|
Human
Pack Mule Written the winter
of 1981 We moved from the
city in August of that year to a five acre farm with a stream, woods and
pasture. This was all new to me. I was just a city folk. Through all the troubles of moving and
fixing up our home, the only source of heat, wood, was not completely
gathered for the long winters cold.
Darrell was able to stock in two cords before the two feet of
crystallized white had blanketed our sleeping forest.
By the end of December only a fourth of a cord of wood remained.
The cold entered our walls, the floors and then my slender bones.
For a few weeks we pulled out small trees on the edge of the
forest, just off the road. Our
Dodge truck made it easier to bring the wood to the house.
Most of the large downed wood was deep in the woods where only
animals ventured.
Until now, the white had offered us beauty
but soon it would be our rival. It
would not be easy to find the wood. My hands and feet gophered through
the snow drifts as the white powder swallowed my legs. Often the only
reward were Bull Thistle burrs from the summer’s past.
My husband cut the trees into six and eight foot lengths and
dragged them from their entombed wintery sleep out into the open field
four hundred yards from the house. Because there was a stream separating the
house from the field and woods we would have to drag the wood down to a
service road that crossed the stream below the house and then up through
the meadow to the wood shed. To
ease the job I shoveled a crooked path down through the meadow and over
to the cut trees. The side walks in town offered an evenness and a job
well done in twenty minutes. My eagerness and energy dissolved, over the
hour, into weariness and a yearning to quit. Finally the path was
cleared. My hundred and fifteen pound body and mind
had more spirit and creative planning than physical energy.
I took my awkward gloves and embraced the heavy log. I hoisted
the log to my shoulders and attempted to walk normally. Branches slapped my face in protest. Downed limbs snagged my pants and untied my winter shoes. My
eager spirit soon realized this was no game.
For every step my husband took I accomplished the same in two.
He was the hare and I was the tortoise.
The cold air entered my lungs and formed ice crystals in my nose.
The snow clung to my legs and added more weight. I was a small
person with debatable muscle power, imitating a strong man, in a world
that writes it's own rules. After two hauling trips from the woods to
the house the charm and excitement of the new adventure faded.
It was not a chore that offered instant results to feed the ego
or to show accomplishment. I
was draped in three layers of clothing, ten pounds of hiking boots,
snow, and gloves to large for my hands. While backpacking I used to
count to keep my mind busy when my body yearned to stop walking.
One hundred and one, one hundred and two: I wish this wood
hauling was over. One
hundred and three, one hundred and four: how many logs are there left?
One hundred and five, one hundred and six, I'm almost halfway there.
One hundred and seven, one hundred and eight, whose idea was this
anyway? My wet pants limited my movements and my
knees threatened to give into the unevenness of the path.
The heavy cargo has numbed my shoulders. The last log was the
largest of them all. A deep
rut and the merciless snow swallowed my legs.
I heaved the log away and performed the well known snow dance of
falling human. Only seconds
before I was walking with the knowledge that it would soon be over.
Now I was a snowshoe rabbit whose fur had changed for the winter.
Darrell stood with a puzzled look on his face.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or to call the doctor.
But I filled the silence with laughter.
Once the laughter sets in nothing works.
After several attempts I conquered the beast that had succeeded
in making a fool of me. It was time to think of new and
easier way to bring the wood from the forest.
We acquired a eight foot aluminum toboggan and Darrell and I
turned into pack mules. To solve the problem of walking into the deep
snow, we purchased one pair of snowshoes.
The time for play was over. Darrell loaded
the toboggan with three logs. It was decided to pull the toboggan up
through the meadow to the road where the truck was waiting instead of
going the slow way around over the stream. The meadow has just enough
incline to make a hard chore even more difficult.
I leaned forward to equalize the weight and to move the toboggan
at my tortoise speed. It seemed hours before I reached the road where
the truck was parked. I felt that I had used the same amount of energy as before,
when I had carried the logs up on my shoulder. When I returned, I volunteered Darrell to
play the pack mule in this icy world. By giving up the snow shoes, I was
Cinderella at midnight. I strapped them on Darrell, helped him get to
his feet and loaded the toboggan. It
was Darrell’s turn to make fun of me getting stuck in the snow.
Instantly my magic of walking on thee snow was gone. His strength
pulled the toboggan in the grace and manner that I had lacked. My first glimpse of Darrell’s returning
down the sloping path, was the rounded shinny front of the toboggan.
Why pull the sled when he could ride it. His red plastic
snowshoes were wedged straight up in the front of the sled. The shoes
waved and swayed as he took the uneven path.
Over the rim of the snowshoes was the Cheshire Cat.
Darrell brought cheerfulness into a tedious day.
When ever the job seems to reach that point of quitting before
it’s done, Darrell would
do something to boost everyone’s spirits. From then on I loaded him
and watched him return to me in style.
While going up he was a strong man burdened with a heavy load and
coming down he was a child at play.
The sun was leaving the sky and the ground
and fur trees were dusted in red. Again
he took his position and shoved off.
Sometimes fate rules all. This time the snow took him to the tree
on the right. I lost complete control and fell into the snow laughing.
The long tiring day melted into laughter. He finished his run by
bouncing off the bank and then a bush. He smiled at me and then loaded
up the toboggan for the last time. We
brought the wood in several more times before the meadow lost it’s
white blanket. I was use to the city, it’s easy ways and so unprepared
for the chores of survival here. But
I learned I was stronger. I
learned that we are only limited by what we think we can do.
And sometimes life shows us we are able to do more, like
providing for our heat. In the following years, the fear of being
without wood, has filled the shed with six cords of wood for the coming
winter. The worries of
keeping warm have dissolved, but, the challenge, excitement and
tobogganing in snowshoes will be missed.
After the snow has crystallized my fertile forest I will invite
Darrell over to the meadow and dare him to maneuver around the old car
and the many trees. And knowing him, he will miss them all just to get the best
of me. |
