Trail Tale
It was years ago, in the dead of winter,
When the wanderlust chose to strike.
So we kissed our wives, bid our children goodbye,
And headed North, for a hike.
As we started our journey, a storm formed around us...
The wind began to blow,
But we laughed at the weather as we shouldered our packs
And headed off into the snow.
We chose for our route an old railroad bed...
A ghost from days long passed,
When trains hauled out trees that were torn from the mountains
By the men of the lumbering camps.
The trains and the rails had long since vanished,
But the way through the woods still remained.
One final long scar, an insult unhealed,
Which the forest had not yet reclaimed.
The tempest grew worse as the hours passed by,
And snow covered over the ground.
From far up the valley we could hear the storm growing,
And our hearts turned to ice at the sound.
The howl of the wind rose along with the storm,
'Til it sounded like some kind of scream.
Then out of the darkness, a bright light appeared...
What we saw next we couldn't believe.
A steam locomotive, belching cinders and smoke,
Was racing toward the spot where we stood.
A lunatic must have had hold of the throttle...
It was going as fast as it could.
For a moment we stood there, too stunned to move,
In the path of the hellish machine.
Then its steam whistle shrieked and we leapt to the side,
Looking back at the spot where we'd been.
As the engine roared past, like an avalanche of iron,
A lightning bolt lit up the night.
In the flash was revealed a horrible scene...
'Til I die I'll remember the sight.
Just back of the cab were men locked in struggle…
One of them pleaded and begged.
His screams filled the night as the others held him down,
While one of them sawed off his leg.
The surgery finished, the surgeon arose
And hurled the limb from the train.
It was coming right at us - we screamed and we ducked...
And the forest was empty again.
No sign of the engine, no sign of the men,
No sign of the tracks or the light.
We stood, numb and dazed, then hitched up our packs,
And silently finished our hike.
A fire was burning when we reached the shelter
And a man sat outside by the blaze.
The fire, he said, was a gift from the lightning,
As he poked with a stick at the flames.
He nodded his head as we told him our story,
"Hank Slater," he said, "was his name.
On a night just like this, some 50 years past,
He lost more than a leg on that train.
He'd been out with his ax when the storm came upon him,
And the tree he was cutting came down.
The wind blew it sideways, and Hank tried to run,
But it caught him as it crashed to the ground.
His friends heard his cry and ran into the snow,
They found him pinned under the tree.
His leg had been crushed but he still clung to life,
And they rushed to set him free.
The train and the doctor were both standing by
When they carried Hank out of the woods.
They wasted no time as they loaded him on
And sped off as fast as they could.
His condition got worse, and soon it was clear
They'd never make it in time.
The doc shook his head and said, 'Sorry Hank,
That leg has to go, or you'll die.'
Now Hank went crazy when he heard the news.
'Just leave me the way that I am.
If you can't save the leg, then don't bother with me.
I won't live as half of a man.'
The surgeon ignored him and went to his work,
In the end though he labored in vain.
Despite all his efforts, he still couldn't save him...
Hank died on the back of that train.
A coffin was ready a couple days later
And they lowered Hank into the ground.
If you know where to look, you can see where he's buried.
But his leg...well it never was found."
His story completed, the speaker turned silent,
And stared at the fire's dying light.
We drifted to sleep on our beds in the shelter,
While he sat alone in the night.
When the next morning came, our companion was gone,
But the snow bore no trace of his tracks.
We knew then that Hank was still there in the woods
And we wished him good luck as we packed.
Now some folks say that the woods are peaceful,
But that ain't necessarily so.
There's pain and fear going back through the ages,
And many a wandering soul.
There are ghosts in the mountains, so watch your step,
And close your tent up tight.
Keep watch on the darkness just outside your fire,
There are ghosts in the mountains tonight!
Note: This was inspired by seven visits over a ten year period to Desolation Shelter, a lean-to deep within the Pemigewasset Wilderness in NH. The shelter was removed in 1997.
