Making my way down a frozen road bordered by four to five foot snow drifts from the station, and getting a smile from the bite of the East wind. I know that the mercury is standing at roughly -2, or -3 below zero, which I found out when I arrived at the station nearly an hour ago. Now passing by the Catholic cemetery, and seeing the posts and the occasional tombstone peeking from the snow, I know that if I were to look up the slope that stands behind it, there would be alpine meadows in the spring.

Now all I can see are what look to be like tombs or mausoleums on the slopes with snow tracing their lintels, and I can hear hoof beats, and the clanking of iron harness bells. As I find out that I am now joined by a herd of shaggy ponies making their way, with their breath white and steaming in the cold. They are following this road to a trail on the rim of a canyon. Where the curves of the river can be seen down below, and now it is nothing more than a brush stroke of bluish silver. Nothing but the sound of the clanking of the iron harness bells and hoof beats can be heard in the gathering of the blue dusk.

I left the station it seems like hours ago, thinking I could reach the rim of the canyon, where the cabin is. My impatience has me now regretting the decision that I made about setting off on foot, in the subzero temperature(s). No other transportation was available, and there would be none for hours, and I didn’t want to find myself sleeping in the station, so I headed out on my own.

The last time that I was here was two years ago in the summer, and I remember the cabin being nothing more than a wooden frame with a wood burning stove, and kerosene lanterns. This recollection finds me picking up the pace and knowing that I am almost there. Has me wondering what to expect, or will it be the same as it was.

The old training I received in Georgia has come in handy, as I set a route march pace to cover the distance left. And, noticing in the deepening blue almost cerulean dusk here in the far North, the smell of wood smoke in the air, along with the sighting of a plume of smoke coming from the chimney. I have also noticed that there is a front coming in to bring more snow.

Arriving just ahead of the front, and opening the door I can see the candle light which reveals the wooden plank flooring, which is now covered by the soft tones of old carpets. Making my way to the old wood burning stove, I can see the shadows of flames dancing behind the narrow, delicate mica panes, of the wood stove’s ornate iron door. Finding myself turning to the door I can see the black window beyond the drapes. And I am able to see the fresh snowflakes falling almost deliberately past the frosted window panes.

Shrugging off the old civil war greatcoat I mange to look around and see the steam rising off a fresh cup of coffee sitting on the table, And all looks as though it was planned for my arrival here. The scene in the cabin reminds me of Northern New Mexico, and not here. Hearing a noise from where the woodpile is, and I know that the girl from the North Country Fair will soon be walking in.

Copyright Timberwolf International LTD: March 2014-3