Winter’s Gifts

When I stepped outside my cabin, the temperature was nearly -40F/C. My boots crunched and squeaked across the snow as I made my way to the woodpile. In one hand I held the butt of an axe that rested on my shoulder. In my other hand I held the rope that pulled the plastic sled behind me.

Through the trees beside my cabin, I could see the river which was slowly choking with ice. Here in the Yukon Territory, winter is long and comes early. By late November the ground is often covered with snow. But the river that runs past my cabin never freezes completely as it’s deep and runs too fast.

On the distant bank, a solitary cabin sits empty during the winter, waiting until spring when its owners return. I’m one of the few who choose to remain here all year long.

I paused to appreciate the beauty of spruce trees covered in their winter white, the snow-covered mountains in the distance, and the occasional call of a raven. The achingly beautiful scenery tells the tale of a world unto itself. Everything is different here, as are the rules for survival. Unlike down south in the cities and suburbs where emergency assistance can arrive within minutes, there is little to no wiggle room here for mistakes. The first trick of survival in these remote and unforgiving parts is to accept that fact, and then to live with it so as not to die because of it.

When I reached the woodpile, I pushed the empty sled to one side. After I set the axe against a stump, I pulled the tarp off the pile, careful to avoid the accumulated snow that cascaded off it. I was down to only half a cord of wood. It was a reminder that I’d need to harvest more dead trees very soon.

My task at that moment was to split some of what was left. I wiggled the fingers inside my gloves to fight the numbness from the cold. Then I took a log from the pile and stood it on end atop the splitting stump. I picked up my axe and adjusted the balaclava that covered my head and face so that it didn’t block my view. Then, after setting my feet shoulder-width apart, and gaining a strong grip on the axe handle, I raised it in the air. My right hand slid down to join my left as I swung the blade in a downward arc, hitting the log almost dead center. It split neatly in half. The cold was my silent partner; in warmer temperatures I rarely can split a sizeable log with just one swing of the axe.

I carried the split pieces to the sled. From the wood pile I took another log and repeated the process. Soon the sled was halfway full, and I paused to take a break. Chunks of ice floated down the river, occasionally making a sound like fine crystal clinking together. I couldn’t help but wonder if any lake trout were riding the current deep beneath the surface. The howling of dogs in the distance broke my reverie. A sled dog team was leading its musher across the frozen landscape. The dogs’ excited cries lost shape and form as they moved further away from me, and I was left to the silence once again. From my cabin woodstove came the scent of burning pine, a scent that always pleases me. Standing there with my axe, I imagined the crackling fire and the heat that I’d soon feel.

Motivated now to finish, I continued splitting until the sled was piled high. In these temperatures, it would last me a day and a half. On my way back to the cabin, I glanced behind me now and then to make sure I hadn’t lost any logs. The warmth they provide is much too valuable to waste.

I carefully stacked the wood inside the mud room and leaned the sled against the cabin’s exterior wall so it won’t get buried in the next snowfall. After making sure the door was shut tightly, I stood beside the woodstove and removed my winter gear. I set each piece on the hearth beside the stove to dry and before going out again: gloves, balaclava, and the felt liners of my boots. When I opened the stove door, I felt the welcomed blast of heat against my bare face and hands. After stoking the embers and remaining bits of wood, I added more logs and felt the cabin’s temperature rise almost immediately.

One of the cats had fallen asleep near the stove. His old body was stretched out to absorb the heat. He slept so soundly that my actions barely stirred him and soon he had nodded off again. Everyone enjoys the warmth of a woodstove in winter.