The Cremation of Sam McGee *Status: unknown* LbNA #23630 (ARCHIVED)
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Add Location| Owner: | Connfederate  |
|---|---|
| Plant date: | Jul 10, 2006 |
| Location: | |
| City: | Glastonbury |
| County: | Hartford |
| State: | Connecticut |
| Boxes: | 1 |
| Found by: | enjoinder |
|---|---|
| Last found: | Feb 28, 2009 |
| Status: | FFFFFFFFFFm |
| Last edited: | Oct 1, 2018 |
The Cremation of Sam McGee **30.Sept.18--MISSING, Sam is gone.**
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 cursed 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.
From "Tales of the Yukon and Other Verses"
By Robert W. Service
C. 1916, Basse and Co.
www.robertwservice.com/
____________________________________________________________
BYOInk: there is no pen or stamp pad; bring red, orange, yellow, brown, grey and black markers.
Letterbox Difficulty Rating:
Difficulty Rating = 3
Terrain Rating = 3
Thanx to Silent Doug; see: www.letterboxing.info/rating/
While not a long hike, it IS *challenging*.
The trail is bad, WHERE ONE EXISTS (it peters-out about half-way to the letterbox) and the terrain is composed of scattered erratics of various sizes. The brush can be thick, the area is somewhat boggy and prone to flooding.
Mosquitos, Deer Flies, AND DEER TICKS were in abundance on the day I planted; Poison Ivy was not bad but lurks in places, too.
Timber Rattlesnakes may live in the area, 'though I've never seen one and have been in and around the area many times over the years. **Update: 12.June 2009 I saw a Timber Rattler (more than a mile away, as the crow flies, from Sam McGee) in another area of the forest.** The Timber Rattlesnake is a CT endangered species, if you are fortunate enough to see one, PLEASE DO NOT HARM IT.
Wear flourescent orange during hunting seasons (check the CT DEP website for particulars).
Compass bearings are magnetic and a pace equals two (2) steps.
*17th.Dec. '06: Based on the comments in the log by the 1/2 dozen finders (thus far), this 'box is rather challenging. I found two ticks on me after checking the 'box today.
___________________________________________________________
From Rte. 2 East or West take exit 10. Head South on Rte. 83 to a stop sign. Turn Left onto New London Tpke. to another stop sign, then turn Right onto Country Club Rd.
As you approach the top of the hill, turn Left onto Mott Hill Rd. Follow Mott Hill Rd. over a small one-lane bridge and the pavement will end. Continue on until you see a sign for Del Reeves Rd.
From the Del Reeves Rd. sign post, drive about 1 Km to find a pond: "Lac Lebarge". Find a place to park along the side of the road, and walk to the Eastern end of the dam at the NE corner of the pond.
Facing the pond you will see a faint footpath following along the edge of the water. Strike roughly SW on this trace.
Eventually, as you approach the far end of Lac Labarge, the trace fades away but continue on; always with the water on your right.
Cross two brooks (one may be seasonal) that feed Lac Labarge and look for a "Croix d'Castor" on a rock at its marge.
The Alice May lays about 10 paces at 10° from the Croix d'Castor, the remains of Sam McGee are in the back of the derelict's boiler furnace.
Please avoid making or at least try to conceal social trails to the letterbox--especially in mud or snow!
As the area is subject to flooding, please double-bag the log, carefully reseal the Lock N Lock type box, and rehide the letterbox exactly where it was placed, covering it well.
Please contact the placer if you find any problems.
Thank You, Connfederate
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 cursed 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.
From "Tales of the Yukon and Other Verses"
By Robert W. Service
C. 1916, Basse and Co.
www.robertwservice.com/
____________________________________________________________
BYOInk: there is no pen or stamp pad; bring red, orange, yellow, brown, grey and black markers.
Letterbox Difficulty Rating:
Difficulty Rating = 3
Terrain Rating = 3
Thanx to Silent Doug; see: www.letterboxing.info/rating/
While not a long hike, it IS *challenging*.
The trail is bad, WHERE ONE EXISTS (it peters-out about half-way to the letterbox) and the terrain is composed of scattered erratics of various sizes. The brush can be thick, the area is somewhat boggy and prone to flooding.
Mosquitos, Deer Flies, AND DEER TICKS were in abundance on the day I planted; Poison Ivy was not bad but lurks in places, too.
Timber Rattlesnakes may live in the area, 'though I've never seen one and have been in and around the area many times over the years. **Update: 12.June 2009 I saw a Timber Rattler (more than a mile away, as the crow flies, from Sam McGee) in another area of the forest.** The Timber Rattlesnake is a CT endangered species, if you are fortunate enough to see one, PLEASE DO NOT HARM IT.
Wear flourescent orange during hunting seasons (check the CT DEP website for particulars).
Compass bearings are magnetic and a pace equals two (2) steps.
*17th.Dec. '06: Based on the comments in the log by the 1/2 dozen finders (thus far), this 'box is rather challenging. I found two ticks on me after checking the 'box today.
___________________________________________________________
From Rte. 2 East or West take exit 10. Head South on Rte. 83 to a stop sign. Turn Left onto New London Tpke. to another stop sign, then turn Right onto Country Club Rd.
As you approach the top of the hill, turn Left onto Mott Hill Rd. Follow Mott Hill Rd. over a small one-lane bridge and the pavement will end. Continue on until you see a sign for Del Reeves Rd.
From the Del Reeves Rd. sign post, drive about 1 Km to find a pond: "Lac Lebarge". Find a place to park along the side of the road, and walk to the Eastern end of the dam at the NE corner of the pond.
Facing the pond you will see a faint footpath following along the edge of the water. Strike roughly SW on this trace.
Eventually, as you approach the far end of Lac Labarge, the trace fades away but continue on; always with the water on your right.
Cross two brooks (one may be seasonal) that feed Lac Labarge and look for a "Croix d'Castor" on a rock at its marge.
The Alice May lays about 10 paces at 10° from the Croix d'Castor, the remains of Sam McGee are in the back of the derelict's boiler furnace.
Please avoid making or at least try to conceal social trails to the letterbox--especially in mud or snow!
As the area is subject to flooding, please double-bag the log, carefully reseal the Lock N Lock type box, and rehide the letterbox exactly where it was placed, covering it well.
Please contact the placer if you find any problems.
Thank You, Connfederate