The Song of the Waters

     It had been a pleasant morning as the old cowboy just rode seemingly aimlessly thru this magnificent Yellowstone country, the songs of his youth playing in his memories. As he sat above the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone; and looked across the waters, the last song his dad had played on his old violin before riding off to war played gently in his mind.

     It seemed as if the river below, the tumbling falls all sang a very special song; for it t’was ‘The Hurlers March’ that seemed to echo across that mighty chasm in the crisp clear mountain air. As his gaze gathered in the marvelous things almighty God had formed; his eye once again caught that faint vision which was drawing him on in his quest.

     All the violence had once again run out of his soul, the years of loneliness passed behind, and only the calling voice of his true love possessed the soul of the old cowboy. His thoughts were on a trail to the west. He had heard stories about the Mormon settlements in Utah around a place called Ogden. A safe trail running west from there was said to cross the high desert country of Nevada into the great Sierras. These were the western mountains guarding the gold country of California.

     A man in Denver had once told him of a high mountain pass through those mountains that went by a crystal clear lake up above 6,000 feet, a place the Modoc called Tahoe. The cowboy knew this was the time to see if all those tales of the western trails were true, for this was his first trip west of the Rockies. With his God given soul mate’s vision burned deep in his heart, he turned to saddle up…

© 2003/2010 ~ David L. Griffith

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