Snow: An Adventure of the Woman Homesteader

MY DEAR FRIEND, —
When Mr. Stewart asked me to behave myself while he was gone, I promised. I really thought I should. He cautioned me over and over not to go on any wild-goose chase and get lost or frozen, and I had no desire to do so.
But no objections have ever been made to my helping out when a neighbor is in need; so when young Melroy Luke came for me very early one bitter morning I felt no guilt in going. It was not until we were well on the way that he told me he had moved and now lived ten miles farther on. ‘I thought maybe you would not want to go so far to help and we need you so!’ he pleaded. Any twinge of anger that might have stirred me left when I saw the concern and anxiety on his boyish face. We made our way with what grace we could; but grace is a scarce quality on such a ride. I had a very likely tale outlined to tell Dad to account for the toes I felt sure would be missing when all that seemed frozen were off.
At last the frozen miles were over, and we took our cold stiffened bodies into a cabin in a remote cañon that I had never seen before. Another neighbor was with young Mrs. Luke, and later the baby came. The neighbor had already been gone from her home longer than she should have stayed; so next morning she left, saying she would send someone to stay on. So I stayed that day and the next. I knew that at my home bread would be out, and the boys would be with the men who were feeding for us, so I felt that I must go. Luke could not leave his wife, but he said the way was perfectly plain. ‘Just you follow the telephone poles after you get over the first hogback. They are right along the mail road to Linwood, and you have only to go west along the road to Burntfork. You can’t possibly miss the road, and if you did get off there are plenty of houses along to set you right.’
We had taken a short cut in going, and I had not noticed the way at all; it was so cold that I had kept my face as much covered as possible. I set out with all confidence. I should not have minded at all if the weather had been pleasant, but it was still very cold, with a veil of frost hanging over the mountain. A sudden gust of wind swept over the bare mountain, carrying with it a sheet of snow. My horse and I were enveloped in a whirling, driving mist of snow. It was strangling, smothering. It penetrated my clothing; it drove down my back, I gasped for breath. It struck us from all points at once. In a flash it was gone. I turned to look as the flying mist of snow swept on down the valley. ‘If it were not broad daylight, the sun shining brightly, I should think that a snow-wraith, a ghost of a storm long dead. But no respectable ghost would be so unconventional as to stir out in the day!’ Almost before I had so assured myself, another ghost of a storm assailed me. I was not alarmed, I had been to Linwood, to Manilla; I knew the road once I reached it. The sun shone with a gleaming lustre owing to the flying snow. I don’t know how I could have been so careless, but I rode along enjoying the scene, the snowwraiths traveling down the valley.
I had been conscious of a muffled roar for some time — wind in the mountains; but the full meaning did not strike me until suddenly the sun went out; I was caught in a whirling, blinding gust that did not pass on down the valley. I could not force my horse against the storm; he turned tail to whatever direction the capricious wind came from, and in so doing must have turned round many times.
I saw to my dismay that the snow now flying was not old snow. A storm was now on that might last for hours, days even. To remain there meant to freeze, so I urged my horse down the hill, intending to go back to Luke’s. When we reached the bottom, I could see in patches where the snow had blown off what seemed to be an old road; better yet, in a lull I saw a telephone pole. I started to follow that, but the storm increased and I could not see a yard ahead of me and it was growing darker every minute. I believe that I am as courageous as most women, but at last I almost gave up. Wherever my clothes touched me I was wet with snow. All outside clothes were frozen stiff. I had n’t an idea where I was and I could not force my horse to move when the wind bore down upon us. I was so tired and sleepy that I began to wonder dully what would happen if I never came home. I felt a decided relief that Jerrine was safe in Boulder, but, foolish as it sounds, my chief worry was that the children might not let Whiskers, my cat, sleep in the house.
I don’t know how long it was, but it seemed ages that we plodded on. I must have been half asleep when something brushed my head and at the same time scratched my leg. I was stiff with the cold and my frozen garments, so I tumbled off. For a moment I lay in delicious drowsiness, and then I remembered that freezing people always go to sleep. I bestirred myself with whatever energy is possible in a half-frozen slate. To my surprise I saw the roof of a shed. We had come back to Luke’s, I supposed, so I called and called for help, but only the roar of the storm replied.
My horse went to the shed, and I tried to follow, but I was a long time getting there. However, I made it; but my gloves were so frozen that I could n’t unsaddle, could n’t even take the bridle off. I went to the door and called, but no answer. I saw a cabin only a few feet away and, filled with anger, I staggered out to it. The storm hurled me down, but I crawled to the door and pounded. I could n’t lift the latch, but I kicked and pounded till the door opened and I fell into the room. A rat scampered across the floor but there was no one else there. I closed the door and leaned against the wall, panting and sobbing, with a sharp pain in my throat and in my chest, A trickle of water crept down my face. The snow in my hair had begun to melt. I walked over to a stove in the corner. It was rusted with disuse. I began a search for matches, but there were none to be found. All this was my salvation, had I but known it. If I had been able to get a fire at once, I might have lost some portion of my hands, face, or feet.
Failing to find matches, I decided to go to bed. I could n’t get in with my frozen clothes and I could n’t get the clothes off. I began another search for matches, and after I had looked the cabin over again I remembered that I wore Clyde’s macakanaw. (That is wrong I know; but you will understand.) Clyde never is without matches; so, after getting my now sodden gloves off, I began to search the inside pockets of the coat. I was rewarded with two matches and a piece. I had little use of my hands, so I wasted the two matches, and was about to weep when I remembered a piece of candle that the rats had partly eaten. I waited as long as I dared, slapping and rubbing my numb hands trying to get them so they would be a little more steady.
At last I succeeded in getting the candle lighted. In a few minutes I had a roaring fire, and was foolish enough to get as close to it as I could. As my fingers limbered, I removed my frozen skirts and hung them to thaw and dry. When I began to thaw, I was in agony. Of all the itching, burning, and stinging! I suffered terribly every time I went near the fire. Some snow had blown in through the ill-fitted window-frame, and by accident I touched it. At once a soothing relief came over that part of my arm. I had begun to think a little more rationally now, so I took great handfuls of the snow and rubbed myself over and over. At last, after what seemed hours of work, I was able to move about in moderate comfort as long as I stayed away from the fire. I did n’t dare let the fire go out; there were no more matches. It was long since dark, so I filled the stove with the largest pieces of wood, closed all the drafts, and made the bed so as to be sure that not a rat shared it, then crept into bed, thanking God and my unknown benefactor for plenty of dry wood.
My bed was dusty and smelled of rats, but was not otherwise uncomfortable. I had not expected to go to sleep; I thought I should get up at times and replenish my fire; but when I awoke it was morning, and the sullen, gray light told that the storm was still on. I was tender and sore, but not so badly off as I had expected to be. Enough of my fire remained for me to kindle. I soon had a roaring fire; then I thought I had better see how my horse had fared.
The snow was waist-deep and still falling steadily. I made my way to the shed, but was unable to get in, the snow had drifted around it so; but I peeped in through a crack, and saw that Brownie was very comfortable indeed. He had rubbed the bridle off and helped himself to someone’s oats which were stacked in one end of the shed. I knew that if he were very thirsty he would lick the snow that had drifted in, so I went to the house with a clear conscience.
It is strange that when we are under great stress we are mindful of small comforts, but when we are not under stress we are more mindful of small discomforts. When I was really in danger of death, I was thankful even to fall from the horse; but now I began to fret because I could see no place to get water. When I was safe in the cabin once more, I remembered that I had had nothing to eat since breakfast the morning before; and as I have never cared for much breakfast the memory was not very filling. I was hungry. A ransacking of the shelves revealed no food, and the cupboard might have been Old Mother Hubbard’s.
But I found plenty to divert me. By the fuller light of day I saw a card tacked over a shelf. ‘Welcome, friend. You are at home. Help yourself. All I have to eat is in the cellar. I may never need it. I am off to war. EMIL GENSALEN.’ But where was the cellar? The drifting snow covered the ground so that none could be seen out of doors, even if by any chance any of the mentioned refreshments remained. I knew that I could never find the cellar, so I sat down to read a battered magazine that the rats had spared. I guess they were not literary, or else they preferred the Atlantic Monthly. Certainly almost all of an old copy of Everybody’s was there to help.
I read, I viewed the storm, I wondered what it was all for. I explored the cabin and wondered about the friendly Emil. I had not known any Emil. But I reflected that it was not necessary for me to know him for him to exist. After a while I noticed a ring in the floor. A ring meant a trapdoor. Of course! The cellar. How bright I felt! Ring in the floor. Cellar. Food. Who says a woman is not logical? Who says we cannot make deductions!
The door yielded unwillingly and I was half afraid to descend the mouldy steps; but I did and saw a neat set of shelves almost empty, but with enough cans to awaken hope in my stomach. The labels had long ago given up the fight with rust and mould. I selected two cans and sought the upper world. I have known for a long time that breakfast need not begin with an iced melon or a grapefruit. I have even suspected that oatmeal and toast might be omitted, but I should hardly have supposed that coffee was superfluous. I found no coffee, but I found a hatchet with which I opened my cans, one of corn and one of Vienna sausage. The frying pan was ratty; I had to take time to scrub it out with snow, but I did not dally at my work, I can tell you. I expect that you have had better breakfasts, but I never did. Even the thought of ptomaine did not scare me. But, true to my former assertion, no sooner was I comfortable than I thought of four more discomforts. How long would I have to stay? What if the wood gave out? Maybe I was snowed in. Would anyone ever think to look for me? Would they be in time? I knew perfectly well that the children would be cared for. The two men would be there and both men could cook. I was restless as a mule colt being weaned. I tried to see out of the window, to see if the snow was too deep for me to try. As I leaned against the rough casing, I saw some written words.
‘When you make any charge against Providence, consider, and you will learn that the thing has happened according to reason.’
‘Well sang the Hebrew Psalmist. “If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the universe, God is there.” ‘
‘Nothing happens to any man which he is not formed by nature to bear.’ Every bit of available surface was covered with such writings, English on one facing and some other language on the other. The door the same way. I hunted for a pencil, a piece of paper, to copy it down, but none could be found. The three I send you seemed to fit my case so exactly that I memorized them. All that day I tried to picture to myself what Emil would be like. Not old, else he could not go to war. Not young, for no young man is wise. Kind and learned. That of course. An ideal host, for he attended to his guest’s needs even when he was no one knew where. I was astonished to see dusk gathering. I knew that I should lack courage to go into the cellar after dark, so I brought up another can. I tried again to get to Brownie, but could not get in.
As night settled, the wind rose, and such a tumult as was outside! I ate a can of tomatoes and banked my fire and went to bed. Except for being dreadfully sore, I seemed to be none the worse for wear. I lay in the dark listening to the unearthly noises and thinking of the absent philosopher whose guest I was.
Some way, my troubles did not seem nearly so unbearable as I had thought. Perhaps Providence had sent me there to learn those very truths. I needed just such reflections every day of my life.

When I awoke next morning, all Nature was smiling. Deceitful jade, after all the turmoil, to flirt with her outraged victims! Just like young Mrs. Luke — raise all kinds of hurricanes until the baby came and then settle down to quiet. I kind of wondered what Dame Nature had given birth to. After a breakfast of apricots and Somebody’s pork and beans I hunted for a shovel. None to be found. Not even a board that I could use for a shovel. I took the hearth off the stove and scooped the snow away from the shed door till I could get Brownie out. I removed the saddleand curried Brownie with some straw; then I resaddled and tied my horse outside the door. I carefully made the bed, put out the fire, and closed the cabin door securely.
I dared not ride until I reached the hilltop; the snow was too deep anyway; so I drove Brownie ahead and followed in his tracks. The going had nothing to recommend it. Certainly it was disagreeable in the extreme. The horse lunged his way, often falling, but as we neared the top the snow became less deep. It was nowhere so deep as at the cabin; it had blown off the hill and drifted around the pines that were about the cabin.
On the hill I took a survey and tried to locate myself. I was so completely turned round that the sun seemed to be in the north. I knew that the mountains lay east and west and so, keeping that in mind, I set my face northwest and mounted. We plodded on down the hill and over another bare hill — that is, bare of trees. Slipping and sliding, panting and falling, we made our slow way. I stumbled on after Brownie most of the way. It was unsafe to ride. When we reached the top of the second hill I could see a mile away to the north the telephone line. Brownie too found himself and took courage. We made what haste we could, and soon found ourselves on the mail road. Snow had so drifted that even the road was all but impassable, but we knew where we were.
We reached home in the purple dusk. Not a thing was wrong, supper was on the table, and the men had a guest. After he had talked of everything on earth it seemed to me, I asked him if he had ever known anyone named Emil.
‘Why, yes. Emil Gensalen. He was a queer duck. He came from Switzerland. I guess that is where the Swiss come from. He had a claim down the country a ways. He had a notion that goats were the thing to raise. Said he was going to try grapes too. He was a dandy good fellow, but queer. He went to war and has never come back. I never heard that he was mentioned in the casualty list, but no one has ever heard a word from him. I guess he went West.’
I asked what became of his things.
‘Oh, he just left everything. He was a little foolish about his cabin. At the dance that we gave for the boys who were leaving for war, he said publicly that he wanted everyone to feel welcome in his cabin, but that if anyone misused the privilege, some great misfortune would overtake them. Belham went over there to make some moonshine, and you know how quick the prohibition officers got him. Hanson went over after a load of logs that Emil had cut and piled up there, expecting to build a stable. He didn’t get home with the logs before he broke his leg. That is where the sheriff got Dave Peters. He had made that his headquarters while he was in the rustlin’ game. Did n’t last long, though.’
The men had so many other things to talk of that no one wanted to discuss Emil. I had much to think of, and Emil had a place in my thoughts. I am not superstitious but I could n’t help wondering. All those misfortunes were merely coincidences. What misfortune will overtake me? None has, and I feel just as if I had had an adventure that is deeper in significance than appears on the surface.
But I have no feeling of fear. Can two paths of life cross each other invisibly? Why?
I must stop this long jumble. You won’t love me pretty soon. Perhaps I shall never get to mail this to you. The postmaster has had no envelopes for a month or more. That happens often. With much love to you and tenderest remembrance of the day,
Your friend,
ELINORE P. STEWART.