That first big snowstorm was a warning. That’s how I took it, anyway. And once my decision was made to stay put, a desperate fever gripped me like no other. The wagon was colder than anything I could imagine at that point. In fact, I could not even imagine spending another night in it, though I knew I had to.
If I am going to be stuck here for a lengthy spell, I have to build a suitable shelter. Something that can protect me from the weather, yet small enough that I can heat it well. On the trail Papa told me of soddies, houses built of dirt. Thomas said that was crazy, nobody lived in dirt, but Papa laughed, then told us all about how people had been living in dirt forever, somewhere on earth. He even said that bricks were nothing more than hard dirt. Now that I think on it, I suppose wood was nothing more than dirt way back when the tree was growing.
But one thing Papa said about dirt stuck in my mind. A dirt house could be warm in the winter and cool in the hot months. Right then I could not imagine there would ever be anything like a July or August ever again, so cold was I in that wagon. But I liked the other part of that notion—warm in the winter.
So I have set out to dig a dirt house, or as near as I can. But where to do it? I jumped back down out of the wagon and closed the flap behind me. Keep that little warmth in there. No sense sharing it with the out of doors. Not like Mother Nature was interested in being warm this time of year anyway.
I stood with my hands on my hips, looking at the wagon, and decided I might be able to use some of it, maybe for a frame. But I’d have to take it apart, which might be difficult, even if I did have two axes. I put my hand to my eyes, in part to cut the snow glare. I walked toward the river and spied what I did not know I’d been looking for. Below where I stood, yet above the river, there is a scooped-out bowl in the meadow.
I tested the edge with my boot, but I did not take into account that the snow might be hiding the true edge. My foot slipped, went out straight as if I was kicking it up at a dance, and I did not land on my backside until I was halfway down the slope. It didn’t much hurt, but I flailed trying to right myself and ended up wet on my rear end and up my legs. I sighed, stood up, and I’ll be jiggered if my feet didn’t slip right out from under me once more.
That time, I sat right there in slushy snow, the sun warming everything around me, and I laughed. It was the first time in a long, long time I did. Even when I thought of Papa and the boys, I still kept laughing. They’d be laughing at me, I am sure of it. And I wager Thomas would be lobbing snowballs at me the entire time.
After a minute more, I stood again, my feet spread, and managed to stay upright. Yes, I thought, I could see how this spot might be what I need. That slope I’d come down was more gradual behind me to the east, and might make an easier spot to climb. But how does a body use dirt to make a shelter?