Grandma sure loved her hometown. She told so many stories , sharing her love for the little village where she was born, that is now a small city pretending to be a town. I am not sure when this poem was written, it was found with articles from the 1920s, but this was typed out, so I’m assuming it was later on that that. However, if Grandma could see now “the hill, now streamlined to follow the mode, as tourists go speeding….” It certainly isn’t anything resembling a cow trail anymore. The mountains and the view though, they’re the same. It’s still a beautiful little area, it’s home.

Cochrane Hill

The foothill country in the days that are gone,

Had trails that led you hither and yon.

And many a well worn path was trod,

Till great, deep ruts were buried in sod.

One of those trails is history now,

A trail that’s not forgotten somehow.

It’s a long, long slope that curves until

You know you’re descending the Cochrane Hill.

The hill, now streamlined to follow the mode,

As tourists go speeding where Natives once rode,

No more is a cow trail, but a road that will last

Though present day traffic is heavy and fast.

Decending this hill you come into view

Of the beautiful Bow, all misty with dew.

And the Rockies, majestic, mighty and tall.

Truly a sight remembered by all.

You may like the view from a plane in the air,

Or even the view from a Pullman chair.

But just about sunrise when morn is so still,

Oh give me the view from Cochrane Hill.