In the quiet shade of Pocatello’s hills,
Where the wind hums low and the pine boughs still,
There walks no man now, but a memory bright—
Of one who sought truth through the fading light.
He followed the tracks where few had trod,
Through forest and stream, through the hand of God.
With plaster and patience, with heart and mind,
He sought what most men fear to find.
A scholar’s eye, a faith so deep,
He sowed his questions where secrets sleep.
From Idaho’s snows to Bluff Creek’s sand,
He mapped the mystery by steady hand.
Each footprint cast, each print he read,
He honored the living, and the long-since dead.
He taught young minds to look, not dream—
To trust both science and what’s unseen.
Now in some higher field he roams,
Past cedar shade and ancient stones.
Perhaps he walks with the ones he chased,
Through timeless woods the Lord has graced.
And when the mist rolls through the fir,
And campfires fade, and night grows sure,
The world grows quiet, yet not alone—
For Jeff still walks where the wild winds moan.
So raise your light to the mountain’s rim,
And whisper thanks in the twilight dim.
For though his mortal step is gone,
His trail of wonder lingers on.
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