December 28, 1915

We awoke to a red sky this morning. “Sailors take warning,” du Bois commended.

It was cloudy bright. We could see North Park and the Park Range. I announced, “Today is our travel day.”

We hoarded the nuts and ready-to-eat food the last few days. The thought being, we will need quick energy with easy, rapid meals on our trek. We both had Filson survey vests with many pockets and effortless access. We filled them with food and tools. My compass and telescope needed to be handy and the fire-starting kit rested next to my heart. Du Bois had matches, dry kindling and a small pan for melting snow. We had canteens filled with water. The plan was to keep them close to our bodies, so the lids do not freeze shut.  We knew, the fewer times we take our packs off, the better.

I cut one of the wool blankets in half, wrapped it around du Bois’s trouser legs and tied it tightly, with crisscrosses using the straw baling rope which hung from the walls. He looked like a Roman centurion with a small axe hanging from his belt. Our breakfast was biscuits, gravy, and a large amount of water. After eating, I cut a dish towel into strips, attached more thin baling twine to the ends and cut slits for our eyes to see through. We had learned the suns reflections were very bright. We assumed the image of the rouge bandits. We shouldered our rucksacks, secured the door, and headed southeast. When we get to our destination, wherever that may be, I need to mail a check to A.M. Gooding for the food, blankets, and kitchen wares we pilfered from his hunting shelter.

The snow was deep, and we rotated breaking trail. Our poles helped us keep our balance. My first concern was getting on the Continent Divide ridge and not continuing to Round and Percy Lakes. I could see them at a short distance and with confidence we turned south. My mind continuously tried to erase the snow and visualize the summer landscape. I remembered a log across the summertime inlet to Lake Elmo. We found it easily, sidestepped across the creek and followed its valley to Fishhook Lake. I encouraged du Bois to take care crossing the creeks there too. The willows stood too thick in the Fishhook drainage to ski through. So, by necessity we skirted on to the hillside edges and into the first slide prone area.  Our skis creaked with each step. At times, the snow gave way, rolled down and stopped at the willows. The pole staffs held us upright on the steep incline until a small slab broke and carried me with it. Du Bois scrambled down and dug me out, along with my buried boots and skis. We continued cautiously looking for avalanche-prone areas. We arrived at the end of the valley of lakes by one o’clock. I felt we were on schedule and ate lunch. The climb to Base Camp challenged us. We traded the lead frequently. At the summit and the abandoned camp our march was more than half over. During my summertime hike, water seepage covered the pioneered camp road, but I could vaguely see the road winding down to our destination. I elected to take the easier to perceive rough road, we followed it to a large meadow and then our troubles began.

At the far end of the meadow, du Bois led and I saw the snow collapse beneath him. Icy water swirled below his boot tops. “Julius, I’m wet. I didn’t see it.”

I worked my way close and stabbed my pole in the snow. Convinced I was standing on solid ground, I then grabbed him by the armpits and pulled him out with complex moves to free his skis from under the ice.

“Damn,” he lamented. “I mucked it up.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s just bad luck. Are you hurt or just wet?”

“I’m not injured.”

“Alright, let’s keep following this road. We can build a fire at the pass. I figure it is only a couple miles now.”

At the second potential avalanche site, du Bois was breaking trail through mid-thigh deep snow. “Anthony wait, I think we should climb higher and get above the slide path.”

“My wet feet are numb. It will be a shorter distance.” He pushed a ski forward, “It’s firm…” He disappeared. A loud crack was followed by a roar and the snow rushed, tumbled, grabbed, threshed, and then swiftly destroyed everything in its path. It ended with silence and a white thin pellucid cloud drifting down and west.

“Anthony! Anthony?” I called and then saw a ski sticking up in the haze a short distance down slope. “Anthony, can you hear me?” I side slipped around and down passed an exposure boulder. He was partially buried face down. I dug around his head. “Can you speak? Are you injured?”

“I’m wetter and colder now.”

“We’re fortunate it broke loose. Can you stand?” I helped him up. “Look at me. Good, clear eyes, we have to keep moving.”

We were alone with no help. The going was very slow with rocks, gnarled alpine tree trunks broken like toothpicks and branches, which lined the roadbed above and below. The power of the avalanche stunned and reminded us of our vulnerability. We trudged on, were finally close to the Divide ridge and exposed to continuous wind. Du Bois struggled.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Mon ami, just cold.”

“We’re almost around the knob. We’ll be back in the forest then. Mate, we have to get out of the wind.”

We kept moving, but not alone.  The mournful crows rode the wind up to us and circled closely. Then each barrel rolled down the slope, caught the next updraft for another ride and then flew down the incline again. They seemed entertained while waiting for our demise. Their constant caws heckled us and cut through the violent breeze like audience jeers.

Shortly, the forest protected us from the wind driven snow. We almost resumed the pace of earlier in the day. I broke trail as we went down the road to save Anthony’s energy. I turned to check on him and saw Rabbit Ears Peak northeast behind us. “Good, we’re getting close,” I shouted.

Du Bois looked at me, pointed at the forest, “I hope the trees are as colorful as these in Honolulu.”

“What do you mean?” I replied and looked at the evergreen canopy.

“The pinks, purples and aqua colors are sensational.”

“We’re stopping. Drink some water, eat some food. You’re hallucinating.”

“You’re mad because I see it and you don’t.”

Trying not to look worried, I said, “I’ll help you.” I opened my canteen and made him drink. Then I pulled a chocolate bar and nuts from his pockets and persuaded him to eat.

“Tastes good.”

“Right old man, finish them up and drink more water.”

My fingers and toes were numb. His face was blue, and he looked beyond cold. I was determined to reach the pass. I would carry him if it were necessary. We still had some light left. I hoped there would be someone traveling on the pass. East or west, it did not matter. “Let’s press on Anthony,” I told him.

We arrived at sunset and there were no tracks on the highway. Du Bois looked at the sky and said, “Red sky at night, sailors delight.”

I broke dead branches off trees with the hatchet and built a roaring fire. Then I pushed snow aside, cut pine boughs, put them on the ground near the fire, pulled a wool blanket from my pack and made him lay down. I pried off his boots and socks. His toes had a grayish-yellow, hard, waxy look. I put two pairs of his socks on him and wrapped his feet in another blanket. I lashed a couple tree limbs to his upright ski poles and propped his feet near the fire. He was delirious. I did not want him to sleep yet. I kept him talking.

Dreamily, he said, “Angela is beautiful. Have you noticed the sleek curve of her neck? It flows from her chin to her lovely shoulders.”

“She is pretty,” I replied.

“More than pretty, she’s sweet, wild, rebellious with her bobbed hair and athletic too. We could race the tide in on horses at the sand flats of Avranches, Normandy. I love my home. I love her. Or can you imagine her running naked through the waves of the French Rivera?”

“Now that’s an appealing sight.”

“I’m certain she likes women and men.”

“I don’t know,” I answered.

He slept now. The pain in his feet seemed diminished. The normal color returned in his face, but he had fits of coughing. I fed the fire and stomped my feet all night. My fingers do not want to write but I am afraid to sleep.