As I mentioned some days ago, I have only two concerns—food and fire. Fire and food. And it is my fondest hope that once the weather becomes warmer I will be able to dispense with making fire—at least of a size big enough to warm me.
If I do not manage to kill food, I will not need fire for anything, for I will be dead. That is the beginning and end of it.
My last hope is that I will be found by a group of travelers who chose the same route as did we. I have tried to figure out the earliest someone might leave Missouri or anywhere east of here. Even if they were to depart now, it would be months before they made it to me, if they chose to travel this northerly trail. It does not appear likely.
It has become trying to concentrate on such concerns. I need more food, better food. I cannot wait for spring so I might feel warmth once again. There was respite from the cold some weeks ago. War m winds surprised me when they blew over the mountains from the west.
I thought for a time, was convinced of it, actually, that winter was leaving me. It felt good, though too early. I was suspicious of it. Still, I came to believe, wanted to believe, that the great Rocky Mountains, for all their size, had suffered a less extreme winter than other places. The warm winds melted snow and the sun warmed my bones. I lay out in it, on my back atop the roof of the nest, well enough away from prowling creatures, should any dare approach. And I let the heat soak into me.
For many days it was lovely and perfect. Great patches of brown grasses peeked out as the snow sunk into the earth. Channels opened on the river, wider each morning. I allowed myself happiness. I smiled for the first time in weeks, months, who knows how long? But it did not last. I should have known nothing good ever lingers.
One afternoon warm air of a kindly Mother Nature breathed on me from the west. I watched the blue sky, speckled with white clouds far off and high, then dozed in the sun when I should have been gathering firewood. That was how convinced I’d become that the fine weather really was spring. Some time later a sudden cold breeze woke me and I gasped. I even sat upright before my eyes opened. The sky had turned the color of ash, blackening as I watched. That night, snow fell and the air chilled so that I wondered if the warmth had happened at all.