The Other Side of the Mountains

 Dedicated to Rusty, d. January 22, 2007

I’ve lived for years by the ocean,

In a house where I chose to hide…

Where beautiful views of the mountains,

Only showed their westerly side.

I headed southeast into Oregon,

Passed Hard Luck and Dead Man Hill;

Traveled the Old Emigrant Trail,

Where a cabin or two stand still.

The sounds of the Oregon Trail,

Are no longer the wagon train song,

But cowboys singing for Jesus;

Trucker caravans three miles long.

Ontario is the end of Lewis and Clark,

Satisfying the white man’s yearn.

With or without Sakajawaya,

I would rather make a u-turn.

Today I crossed the Snake River,

Traversed miles of sage brush and fennel,

My motel has a modern Jacuzzi,

But Rusty, we’re both in a kennel. 

Footnote:   I took this trip to Ontario, Oregon to have my hands operated on and it was the first time I had my dog boarded in 13 years. It was a life changing year and I walked away from a great job, because I decided life was too short to allow it to be trivialized.