The wind sweeps chill across the alpine meadows,
The tinkling stream's by frosty fingers stilled,
The fir trees huddle near their crouching shadows,
The whole, high world by golden moonlight's filled.
On Cushman Crest a vagrant coyote quavers;
His seranade is distance-faint, though clear.
The tang of lowland pine and cedar flavors
The breeze that flows from ice-worn canyons sheer.
The foothills lie below, a lava ocean,
With valley troughs and silvered crests so high.
Saint Helens, filmy clad, and bold Mount Adams
Are islands dim against the southern sky.
The Queenly Mountain, etched in silent grandeur,
Is clad in glacial robes and snow-field shroud;
Her garments moon-revealed in glistening splendor,
Her features hidden by a lacy cloud.
The Kautz sleeps soundly in its gloomy shadows,
No dust-grimed snow is seen, nor snowslide scars;
Gibraltar towers high above his fellows,
And Point Success stands proud among the stars.
Natt Dodge, Ranger-naturalist