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.
[Illustration: Photo by Jack Young _Young men camping in Yellowstone_]
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.