It’s the last day of February and the wind is blowing the flakes of snow against the windows. It’s a good day to sit by the wood stove and work on my current novel. Like my other stories, this one is set in the mountains. And of course, in and around a cozy cabin.
The writing brings to mind some of the cabins my husband and I have visited during past winters. Most of them have long been empty, and I can’t help but wonder who built them. Who lived there? What happened to them?
Life in a mountain cabin is easy to imagine during the summer and fall. The idea seems idyllic. But what about the winters with the long months of deep snow and bone chilling cold? Imagine the high elevation, short grass prairie where the never ending wind blows the snow away and the term “wind chill” takes on a whole new meaning.
What stories these old logs could tell if I could only hear them. So I sit on the leeward side of an old relic and I listen to the wind prowl through the gaps between the logs. I imagine a hot wood stove and the way wind and the cold stole the heat before it got to the other side of the room.
And then the words come, but I can’t write them down because my fingers are too cold. I scratch down what I can and hope I can read my own shivery-stiff writing later on. Then I let the camera do the rest.