Teanaway Valley

An old Point Man phoned, “Do ya think you can do it?.  
Driving doggies and cows from the flanks of Mt. Stewart?"
Fattened on grass for a year they had stayed. 
“Move a river of horns down to Yakima Quay?”

I ride for the brand, (vaqueros are soldiers!). 
“Startin’ when?” I asked while I slurped on my Folger's.
“End of the week. We'll see you at camp?
Teanaway Forks, above 44 Ranch.”

I readied my tack, my bedroll and saddle
And a pony picked out I could trust in the battle. 
She knew what she faced, the dust and the sun 
And those ill-mannered beef just ready to run.

Drove my Gimmy and trailer up Gunny Sack Hill
And a left at Cle Elum , 'long the river until
I got into Roslyn , saw its graveyard beyond,
Unhitched and I gathered my thoughts in the dawn.

                Ya’see, the #4 Mine blew out in ‘09
                And, all dated the same, ten graves lay in line.
                Each man skipped the Army to work underground 
                Found eternal peace and never were found. 

                Twenty got out, when the fan house she blew 
                From an explosion of black damp allowed to accrue.
                Ten lives disappeared in the dust and the fumes
                And in the dark they were buried like in Brigadoon.

“No danger” said the ranger. We'd checked in at his shack,
So we followed the creek called the Salmon LaSac.
Then switched-back a wall up the Cascadian face,
Rose to the ridgetop, then quickened our pace .

Across scree covered side slopes the moon to our back
Now east of the mountains, snow on our track. 
But morning revealed in its dim welcome glow. 
The Teanaway River, amid knotwood and oaks. 

We pulled up in tandem and took in the site, 
A satisfied nicker, a break from the night.
While memories returned to the beauty once seen, 
The Teanaway Valley in autumn, a dream.

In the high mountain cirque it’s born from the snow 
Feeding bunchgrass and clover in the meadows below
Thru sunshine and shadow, it wanders along
and chatters and riffles on its course like a song.
 
It’s a song for the larks, for the heavenly choirs,
It’s sings for the homesteads and cattle and miners,
That tune brings a blessing from my ears to my soul.
A song from a valley that’s never been spoiled.


https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teanaway_River

Dedicated to the memory of Marty Robbins
Copyright © | Year Posted 2021

Poem

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Cunningham Avatar
April 19, 2021 at 8:40 AM
What an amazing journey you take the reader on ken, this is a brilliant write, love stories of the old west.A fave for me. I wrote one that became a trilogy after poets requested it, called 'A funny thing happened on the way to my hanging. Tom
Rone Avatar
April 19, 2021 at 8:49 AM
Thanks for the read!! My least-read piece! I've got two more installments: "Assembly and move out" plus "The drive and departure". that should keep this city boy busy.
Lamoureux Avatar
March 26, 2021 at 9:49 AM
Good storytelling. I like cowboy poetry. You are versatile.
Rone Avatar
March 26, 2021 at 11:38 AM
Well thank you so much Richard. The encouragement is much needed. And you have singlehandedly filled up my comment count. Thanks for that too. Keep up your good work.
Trifiatis Avatar
March 22, 2021 at 11:09 AM
A saga of epic proportions that captivates the reader with its beauty and rythm, my new friend Ken. Blessings.
Rone Avatar
April 20, 2021 at 10:29 AM
Thank you Demetrios. I hope you are well. I want to encourage you and pray that you will remain productive and healthy. - Ken
Devonshire Avatar
March 22, 2021 at 11:09 AM
Love the story behind this poem and the journey on which you take readers. You piqued my interest and I just looked up some photos of Teanaway Valley. A beautiful site! So glad it was never spoiled, Ken. Best wishes, Carolyn
Rone Avatar
April 20, 2021 at 10:28 AM
Thank you Carolyn. I am sorry for my belated response. I am impressed with your research. The first and last time I saw this valley was in my teens. I want to remember it that way.
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