Within the bulky history of your past,
Oh Mountain, mankind's chapter's very brief.
Since George Vancouver 'spied your gleaming dome
Scarce fourteen decades slipped across your brow.
A trivial day in your long life it is.
And now -- since white man's foot first felt your flank,
Since Dr. Tolmie, keen to learn of herb
And bud, broke through the forest cordon thrown
About your cliff-girt base -- a hundred years
Has fled. Close on his heels a hardy band
Of outdoor men have trod your slopes -- and gone,
Young Bailey Willis, sturdy Kautz, Van Trump
And Stevens, Longmire, Emmons, Russel; then
McClure, and Ingraham, and many more
Whose names are now engraved in ice, and rock,
And gorge, and waterfall. To them we owe
A debt of gratitude that all who come
May find your slopes unmarred, your meadows green,
Your forests cool, your flowers bright and all
Your beasts and birds still unafraid of man.

One hundred years! What means the term to you
Whose life-span's measure's geologic time?
Yet in that sunny hour of your old age
Mankind has spread your fame from pole to pole.

Natt Doge, Ranger-Naturalist.