Mountain Born
Mountain Born
Being mountain born in the days before modern man were always difficult and more often than not were full of tragedy and death. In my adventure novels I have a recurring theme about the pitfalls of living life near or above timberline. As a storyteller of the Colorado Mountains I have researched the history and have traveled the same trails of the mountain men of old. As I bask in the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, I sometimes forget how dying a silent and lonely death was the norm for those that venture into the Rockies or were mountain born. Here is one of those tales.
In the wind of one winter night a poor little baby is mountain born,
His mother struggled with a knife as the cord was shorn.
Being born of the mountain was always difficult when close to timberline,
Giving birth in the dead of a mountain winter was never a good sign.
As the snow flew – this was something she and her son didn’t need,
For her man was gone – the father who had planted the seed.
He had left the month before for he had a trap line to run,
She never knew a fall from his horse had killed him before he had barely begun.
Little to eat to make the new-born milk – and the baby’s mama cried,
Hoping her mountain man was on his way back; little did she know he had already died.
The wood bin that had been full when her man had left to trap – now was bare,
Odor of burning wood of her last fire as did the aroma of blood from the birth filled the air.
Outside the small cabin walls the mountain wind and northern snow ruled the night,
Little food, or wood, the mother cuddle with her son to fend off their woeful plight.
Her husband and the little one in her arms were everything her heart held dear.
Being mountain born was hardly ever fair—the tragedy of death was always near,
The mother weakened as the flow of blood of the birth had slowed but had not abated,
Without his mother’s milk the baby withered—the mother and child lives were fated.
As the last of the fire and the warmth faded the bitter and silent cold crept in,
It was not if the specter of death would come; it was just a matter of when.
Tears in the mother’s eyes and a blanket filled her hand; being mountain born was full of strife,
With love and the last will of her life the baby’s dying mother took her only baby’s life.
Kurt James
Kurt James © 2018
Where to purchase Kurt James novels and books:
https://www.amazon.com/Kurt-James/e/B01DTOJ7KC/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1528823818&sr=8-1
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So heart-rending and true to life back in those days. Great write, Kurt, and so emotive.
Life in those days was never fair with the lives of yourself or your love ones fated to the simplest things such as a bad cold or a fall from a horse. Thanks for stopping by to read a tale of mine Phyllis.
A very express-full sad story ending in the death of all. The struggles of the mountain men and woman who pioneered the vast terrain were strong, tough and steadfast peoples. How sad not only to lose the man and love of your life, but to lose your baby along with your own. There are so many stories to be told of these strong peoples of the mountains and I know you have many yet to be told in your fine work Kurt, keep writing, we your fans are reading them. May the Colorado Rockies keep your pen sharp and ready to soar with the eagles, as you give us more of your fine work and stories waiting to be set free from your strong spirit my friend.
You always inspire me Vincent with your observation and comments on my work. Thank you for that. The men and women that walked the mountains before me were a hardy lot, because they had to be. I for one can only write about their lives as feel it was. I love the tales of the mountains and the mountain men and those that loved them. May they all rest in peace.
Very nice Kurt , I am always heart stricken by the tragedies that so many people share through life today but particularly in yesteryears , the tragedies that befell these isolationists is very interesting to me , Not too far from you in Utah I visited the homeland of a lady who ran her own cattle ranch far back in the foothills of the Dinosaur National Park in the eighteen hundreds , she was rumored to have been close with Butch Cassidy in fact , why I can’t think of her name at the moment bugs me but she was this kind of woman . She lived and nearly died pretty much alone miles from the nearest town . Great writing , Merry Christmas to you and yours !
Thanks Ed for stopping by and commenting. I have walked and traveled these very same trails that the mountain men walked. I visit the ghost towns and read the epitaph’s that are etched on the gravestones and wooden crosses. Not that it helps much, but I try not to let their stories and their lives fade into the dust and wind. Merry Christmas to you as well!
Tragic but unfortunately reality – very moving and sad
Ralph you are back and I am glad you stopped by for a spell… I enjoyed your trip to Egypt through your photos and eyes. It seemed you and yours were having the time of your life.
A well written tale of mountain life. A great read! Jamie
Thank you Jamie for stopping by my campfire for a tale of the mountain. Glad you enjoyed it.