Sixty Inch Trail
... We cut it out for sixty
But the moose read sixty six.
One of our good friends is a guide
and mountain man, Ryan Damstom from Jaffrey B.C. He is also a poet and
he wrote a poem called Sixty Inch Trail about a couple of moose hunters
who bring home a great moose. Every moose hunter dreams of a sixty inch
wide bull as the ultimate trophy.
This piece depicts a man with his
pack-horses making their way down a steep switch-back trail. An
experienced pack-horse will carefully gauge the width of his pack and
rarely get caught in a tight spot. The last pack-horse has a set back
when he realises he can't fit between two trees. His pig-tail tie has
broken off the other pack saddle and the rider realizes he has to go
back and widen the trail to sixty six!
Limited edition /25
31 inches high
31 inches wide
22 inches deep
Free standing or to be hung on a very stout wall.
$11,000.00 cdn.
Sixty Inch Trail - by Ryan Damstrom
It was rainin’ bloody awful
The day that we left camp,
Our sunshine was forgotten
Our hats already damp.
We saddled tired horses,
We warmed up cold bits,
We tailed-tied a packhorse
That was sure to raise a fit.
We tightened up our cinches,
Our chaps were wettin’ through,
We led our cautious horses
On a trail that felt like glue.
After ridin’ for forever,
The rain still slowing not,
We came upon a hillside
And chose this place to spot.
We tied our horse’s heads down
And took cover under trees,
We tried to shake the rain off
And hoped like hell we didn’t freeze.
It seemed just shy of a lifetime
But the rain began to slow,
Another twenty minutes
And by God our sun would show.
Well now we got to glassin’
And the land it came to life,
The birds began a talkin’
As I sharpened up my knife.
Then something stirred below us
As I saw the color of a horn,
My God, it was a
moose
Not a finer one was born.
Well we watched him for an hour
As we planned that crucial stalk,
The wind was in our faces
And our words were spoken not.
After fightin’ through the shin-tangle
And walkin’ awful slow,
I gave the moose a welcome call,
As my hunter dealt the blow.
His shot tore through the boiler room
That moose didn’t stand a chance,
He never knew what hit him,
Nor even time to glance.
Well hands were busy shaking
And our pictures spoke the words,
We started in on packin’,
Leaving nothing for the birds.
We threw our diamond nice and clean
And tightened down our loads,
We climbed up in our saddles
Before we hit the road.
We’d cut that trail the year before.
And hoped it would prove its worth,
And now we were a ridin’,
The horns showed massive girth.
But we’d made a tiny error
And that trail we’d have to fix,
We cut it out for sixty
But the horns read sixty-six.
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