The Cremation of Sam McGee

Turning Feral Devotional - Day 69

Day 69: There are few poems that speak to me on a visceral level. ‘Knight in the Panthers Skin”, “Do not go gently into that good night,” and a new addition “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” As with all good things these poems, writings, and philosophical excerpts don’t just randomly find there way to me, but are often sent by trusted confidants who know my love of well written prose.

“The Cremation of Sam McGee” is a new entrant into my orbit and it’s a special one because it was recommended by a trapper that I look up to. She recounted to me that as a child she would be out in the deep backcountry helping her father run his traplines. Then each night after a long day of work, surrounded by the great nothingness of the wilderness, her father and trapping buddies would sit in the wall tent and read unique poems around the wood burning stove. To her “The Cremation of Sam McGee” wasn’t just a fun poem about backwood oddities of yesteryear, but rather a kinetic etched memory that she would carry with her forever… A poem that held the power to pull back fond memories of a time spent in solitude with her dad doing the tough work of a backcountry fur trader.

As a father, those stories bring me joy and motivate me to create similar experiences for my children. Yes, carrying kids on a trapline is hard. Yes, curating an environment that is safe is challenging. Yes, putting kids first can result in a much lower fur yield… but, getting a chance to paint a portrait of joy that my children can carry with them and remember me by, forever, is critical. Nothing is guaranteed in this life and though I yearn for a long ride on this earth, there are never any guarantees… and the lasting memories I build with my kids will be visceral, real, and not etched through the screen of a phone or tablet.

I hope you enjoy the poetry of Robert Service as much as I have, and maybe think of sharing it with your kids while you all sitting around an open camp fire!

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

      By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

      That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

      But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

      I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;

It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

      By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

      That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

      But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

      I cremated Sam McGee.

Daily Prompt:  Do you have any vivid memories of time with your family as a child? What experiences were the most impactful?:

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Motivatonal Passage:

"If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people."

Nhat Hanh

Rewilding Action: So, one thing that is a game changer in providing an offensive approach to harvesting meat and fur are thermal scopes. In a world where you can see at night and others can’t, you have a distinct advantage. Now, there are many regulations and state-by-state varies on what type of quarry you can take at night with thermal optics, but investing in a nice set of thermals or NVGs could make all the difference in a survival situation. Some that I have been getting a lot of great feedback on are are the trijicon Reap-IR and IRay Clip On, but many other great brands are popping up every year. Take a look around and if your budget allows, take the dive in and you won’t regret it.