Once you truly leave our mechanized world behind, it’s like stepping back in time. The sounds and smells and rhythms of the land are the same as they were 200 years ago, or 2000 years. As you lie in your tent, listening to the music trees make as they rub against each other in the wind, you can feel a connection to all those who have heard those notes before.
Jack Pine ©Dave Hadfield
Long ago and far away I traveled back in early May,
Headed north to where the road got lost among the trees.
Paddled out upon a lake, a lonely kind of thirst to slake,
And camped that night along the shore and listened to the breeze.
And the Jack Pine, jack pine groan,
Hard as the rock — the earth’s old bones.
Hear the wind, the north wind moan,
And the jack pine, jack pine groan.
I dreamed a voyager stood there, sparkling eyes and tangled hair,
Told me of a life he’d lived 200 years ago,
He’d had 3 wives, a dozen sons, an iron back, a hundred songs,
And late at night he’d hear the wind from under his canot.
A Cree old man with ageless eyes, whispered next of ancient skies,
Spirit links between the creatures feathered, furred or finned,
And life along a river wild, alone except for wife and child,
Smoke a pipe, face the fire, and listen to the wind.
A trader with the Hudson Bay left his Scotland far away,
Was posted north and told me of the magic that it wove.
A pound of tea, a sack of flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder.
Seasons with the smell of fur, and evenings by the stove.
South again and home once more, it’s day to day, and nothing more,
And friends just smile about the north no matter what I say.
And true enough I love my home and no one’s healthy all alone,
But late at night I hear the wind — it never goes away.
[Chorus and end