Ploughman of the Moon

At a recent estate sale, I found a auto-biography of Robert Service, entitled Ploughman of the Moon. Reading his book harks back to an earlier prose style that, at times, tends to run on. I am content to dream and remember my times in Alaska and how much I would love to go back again.

It was definitely Alaska that made flying so important to me. But this poem, in particular, brings back good friends, Petersburg Creek, the entire Southeast area, the float planes, the big rolypoly seals on the boat decks, the giant icebergs from the LaConte glacier......

Shooting the halibut to death with a .357, the endless fog in Juneau, cooking in  the gold mine camp... the thigh-deep muskeg, lots of friends. I think I made more friends in Alaska than anywhere else.

"There are strange things done in the midnight sun...by the men that moil for gold. ....The northern lights have seen queer sights but the queerest they ever did see....     was that night on the marge of Lake Labarge... I cremated Sam McGee."



Another tidbit from Service's book.