The climb was steep so I paused a while,

To give my horse a break.

In a glade of an ancient Douglas fir,

On the ridge above Stuart Lake.

Nearly every where I look from here,

I see vast tracts of bug killed pine,

 Planted after they logged the fir,

To speed up the next harvest time.

They can blame on global warming,

But I think it’s got more to do with greed,

That destroyed a pristine habitat,

And replaced it with a weed.

There’s a story of survival,

A lesson to be learned,

In the fire scars of an ancient fir,

Been scorched ten times,

But never burned!

Mike Puhallo

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