Later this morning, after I cleaned off my woodpile—like a fool I had neglected to cover it with the other canvas tarpaulin the day before—I did my best to shovel the snow away from the campsite. Papa’s grain shovel is cumbersome, wide and heavy, but it is what I have. I have come to the conclusion that shoveling is a whole lot like gathering wood. It warms a body and gives the mind time to think.
All the while I worked at setting the campsite to rights, I did my best to think about anything but whether I was going to wait for Papa and the boys in the valley or set out on my own, on foot, through the pass I believe Papa was headed for when we stopped.
Now, I am not normally one to shirk a task, but this decision is difficult to grapple with. I noticed the snow grew heavier as the day aged. And I was sweating more. I stood up straight and stretched my back and squinted around me. The sun had burned through whatever clouds were left over from the storm. And then I realized what was happening. The day was turning off warm. Mighty warm.
The low spots in the meadow still showed slumped snow, but even there I saw stubbly brown bristle grass poking up like a porcupine’s coat. Might be this snow wouldn’t be with me all that long. I was pleased. But then a new thought came tripping over that one. The autumn was still a new thing, it being only October. What would happen when the days grew colder?
I climbed back into the wagon, closed the flaps behind me, and made tea. Then, when I had a cup warming my hands, I sat down where I’d been sleeping and resolved to make my decision. And what I decided was that I was familiar with the little valley, and I was sure that Papa and the boys would be along before too many more days passed.
Suddenly it was that simple. I have decided I need to stay here and wait for my family. I believe it will not take them much longer to come back to me.