The Northerner's Call

I want to go to the north again, to the grip of its icy steel,
To summit the mighty Richardsons, and gaze on the river Peel.

For there I could stand as could ever a man; free, unburdened, alone,
And gaze cross a plain with nary a stain, cold and heartless as stone.

To the cold, cold north; no cattle nor fence, a land of aspen and pine,
Where meadows of mist and waters abrisk run into the Porcupine.

Down to the mighty Mackenzie it runs, that water both dirty and clear,
Rushing it must, for God only knows, how short is the summertime here.

There I could stand neath the midnight sun, stand as never before,
And hear whish and crackle and crisp as the land gives up its lore.

Here with the moose and the muskox, the fox and the wolf and the bear,
Living away from the pressures of men, on all that this desert will share.

For the days may be long but the season is short, and snows will soon as they must,
Come in so brittle, small and dry, in a skein that blows like a dust.

To go there in summer, in spring and in fall; I come in the in wintertime too,
Pulled as I am by the Northerners call, a call ringing vital and true.

Its ice and its chill, its mountains and till, rising up rugged and tall.
You must come to see me, you must, you must; you must come one and all.

For there I will see it, once more in my life; the icicle ocean spray,
Washing ashore where alone I will stand, forever, forever to stay.

To walk in the footsteps of giants would I, once more to the Beafort Sea,
Where there the hand of Franklin is reaching; reaching, reaching for me.