Merry Holiday, everyone…
The Appalachian Trail Night Before Christmas
(with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)
Twas the night before Christmas and all up the trail
Not a creature was walking, not even a snail
The boots were hung by the chimney with care
In hopes the trail angel soon would be there
The thrus were nestled all snug in their tights
While visions of Advil danced in their nights
And mamma in her windstopper and I in my touque
Had just lain down so that we wouldn’t puke
When out on the trail there arose such a ruckus
I jumped out of bed and yelled, “What the heckus?!”
Away to the window I flew like a dork
Tore open the tarp and peered into the dark
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen slush
Gave the luster of ice on every low bush
When, what to my wandering eyes should be apparent
But a SOBO in a sleigh, pulled by eight running ferrets,
With his backcountry beard all gnarly and smeared
He shouted a greeting, all jaded and weird,
More rapid than black snakes, his coursers they came
And he whistled, and shouted and called them by name:
”Now, Hawk! Now Muskrat! now, Blood and Cheoah!
On, Siler! on Wesser! on, Big Spring and Stecoah!
To the top of the hill, to the top of the shelter!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash all a welter!”
As Golite umbrellas before spring winds fly,
When they’re shredded in storms, don’t ask why,
So up to the shelter-top the ferrets they flew
With the sleigh full of magic, and the SOBO, too.
And then, in a twinkling, I hear on the roof
The scratching and thumping of small ferret boots,
As I drew in my hand and was turning my back,
Down the chimney that SOBO came with a thwack,
He was dressed all in fleece, from his head to his trunk,
And his clothes were encrusted with awful trail funk,
A lightweight pack he slung on his back,
And he looked like a thru hiker from way, way back,
His clothes – how they smelled! his face how hairy!
His pants stood on their own, but his attitude was cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn like a bow,
And the beard on his face was white with the snow;
The stub of beef jerky he held in his teeth
The hiker funk encircled his head like a wreath
He had a weathered face and red, chapped lips,
That he licked with his tongue as he left his tips,
He was lean and tight, there could be no doubt,
That he’d seen it all and was not inclined to worry or pout,
He spoke not a word, but continued to putz,
And filled up out boots with skittles and nuts,
Then laying his finger aside of his nose,
He blew a snot rocket and up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to the ferrets gave a whistle,
And to Springer they flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he sleighed out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good hike!”
Tyger, the original one.
thanks!