Coldfoot's warmth depends not on the sun;
ground beef blood and pallet fires bright red;
the snow is white, and also gray, and dun;
if hares bound quick, their quickness saves their head.
I have seen mountains cloaked in snowy white,
and strived to keep from frostbite on my cheeks;
and on some trails, incredulous delight --
frozen bogs asleep so nothing reeks.
I love to hear the wind through spruce boughs
though such a cold and restless, keening sound;
I did at long-last see a bull moose go;
my skis did schuss their tracks upon the ground.
This place, I think, is hidden treasure, rare
in form, and quite well-worn, beyond compare.
pretty mountains
out re-blazin' the trails
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