The High Country

[Stephen Whiteside]

Another high country poem. Should be something here to upset everybody. Again, written many years ago.


The High Country

© Stephen Whiteside

When I was but a youngster on my father’s trousered knee,
I listened to his childhood tales, and listened eagerly,
As he told me how he wandered long, and how he wandered free
In the empty, silent wilderness they call the high country.

For then I was young, and I treasured my dreams.
How different from life in the 80s it seems.
Come hear, lads, or hearken,
How fantasies darken,
And learn how it all fell away at the seams.

With nothing but his pouch and pipe, his whiskey flask and pack,
From Bogong through to Feathertop, he followed every track.
He slept beneath the stars at night, or built a bivouac.
He could wander for a fortnight, and it wouldn’t cost a zac.

For living was simple, the world it was raw,
And he marvelled at each of the mountains he saw,
But how times have altered.
How Mankind has faltered.
Now it takes more than Nature to fill folk with awe.

The cattle were the first to strike, in search of summer feeds.
They trod the fresh Spring growth to slush, and brought in foreign weeds,
And though the stockmen settled first the land with handsome deeds,
It’s them that’s part responsible for why this land now bleeds.

For horses and cattle and dogs have their place,
And barbed-wire fences have minimal grace.
They slice up a mountain
Like wounds beyond countin’,
And mar the high country like scars on a face.

The second thoughtless crude attack was launched against the trees,
As chain-saws bared their fangs of steel, and sliced them up with ease.
‘Twas simple work to raze a mighty forest to its knees.
What chance do silent mountains have against such men as these?

So profit and industry tightens its grip.
I see naked hill-sides, and bite on my lip.
The saws weave their magic,
So evil, so tragic,
As acres of gum trees are slaughtered for chip.

Now people use the mountain-sides for fast, exciting sport,
Instead of roaming quietly and slowly as they ought.
They bring their urban standards in and build a flash resort,
And graders, roads and ski lifts to the high country are brought.

No longer in darkness the silent escape.
The spell is destroyed by a rock’n’roll tape.
Ridges are polished,
And forests demolished.
Some call it progress. I call it rape.

The plea was simple. Save the Alps. Declare them National Park,
And a minister was needed with a small creative spark;
A man of principle, the strength of will to make a mark.
Well, the Alps are now protected but, oh hell, the future’s dark.

They’re selling the valleys and saving the peaks.
A lot for the people in power it speaks.
They’re saving the top,
But the rest gets the chop.
Of cash-fashioned policy, how it all reeks.

Oh, I wish I was a youngster still, and on my father’s knee,
Listening to his childhood tales, and listening eagerly,
For small and scattered crops of bush are all that wait for me,
And memories of a wilderness they called the high country.

For then I was young, and I treasured my dreams.
How different from life in the 80s it seems.
Come hear lads, oh hearken,
How fantasies darken,
And learn how it all fell away at the seams.

[Brenda Joy]

Beautiful Stephen and a poem that, with different imagery, could be applied to many of our wonderful 'once-remote' places.
At least it is good to express that we care.
Brenda

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thanks, Brenda.

[Neville Briggs]

It doesn't upset me Stephen, I think I understand your concerns about our stewardship of the environment .

[r.magnay]

...not sure that would raise the ire of anyone here Stephen, I found the structure interesting too, almost like a song. Interestingly though, man started changing the landscape in Australia long before livestock, introduced weeds and logging commenced....so who do we blame?

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thanks Neville, Ross.

[warooa]

On the topic of High Country cattle . . . herd on the news the other day that in the Colorado mountains they found several cows that had taken shelter from the cold and snow in a remote cabin and were frozen solid.
As it's a national park with no road access and a long way from anywhere the options to get rid of them (as they thaw and attract bears) have been narrowed down to burning them along with the hut or blowing them up.

Yes . . . the perils of cows in the high country.

Marty

ps. Enjoyed your poem Doc

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thanks, Warooa. Sad story.

[croc]

... Thora Herd would have fixed that one, no worries.

...c

[keats]

Stephen
As my Uncle once said at a High Country Preservation Protest

"If it moves - shoot it
If it don't then chop it down.
Stuff up all the conservationists
'Cause there'd be nothin' to conserve around."

He never made it to his Salient point.

God rest his beaten, mangled body.

Cheers

Neil