The world is full of followers, few strike forth on their own.
Most are content with social ties; scared of the Great Unknown.
There are a few however, that break out of the mold.
They search out new horizons; seek answers yet untold.
These are the bold adventurers; the quiet, though not meek
That meet the problems head on, that rarely ever speak
Of their conquests of the mountaintops; of places old, yet new,
Of perils of their solitude, of dangers they've lived through.
A life of adventure for the average man is no more than just their way
Of simply finding sufficient food, to get them through the day.
This hardscrabble life they've chosen, to them is simple enough.
Get through one more day is all, no matter how grim and tough.
There's run-ins with a pack of wolves, perhaps a moose's kick
Of gnawing sinew off a bone, of mosquito clouds so thick
They'd no doubt leave a man insane or bleed him 'till he's dry
But to this vagrant wild breed it's no more than the blink of an eye.
The winter's cold is like a thief that'll rob you of your life.
The avalanche, the thinning ice, wind that cuts like a knife
Are all just small impediments with which he must always deal.
The cold and hunger inconveniences, one's he'll hardly feel.
This denizen of northern wilds is often quite maligned
By those who live a life in town where views are often blind
To realities of getting by, of doing what it takes
To eke a living from the land; to survive what nature makes.
I surmise that most of those who tell of questionable deeds
Done by this so-called lone marauder are often simply seeds
Rooted in their weakened minds, inflated more each time
And are simple jealousies of men well past their prime.
I find myself defending him, he of the Great Unknown.
I've followed his signs across the land and find that I have grown
Into a great admirer, although I've but rarely seen
The one that keeps unto himself; the one called wolverine.