by Alf Bilton
Alf Bilton's Poetry Site

To the hills above Whitehorse, that cradle Fish Lake,
Came a short gritty woman for the home she would make.
With two outridin' daughters, one 'fore an' one aft
Of her team an' ol' wagon, though some thought her daft,
She trekked up the Alcan with rubber-shod stock;
Cuttin' horseshoes from tires so the horses could walk
All those miles on the highway without splittin' hooves;
Set a record in passin' for bold Northern moves.
On a sorrel called Red Fox she prowled the whole land,
What was lackin' in stature, they made up in sand;
Blazin' trails we still follow right through to Primrose
When we're takin' horses where better grass grows.
She dragged up a fam'ly, can't really say raised,
Her methods were different an' not often praised;
They turned out a good bunch, with grit an' stout hearts;
Some took to her lifestyle an' some, other arts.
Her living room forest, her carpet fresh snow,
For a ceiling she'd bright lights that Northerners know;
For a pantry, the wildlife, or ridin' to town
For a shower an' shop some, then turn right aroun'
An' back to the mountain, the lake, an' the chores;
To trail ridin' tourists, an' dude saddle sores.

In the hills above Whitehorse, that cradle Fish Lake,
There's a grave an' a marker you might think is fake;
They are real as the blue tint in clear northern air,
Just as real as the cowgirl that came to rest there.

Copyright © May 2005 by Alf Bilton