some poems that I have written

At the turn of the last century my grandfather's brother took off to the Yukon to see whether he could hit "Pay Dirt" in the great gold rush.

To finance his trip he had with him the week's takings which he had stolen from the public house where he worked in county Durham.

Next week I'm travelling in his footsteps up to Dawson City (all legally paid for). You won't be hearing from me for a week but I"ll leave you with this poem which I wrote the last time I was "North of Sixty" when I was panning for a different sort of 'gold'.
                            
                                  The Dalton Trail.

It's from Fairbanks up to Deadhorse where the oil spurts rich and black.
It's across the rolling Tundra and the endless white out-back.
It fords the mighty Yukon and scales the Chandolar Shelf.
It's called the Dalton Highway and it brings Alaska wealth.

You have heard of Robert Service and you wonder what became of the legends of the Klondike and the men he brought to fame.
I have news for you my brothers, they are still alive and hale.
They're the men who run the freight-line  along the Dalton Trail.

They're a breed that's set apart from a world that shrinks from risks.
They're a brotherhood of roughnecks with whiskers on their cheeks.
They've been frozen by the blizzard and beaten by the gale.
They're a special band of comrades and they work the Dalton Trail.

You may never read about them but they're heroes in our land.
They haul the pipes and derricks and the tons of drilling sand.
The plywood and the concrete, the 'dozers and the rail,
they're the men who keep things moving along the Dalton Trail.

There's Preacher Jim from Fairbanks.There's Alan, Gord and Dale.
There's Don, who looks like Garfield, who hauls the food and mail.
There's Lester out from Livengood who pulled his teeth with pliers.
He's the man who twists the wrenches and changes torn up tires.
There's Barry on the dispatch, there's Georgie and there's Bill,
There's Flip the man from Coldfoot who gave his truck a spill.
There's Sasquatch John from New York with brawny Tattooed frame.
They're from the poems of Service and they've come to life again.

So when you fill your car with gasoline or turn the heating up.
When you ride the Big Bird skyward as you stir your coffee cup:
Give thought to the men who drive those rigs beneath the Northern Lights,
with frozen toes and fingers, eyes red from sleepless nights.
And thank the Lord in Heaven who made this kind of male.
The one who keeps it moving along the Dalton Trail.

I met these boys this Summer and I'm now a richer man.
It was wealth not found in pipeline oil nor in a sourdough pan.
But let me tell you plainly( and the half has not been told)
It was in the men of the Dalton Trail that I found ALASKAN GOLD. (Acts 8: 26 - 27)

See you in ten days time.
Ian