For thirty years he wandered,
For reasons never pondered.
From Three Forks down to Taos,
Through mountains so grandiose.
Always one more mountain,
Too many for the countin.
Met Bridger and Kit Carson,
Narcissa and her Parson.
Took a Cheyenne wife,
Tried to make a life.
The Pox took her away,
Still grieving to this day.
Went to one last rendezvous,
The beaver trade was through.
The mountains were his home,
There’s no place left to roam.
Packed up his possibles,
A few pelts and his woes.
Booked passage on the Queen,
Biggest boat he’d ever seen.
When St Louis came in sight,
It didn’t seem quite right.
You can’t sleep beneath the stars,
On downtown boulevards,
He thought he’d settle down,
But not in some big old town.
Bought a farm, a horse, a cow,
And spent his days behind a plow.
The trail would end for him,
Far from the canyon’s rim.
He had given us his best,
And opened up the West.
LDT July 28, ‘26
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