Ode to - OREGON THUNDER

Deep in the emerald shadows where the Douglas firs grow tall, There’s a heavy, rhythmic thumping—a warning to them all. He isn’t just a legend, or a ghost of mountain mist, He’s the fist of Oregon Thunder, and he’s coming to assist.

Ten feet of knotted muscle, matted fur, and ancient grit, With eyes like glowing embers when the campfire’s barely lit. He doesn’t hide in silence, and he doesn’t skulk away, He claims the ridge and valley from the dawn until the gray.

He’s the crack of breaking timber, he’s the rockslide on the peak, the guardian of the giants and the voice for those who speak in whispers 'round the lantern when the night is closing in— They know that Oregon Thunder is beneath the forest skin.

So, pack out what you carry, and respect the ancient pine, or you’ll hear the heavy footfall crossing over some invisible line. He’s the spirit of the Cascades, a force you can’t encumber, the storm that walks on two legs: Oregon Thunder.

The Watchman's Vow

• For the Lost: He snaps the cedar branches to point the proper trail.
• For the Reckless: He lets out a roar that turns the bravest pale.
• For the Fire: He stomps the wayward spark into the damp and heavy soil,
• For the Predator: He stands between the hiker and the mountain lion's coil.