THE BRIDGE
March 17, 1864
Forty days of snow and now the wind howls around our cabin like a wolf, waiting for us to come out so it can kill us. Or we stay inside and he has to wait just a little longer. With food supplies getting low, last night the men held a meeting to decide what to do. Most thought it best to pray and wait it out, but Dad, Alex, and Jens argued we must get to Parowan for supplies or we’d die waiting. It got pretty heated.
My brothers and sisters pretended to be asleep but of course we aren’t, being we were in the same room, both girls huddled in one bed and we three boys in another, buried under a warm pancake stack of blankets. I remembered the scripture in Ecclesiastes: “If two lie together they can be warm, but how can one be warm alone?” We were pretty warm, but my stomach ached for food. I hoped they would go and get some. They were men. Of course they could go, would get there, get food and get back.
Aunt Marcy didn’t say much, but kept the fire going while she quilted another blanket. She said she pieces in the warmer months and quilts in winter, as the blanket keeps her warm while she works. Not a piece of cloth got by her, as old breeches, shirts, and flour sacks fell victim to her scissors and needle, resurrected as a warm blanket.
If only the crops hadn’t frozen. Then the snow. The wolf means to beat us, his cold breath hammering us day after day. He is right outside the door, his breath of ice seeping between the door and wall, around the windows. And every crack.
After much discussion, the men decided to send a team to Parowan and I heard my name… Thomas. Being fifteen, sometimes I’m one of the men and other times I’m just a boy. Now I’m being called to do a man thing yet I feel like a boy. But if we go, I’ll go. Another day inside this cabin and I may lose my mind.
March 18
More snow last night, the wolf desperate to beat us. The windows are frozen inside and out, the snow making it impossible to see outside.
We assembled the team, seven men. That is, six men and me. We packed the lightest wagon, Jebediah’s, and would haul as little as possible to avoid getting bogged down in the powder. Alex supplied his ox, a dependable and stalwart beast. The trips to each cabin were a challenge through the snow, but the more we trampled it the better the path became. I looked to the mountains to the west and wondered how we’d get through the snow, untouched and unpacked, like walking through flour up to our ribs. Only cold. So cold.
Mom got what little food together we can spare. She claims we’ll need more as we’ll be working so hard, but I feel guilty taking food from her and my siblings. Tomorrow we head out. As we huddled under the covers, Joseph snuggled close to my chest.
“Thomas, are you scared?”
“Naw.” I’m terrified, but I couldn’t let on to him. He needed propping up.
“I’m scared.”
I rubbed his dark hair. “We’ll all be fine.”
The wolf howls at the door, his breath shrieking in gusts.
March 19
We let the sun come up, but then took off as early as possible. The men think we need ten days to get there, five up and five back. That’s ten miles a day. That doesn’t sound like much, but in this snow?
Jebediah and Dad walked in front, while Sean, Jens, and I followed. The idea was to pack the snow so the ox could get through it. We took off and did okay until we reached virgin snow.
It looked beautiful, glistening in the sun, but each step we sunk to our hips, and we walked like we were stepping into stovepipes. When we fell, which was often, we thrashed attempting to get upright. The ox and wagon did no better; since they were heavier they sunk into the cursed ice-flour as well. The cold had climbed from my toes to above my knees, my shoes packed with ice.
We’d made so little progress that I looked back and could still see our cabin, the peak of the roof visible in the snow, a trail of smoke from the chimney. The snow drifted to the roof on the back so the cabin looked like it was being overcome by snow, the white powder overcoming the little log building. An island in a sea of snow, the tide rising.
The wolf hides in the trees, his steel blue eyes watching.
After a few hundred yards of this, Dad stopped us and wiped the sweat from his face.
And we were worried about cold.
“I know it seems cowardly, but I think we should go back and let the snow pack for another day.”
The men discussed it and finally agreed. After a horrible time getting the wagon turned about, we made much better progress back.
By the time we got back it was dinner time. We ate a bit, but the stores are dwindling. I feel ashamed for letting my family down, then eating the food. The struggle made me ravenous.
“If we get no more snowfall, we’ll set out tomorrow.”
I don’t know if it was because I was getting older, or it was the first time I’d seen it, but I saw fear in my father’s eyes.
He’s seen the wolf.
March 20
I believe in miracles.
The night was calm, the woods quiet as a tomb. Not a breath of wind. We assembled at dawn and got started earlier. The first portion of the journey went rather well, since we were plowing through the snow we packed down the day before. Then we hit fresh snow.
It was like we ran into a wall.
We trudged on, packing the snow, our breath heavy and damp. Determined not to fail this time, we made decent progress, but we were climbing, and the snow got deeper. We packed the snow numerous times and still the ox and wagon struggled. Dad called for us to stop. We gathered up.
“Men, this isn’t working. The ox and wagon will never get through this snow. We need to leave them and keep going on our own.”
This became an argument. Jebediah wanted to keep going with the ox, Alex talked about turning back, making the road better every day and making progress that way. Finally they relented; we unloaded everything we could and set out.
We made better progress, but the load was heavy and we sank deeper into the snow. Ice creeped in from my fingers and toes, the wolf chewing away at my flesh. At least we were not struggling with the ox. After perhaps a half mile, we stopped. Dad called us together.
“Men, we’re in a bad way.” He wiped the sweat from his face. “We must go onward or our families will die. Yet we may die on the way in this snow.” He looked ahead at the vast wasteland of white snow ahead. “I think it’s time we pray.”
We gathered in a circle and tried to kneel in the snow. When I first knelt, my knees sank deeper than my feet and I fell face down in the snow. I would have felt foolish if the men hadn’t done it, too.
Alex, out of nowhere, said, “Let’s get the quilts out and kneel on them.”
Good thinking.
We unloaded the blankets and arranged them in a circle and knelt on them. Dad prayed something like this:
“Almighty God, we are at our darkest hour, and we implore Thee for Thy help. We know Thou art all good and we implore Thee to help us, to be able to get to Parowan, acquire the needed supplies, and return safely to our families. We pray for a miracle, dear Lord, and ask that none of these and those at home, be lost. In Jesus’ name.”
We all said amen and stood. We picked up the quilts and the snow reflected our imprints, with dimples where our feet and knees punched down.
Sean looked at the snow as we loaded the blankets back in our packs.
“Wait a minute. Look at that.” He pointed. “We didn’t sink down.”
The men looked and nodded. We unloaded a blanket and laid it on the ground. Sean stood on it and scratched his head. “Do you suppose?” he said.
We got more and walked on them. It worked. Without another word, the men got all the blankets and laid them end to end and walked on them. Then the last man, Jebediah, picked up the end quilt and passed it ahead. We moved at a glacial pace to say the least, but steady, a train with a rail bed that floated over snow.
Hope leaped in our chests. We just might make it.
After an hour the
monotony sunk in. Walk on a quilt. Wait. Pass one from behind to the person in front. Step onto the next quilt. We wound through the woods, the snow a bit tighter, out into meadows, the snow vacillating from blown to a shallow depth with fast progress, to deep, light snow. Even with the quilt, we sank in and sometimes had to stop and put another one on the sunken one. I felt like a man on a push car, pumping up and down endlessly to keep the car moving. I picked a quilt, passed it up, walked one quilt length, passed again.
Dad called us to stop. “We need to make a place to sleep tonight.”
I looked around at the wolf’s lair, white snow as far as I could see. Once in a while a pile slid off a tree branch. Otherwise, I could detect no movement. Even the animals hunkered down and tried to hide from the wolf.
We stomped down a camping spot and Dad sent me for wood. I broke dead branches off of trees and returned, my arms full. He sent me out six more times. By the time I finished, my stomach ached.
The fire burned hot but quickly, the sticks just too small. In minutes it waned, the cold seeping in and overcoming our pathetic heat once more. I ate a bit of jerky and coffee, then went out once again for thicker branches before the sun disappeared and cold set in.
We used the quilts to bed down, everyone huddled together under the blankets, our feeble attempt to stave off the wolf. One good snow and the wolf would dine on our carcasses, not much reward for his wait, as our emaciated bodies would provide little meat.
March 23
I lost my balance and fell sideways into the snow. Everyone had done it, numerous times. This time, however, I flailed and flung snow, cursed the winter and kicked white clouds into the air. Enough! Let the wolf come. I couldn’t take any more. I threw myself face down into the snow.
I felt my dad’s grip on the back of my jacket as he pulled me to my feet. I thrashed and bucked. He turned me and slapped me. “What got into you, boy?”
“Leave me here. I want to die. Let the wolf eat me.” I tried to break his grip, only managing to windmill my arms and fall, Dad pulling me up again. He turned me and shook me, then peered into my eyes.
“What wolf?” He surveyed the white landscape. “You talking crazy, boy. Now stop wasting your energy, boy. You’ll starve, you keep this up.”
“Then let me die.”
“We didn’t come this far to die. Son. We’re going to make it. Look ahead. See? The plateau is over, we’re going to go downhill. Now get a hold of yourself. Nobody’s dying here.”
I stopped fighting and got my breathing back under control. Sure enough, the trees tapered away, following the slope. We were going downhill to Parowan. Maybe we could make it.
“Okay.”
March 24
I saw the wolf. We trudged on, walked, passed the quilt, waited, walked. Stopped. I glanced to the right and saw him in the woods. He wanted me to come to him. He didn’t say anything, but I could see it in his cold blue eyes. Come here. I’ve been waiting for you. It’s time now. Come. I stepped off the quilt and fell into the snow, got up and struggled through it. It was up to my elbows. I washed my face with it, ate it, stuffed it down my shirt. The wolf liked it. Liked me. He disappeared, then came up behind me. Shook me.
“Thomas. Thomas.”
“I’m coming.”
“What you talkin’ about, boy?” The wolf sounded like Alex. I turned my head. Alex swam into view.
“The wolf. He wants me to go. I need to go.” I stepped aside and he grabbed me.
“Thomas. Boy. Listen to me. Here.” He handed me his water bag and I sipped it. My vision cleared and the wolf retreated into the woods.
“Oh, man. Sorry, Alex.”
“You want some hard tack?”
March 25
Jed led the way today, and he let out a whoop. He stood on compact snow, the road beaten down by horses, wagons, and people. Parowan! We made it. We formed a circle, hugging and crying. We could get food, and a warm and dry place to sleep. We would stock up and head back to Panguitch as soon as possible, both to beat any more snow and to get back to the women and children.
Dad found some people and talked to them. I stared at the big city, candles burning in windows, smoke coming out of chimneys. I heard my name.
“Thomas.” He put his arm around me. “He left Panguitch a boy and got here a man.” He seemed to have missed my attempt to succumb to the wolf and my crazy fit.
March 31
We arrived back at the cabin today. Mother wept, as she thought we’d died, we’d been gone so long. Her cheeks were sunken and her skin chalk white. The kids looked bad, too. But we came back with flour and oil and salt and butter and lye.
And blankets.
We made the trip, every step, on those blankets.
That night, as we huddled under those same blankets, I marveled at their lifesaving abilities. Not only did they save our lives that night, they keep us warm every night.
Aunt Marcie sat at the chair by the fire, quilting.
I never appreciated what she did before. Sometimes I felt ashamed as she cut up flour sacks and even old hankies for a patchwork quilt. At night, back East, we kids would sneak a candle into our room and play ‘I spy’ with the pictures on the quilt fabric.
“I spy something blue.”
The others would search and little Patrick would point to the ‘l’ from ‘flour.’ Sometimes I would trace a line on the quilting, imagining it as a trail on a map. I couldn’t wait for our adventure, heading west. Some adventure, cheating death, the wolf scurrying back into the woods and waiting for another chance to make his kill.
Who would have thought a bunch of quilts would send him away?
We men knelt in the snow and prayed for a miracle, a helping hand from God.
And the answer lay right below our knees.
Nevada
Since we’re from Nevada, it became our last state on the tour; this story became personal. Everybody speculates about Area 51, and my son had a friend whose father worked there. He drove to McCarran Airport every morning and flew off to Area 51 in a 737. Weird. But why not have aliens in Nevada?
I stole the landscape descriptions of bomb damage from a real tour of the Nevada Test Site, where they tested nukes in the sixties. I highly recommend the tour, fascinating.
This is a work of fiction… I think.
AREA 51
50 States, Day 386, Last Day
May 30, 2013
Highway 375
Because Quilter Girl and I prefer the offbeat and weird, we decided to return home after our long and wonderful trip by way of Highway 375, the ‘Extraterrestrial Highway.’ It sounded kooky and exciting, but riding through the desert with vast expanses of land with almost no vegetation made the final leg of the trip a bit of a downer. Don’t get me wrong, I love the desert, but the severe, silent, and solitary landscape gave me a sense of letdown.
We stopped at a gas station—one of hundreds on this trip—and this one appeared to be a throwback. While the building looked old enough to have witnessed the Eisenhower administration, the old pumps standing at attention each bore a card reader. The store took advantage of being along this highway with the clever name of ‘UFO Gas ’n Go.’ Stuffed dolls of aliens hung inside the windows, with green lightbulb-shaped heads, huge black eyes, and long fingers. Why do all aliens look pretty much the same? Oh well, everyone’s got a gimmick.
I slid the card, entered my zip code, and fueled. A dusty Ford Taurus pulled in opposite my pump and a fortyish guy got out and began fueling. He glanced our way, and like so many others on this trip, said, “50 States in 50 Weeks. Wow, it’s Kevin and Quilter Girl. I’ve been following you.” He stepped through the island to shake our hands. “Great adventure. Great adventure. Joe Johnson.”
I smiled and avoided grimacing from the crushing handshake. At last he released my hand. “You guys have had such an adventure. A friend of mine told me about you and I read your blog every day.”
“Thanks, it’s been a great ride.”
> Then he regaled his favorite stories—Truckhenge, the Spam Museum, the crash in the snow in Denver, the World’s Biggest Ball of Twine, and of course, Hurricane Sandy. “Great stuff. You guys are awesome.”
It seemed weird, because the entire trip people chatted us up and we showed the map on the saddlebag and explained our adventure. But the trip was ending tomorrow and we both knew it. What now?
“Listen, I would like to do something for you.” He looked around and dropped his voice. “Look, I know you like the eccentric and strange things, and I can help you.” Once again he looked around like some secret agents would appear or something. He dropped his voice almost to a whisper. “I have a lot of authority. A lot. I know I don’t look like it; I’m not supposed to. I can get you inside and give you—not a full on tour, but a look at—Groom Lake.” He stood erect and awaited our excited response.
I looked at the barren expanse around me. A lake? It probably wouldn’t even be a lake, but a dry lakebed, if anything. Miles of flat ground. Whoopee. He saw our hesitation.
“Groom Lake,” he nodded, like we knew some secret.
Right. I heard that.
“You know, Area 51.”
“Wow,” I laughed. “You can’t be serious. It’s top secret. The government didn’t even admit it existed until 2003.”
“I’m serious. I’m pretty high up the food chain. And I’ll show you some crazy things.”
I looked to QG, who surveyed the barren landscape.
“Okay then.”
“Great.” He smiled. “We just go back up 375 around five miles and turn right.”
“What about the bike?”
“Just follow me.”
We put on our helmets and followed the car. QG said in the intercom, “Is this some kind of trick? Think he’ll take us out in the desert and rob and kill us?”
“I don’t think so. He knows about our trip. He seemed genuine.”
“Right. Serial killers seem genuine, too. Couldn’t a serial killer read the blog? What if he planned the entire thing, the chance meeting? What if it’s some kind of trap?”
I rode on, but her reasoning bothered me. Yet we’d followed a guy in Connecticut and he coordinated a TV interview, and in Kentucky we ran into another follower. “The guy must be okay, honey.”
“If he’s so high up, why’s he driving such a beat-up car?”
50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 5, The West Page 9