MIAH
Episode Eighteen
SNOWED IN AT TAHOE
Autumn of our third year as man and wife found winter approaching and Meami’s family prepared to set out once again for Carson Valley. Our cabin being complete for the most part, we decided to winter at the lake.
I was proud of our cabin. I was gratified by my achievement. The familiar shelter, warmed by the crackling fire and sheltered from the wind and the weather, comforted me like my mother’s warm embrace. For me, the cabin offered a sense of security. It felt like home.
It took Miami a long time to become accustomed to the cabin. For her, the cabin represented confinement. She was accustomed to teepees and huts. These were a part of nature with which Meami was entirely familiar. The teepee breathed and reverberated softly with the elements. It was very much one with nature and the earth. For Meami, the very protection the cabin was designed to provide was oppressive and suffocating. Cut off from the subtle rustlings of the elements, Meami felt confined and claustrophobic. Whenever possible, we left the windows open so that Meami could breathe. With the approach of winter, the windows would be closed and tightly shuttered.
Winter would test our cabin, our preparedness, and our resolve. I’d built a small pole barn for the mules and livestock, and we’d purchased a quantity of prairie hay from Carson Valley. We’d stocked the woodshed with vast amounts of seasoned firewood, winterized the cabin as best we could, and stocked the coffers with what we hoped would be sufficient provisions to last until spring.
During my time on the riverboat, I’d developed a mighty tenacious coffee habit. I arranged my entire day around coffee breaks. During my early years at Tahoe, coffee was rarely an option. On the rare occasions when it was available, it was almost always unaffordable. Meami’s family brewed teas from almost everything. Everything of course with the exception of actual tea leaves. They brewed tea from everything from roots to nuts. They brewed tea from wildflowers, tree bark, rosehips and grasshoppers. It was an acquired taste, and I soon acquired it. During the long winter days during which I suffered from cabin fever, I spent countless hours hunkered before a crackling fire while consuming vast and varied varieties of brewed tonics guaranteed to cure whatever ails ya.
The children loved their grandpa, the chief. And he them. As we’ve already established, the chief valued his time. The Chief prided himself on using his time wisely, and he lavished it on the kids. One winter, he whittled them each a willow whistle, and they formed a band. For weeks the house reverberated with the melodious caterwauling of high-pitched toots and tweets. It was absolutely intoxicating, and I was soon intoxicated.
The cabin leaked chipmunks. They didn’t leak out; they leaked in! We had screened in the bottoms of the Hoosier and the pie safe to prevent raids and made every effort to secure our dresser drawers to prevent pests from nesting in our underwear. There’s nothing like a nest of disorderly chipmunks to aerate your long johns.
We had on hand a good provision of dried fruits and venison, and the smokehouse contained a quantity of smoked meats. To the extent we could, we’d prepared ourselves for almost anything. Or so we hoped.
November passed peacefully enough. As December began, winter arrived with a vengeance! By January, the snow had reached the bottoms of the windows, and retrieving water required breaking ice. Our wood range and stone fireplace began consuming wood at an alarming rate. I’d collected huge pinecones for use as kindling for restarting fires, but we rarely required kindling, as we were rarely comfortable letting the fires go out.
The morning temperatures were frequently in the 20s, and sunny days struggled to reach the 40s. With the snowpack quickly absorbing every sound, the silence was all-consuming. Silence is essential to becoming one with the cosmos. Without silence we never hear the stars.
Morning chores were accomplished hastily and with very little time spent in sightseeing. The concept of being entirely snowed in takes a toll. When the realization seizes you that, come hell or high water, there’s no getting out until spring, it’s not unexpected to feel a bit claustrophobic. The best cure is to picture something warm and enjoyable. The sight I enjoyed most of all was breakfast with the family in front of a crackling fire.
That being said, the lake in winter is a magical tonic for the most debilitating case of cabin fever. The mountain peaks literally glimmer in the twilight, with the evergreens silent and cloaked in robes of white. On cloudless days, the sun is absolutely blinding, and indigo skies are brilliant shades of blue. Silence prevails and serenity reigns supreme. During the night, the stars are bright as campfires in the snow, and the moon casts dancing shadows on the lake. Smoke billows undisturbed from our stovepipe and rises unmolested into jewellike skies. Only the crack of an overburdened limb occasionally interrupts the silence and echoes through the canyon below. You can hear the stars and sense each minute as the hours seep slowly into days, and days morph leisurely into months. Then one day, icicles began dripping from the eaves, and the melting snow heralded the welcome arrival of spring. With the spring thaw came the emergence of momma bears.
Copyright ©
Shannon T. Casebeer
