pure delight.
Let them go, go, go, away from home!
On the summit of the world they’re overdue.
Away! The trail is clear before you
When the old spring fret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods mix their medicine again.
When the mountain yarns cease flowing and the night is in the glowing, conversation wanes.
Then a sudden clap of thunder makes them huddle up the number to fend against the rains.
When the fleeting squalls are over and the clouds ride high and fair,
They will hear the lodgepole crackle and inhale the pine-sap air.
Then bacon scent and wood smoke will attract an eager bear,
He will grunt and sniff and gurgle as he wends nocturnal rounds.
As darkness dims youth’s vision, so sleep crowds out all sounds,
But the eerie detonation of the bull elk’s morning call
Will waken them from slumber by a singing water fall.
Hence, they go, go, go, away from here!
On the summit of the world they’re overdue.
Carry on! The trail is clear before you
When the old spring fret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
Unto each the voice and vision, unto each his hunch and sign,
Lonely geyser in a basin, misty sweat bath ’neath a pine.
Unto each a lad who knows his naked soul!
Unto each a rainbow arching through a window in the sky,
While the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap by.
It is there that they are going to a region that they know,
Where the sign betrays the badger and the shaggy buffalo.
Where the trail runs out in breccia midst rock forests row on row.
It is there life glides serenely without conduct that’s unseemly,
In a land where thoughts and feelings overflow.
Quick! Ah, heave the camp kit over!
For the Red Gods call them forth and they must go.
Let them go, go, go, away from home!
On the summit of the world they’re overdue.
Farewell! The trail is clear before you
When the old spring fret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods mix their medicine once more.