Chapter 7: Winter Lodge

Winters in the Methow Valley were cold, sometimes bitterly so. Temperatures ranged well below zero. The snow would pile up two and three feet deep. It fell to Graydon to keep the driveway into the Wolf Creek homestead shoveled out when the snow got deeper than the sedan his step-father drove, or the panel truck, their faithful Blue Goose, could break through without chains.

Graydon would wax the flat-bladed shovel and begin cutting blocks from the deep snow, lifting each, and heaving it to the side. It would take him most of a day to move the snow from between the tire ruts. If the snow had fallen that deep, then he would also get out a ladder and cautiously shovel snow off the porch roof and the chicken house, lest the weight collapse them. The other roofs, the house and outbuildings, had been built with steeply-pitched roofs. They would clear themselves. Crashing snowslides would tumble from them before enough weight could accumulate to threaten the structure.

The animals drank the running water of the irrigation ditches, year around. Thick ice would cover the ditches; every day Graydon chopped holes in the ice so the animals could drink. If their small goat herd was confined to the barn, he would carry water inside to fill a watering trough made from a cut-down water heater shell.

He would fork hay down from the loft into the mangers, and pitch their trampled bedding and manure through a shuttered side window onto a manure pile outside.

The sheltering barn, divided into stalls with feed mangers at their head and wooden-bar milking stanchions behind, was good protection during the coldest sub-zero nights. Nestled in deep bedding, the sociable goats would cluster together and their body heat warmed the enclosed space surprisingly well. Each morning when Graydon opened the door he was greeted by a chorus of bleats and jostling bodies. The nannies were eager for feed and milking. He always brought a bucket of feed pellets to supplement their alfalfa hay diet. It was a challenge to get the bucket emptied into their feed trough before an eager goat's nose knocked the bucket from his hand.

Chickens thrived on hot feed -- a three-pound coffee can half-filled with "mill run," a flaked grain mixture bought cheaply from the feed store in town -- stirred into a bucket of hot water from the wood kitchen range. He poured warm water into the chicken house water bowls so they could drink before it iced over again. The chicken run lay littered with bowl-shaped blocks of ice.

Other winter chores included splitting massive firewood blocks to useable size for both house stoves. They'd cut wood from fallen or standing dead trees upriver along abandoned logging roads. Sometimes a block would hold a huge knot. Graydon would swing a sledge hammer to drive a splitting wedge down through the knot until it would snap apart, sometimes violently; he would use a single-bit splitting axe to split the blocks down to fit the stoves. His job was to keep the wood boxes for both stoves full. He would save the larger, pine-knot chunks for laying up the parlor stove fire at night. Despite that, the parlor fire would by morning burn down to ashes and a few embers. Getting up in the morning was done surrounded by clouds of one's breath in the frosty upstairs air.

It was a long, cold run to the outhouse in winter. Pails under each bed were carried and emptied at morning call.

Winter life at the Wolf Creek homestead seemed very closed in for Graydon, sheltered, his world centered around the warm house and the sheltering barn. He swaddled himself in boots, sweater, a heavy coat, hat and gloves, before coping with the frozen spaces outside. Work centered on feed, firewood, chopping ice, carrying water, and shoveling snow. Trips to town were infrequent, and were a challenge. The Blue Goose was reluctant to start and, once started and running, was difficult to steer in straight lines down the rutted, icy roads.

By mid-winter the winterscape expanded greatly for Graydon. He acquired a pair of war-surplus trooper skis, laminated hickory, seven feet long, with leather bindings that laced tightly over his well-greased work boots, and ski poles, a pair of shoulder-high poles with laced leather grips, straps, and wide snow baskets. These skis and poles were used by ski-troopers during the war. They were painted white for camouflage.

Graydon weighed a third what an equipped ski-trooper would weigh. When he strapped them on and took off across the barnyard he literally floated across the snow. A new teacher at school was a ski enthusiast. He encouraged the few students who showed any interest in the sport. Downhill skiing was becoming better known in the rural Cascade region; Leavenworth was making a name for itself with a ski-jumping hill and people were beginning to notice.

Graydon got a beginner's book explaining kick-turns, climbing steps, and long, sweeping telemark turns on long skis. There were some references to Scandinavian cross-country ski history and techniques. Graydon used the spare daylight hours of the short winter weekends to practice.

A kick-turn required that he balance himself on one ski, using his poles to steady himself, while he lifted the free ski upright to get its tail clear of the snow so he could pivot both his leg and the ski around in a turn to face backwards. Right. The first several tries left him laying in a tangled heap of poles and skis. But, he was blessed with long legs so after a few weekends practice he was able to kick-turn and take off across the barnyard in a gliding stride. He was anxious to take off across fields and slopes for some wintertime hikes.