12
WINTER IN THE WILDERNESS
Elizabeth and I moved into a small log cabin at White Grass Ranch while Steve remained in our house for the winter. We had been arguing and needed some time alone. I wanted to make my own decisions, to feel more independent, and he wanted to live by himself. I understood. So did he. I had always had a secret desire to live at White Grass ever since I was told that Frank Galey, the owner, occasion- ally rented his cabins for the winter. Even if it was difficult getting in and out, I didn't care. Neither did Elizabeth. Frank loved my print of a grizzly that his wife had bought him for his birthday and when I asked about a cabin he tried to strike a bargain - a few month's rent for my grizzly stone. I couldn't do that because it was the plate from which I took my prints. He finally agreed to our living there but getting Elizabeth to school would be my responsibility.
A moose was on the ridge above the road as we reached the fork that took us to the trailhead at Death Canyon and White Grass Ranch. Patches of snow dotted the pavement now lined with poles for the snowplows. The leaves were falling, their colors slightly faded, and the majestic Grand Teton glowed in the setting sun. We unloaded the van and started a fire in the Franklin stove. Elizabeth went to sleep early because we had to be up in time for her to catch the school bus at 7:30, a six- mile drive to Park Headquarters in Moose. The stars seemed closer and the snow on the mountain peaks mirrored the moon's reflection of the sun. The crackling of wood and the soft whistle of the wind around the cabin was all I heard. An occasional clang of a bell. The air was crisp and the sheets were cold.
The next morning a porcupine and a moose greeted us on the way to our half- frozen van parked a hundred yards from the cabin. It creaked over the bumpy, rutted, hard-packed road as we headed for the gate and the outside world. The windshield, etched with a frosty, forest landscape, took more than a mile to clear. Driving in semi-darkness we reached the flats while the eastern sky brightened. A moose and her calf were silhouetted against the luminescence of the cold morning, their steaming bodies creating a vaporous aura. We arrived in time to see the bright lights of the approaching bus in the side mirror, a welcome sight for the long line of kids that had been waiting in the cold.
Frank told us to collect as much of the dried, fallen branches around the ranch as we wanted. "We get seven feet of snow around here," he boasted. The porch was getting heavy with wood but not heavy enough. I was determined to gather enough wood for the long winter ahead.
By mid-morning the sun was hot, the mountains clear enough to be three- dimensional, the pond in front of the cabin rippled by an occasional breeze while the ranch horses drifted back and forth. For the moment the woodpile had stopped growing and mounds of marble chips were collecting around my sculpture table. I was looking for an image in a fifty pound piece of Italian alabaster. The hours passed as I studied the stone, trying visually to clear away the excess and release the form.
At 4:00 p.m. I left for Moose, one of the most beautiful school bus stops in the world at the entrance of Grand Teton National Park. Sparse clouds appeared where it was blue before; snow had been predicted. My hands were cold but not enough for gloves. I loved this ride and pulled off the road to look at the Tetons. The yellow aspen leaves had gone leaving predominantly dark green conifers and I could see clearly into the canyons. A few pickups passed, then it was quiet again. For a fleeting moment I thought I might have missed the bus, the mountains having enveloped my thoughts. But no, there it was … I was a mother again.
On the 27th of October I was forty-one. Birthdays bring the world to your doorstep. My two older daughters called, one from the east, the other from the west. Even though it had been six years since the divorce, it was still going on, the same stories, the same wounds. I felt the time acutely and my realization of our estranged relationships sharpened. I listened, attempted not to become involved, said goodbye … and suffered for three days.
Morning was magic in the mountains. The dry logs caught quickly and we ate breakfast by the crackling fire. Elizabeth scraped a thin stubborn layer of ice off the windshield while I warmed the van. During our drive a huge elk leapt across the road to join four others on the hill as we slowed down and stopped to watch.
The sun wasn't up yet but the massive mountain chain was brilliant against a cloudless sky. Suddenly the meadows turned gold and shadows appeared, stretching toward the west. The glistening, frosty landscape was gone and the icy aspens soaked up the first rays of the only infallible heating system on the planet. This side of the world was awakening. It was 7:30 a.m. when I arrived home. From the porch I could hear the wind in the canyons although all was still by the cabin. I was glad my birthday was over.
We had been at the ranch for three weeks and by my measurements there were two and a half cords of stacked wood. Most of the dry stuff could be broken by smashing it against a large log. Only the thick pieces had to be sawed and our two-man handsaw worked well, keeping us warm on those overcast chilly autumn afternoons. The neatly piled wood made me feel secure against the cold. Another cord and a half should do it.
HI deal so much with my fuel - what with finding it, loading it, conveying it home, sawing and splitting it - get so many values out of it, am warmed in so many ways by it, that the heat it will yield when in the stove is of a lower temperature and a lesser value in my eyes - though when I feel it I am reminded of all my adventures." 1
When we awoke the next morning the eastern sky over Sleeping Indian Mountain was streaked with red, fading to mauve in the north while the mountains still slumbered in the west. As we left the ranch, the colors fused, becoming orange and pink, and as they stretched across the valley to the west, the range awoke to a background of soft hues, an echo of the east. The clouds gave dimension to the peaks, washing the wilderness with warm red. It was cold. The pond had frozen over and the once mirrored surface was etched with an icy panorama. The wood became more important as the days passed without snow and we felt compelled to saw, break and keep stacking it on the porch.
Without television, we read, talked and played music; my favorites: Von Weber's Clarinet Quintet in B flat major, Opus 34 and Vivaldi's Four Seasons with James Galway on the flute; Elizabeth's: the Rossini Overtures to "The Barber of Seville" and "William Tell.”
The next morning I awoke just after 5:00 a.m. It was dark and not as cold as usual. Then I heard the rain. Quietly I started a fire. Last night we had slept in a double down bag on the living room floor beside the fireplace because it was cold everywhere else. Both of us had fallen asleep at 9:00 p.m., Elizabeth having read The Emperor's New Clothes, and I, about the Himalayas, Marco Polo sheep and snow leopards. George Schaller's Stones of Silence lay beside me on the floor and with an hour to read I picked the group up where I had left them, struggling through the virginal valley of Hunza.
Elizabeth's homework for her chemistry quiz was conquered at breakfast and everything we had reviewed hopelessly last night was incredibly clear this morning. It was dusky outside and wet. The mountains were gone and the valley was shroud