This poem is from the Pretty Plain Hut log book, Kosciuszko National Park, probably in the 1980s. The full version was lost for some time and was recently made known to the author, who kindly gave his permission to publish it in BWA.

The snow is heavy and wet this year.For those caught out it will cost them dear,Even down on the Pretty PlainWhere the flowers are struggling in vain.

What we saw was not a pretty sight,For he died on the flat without a fight;Not far from Bullock Dray HutAnd the ruins of Pugilistic Hut.

A trail of rest holes lies behind,or was it feed he was trying to find?His body outstretched, still on the go,Alas he died on top of the snow.

Seems at peace, resting on clawBut for a tear in eye so raw.The morning is young, and snow glistens ahead,But a blowfly has already discovered the dead.

Organic stuff, we are all,None of us like gods grow tall,Wind ruffles his lifeless fur,White under the ears, dotted with bur.

Adapted he was to the blinding sun,But the snow caught him on the run.Some say they crawl away when oldInstead of dying out in the cold.

So I photograph the icy tomb.Move on I think, I too am prone,But die like this from hunger.I hope to be old when I go under.