CHAPTER 21
Evander
I'm the kind of man who knows what to do. Instinctively. That’s why I'm still alive. Instinct and intuition are skills that every Navy SEAL learns to identify and heed.
Fortunately for all of us MacLaine boys, we come by it naturally. We were born with the innate ability to quickly assess a situation and figure out how to respond to it. That’s how we did the job required of us in the Navy and got our asses home, all of us in one piece.
So, on those extremely rare occasions when I’m not clear on the best next step, it pisses me off. Like the dilemma I’m facing right now. The pickle I’m in.
I don’t know what to do about Phoebe.
Do with Phoebe.
I don’t like feeling off balance like this.
I laugh out loud at myself. The sound gets swallowed by the constant howl of wind. Off balance? I’m about to haul my ass up on this fucking steep roof again, in the dark, in a snow cyclone.
Off balance is off the menu.
I strap on the snowshoes and turn on my headlamp. It isn’t doing me any favors, unfortunately. The light just creates a white, glittery curtain in front of my eyes, and I have to squint to see where I’m headed. But it’s better than stumbling around in the blackness.
I tell myself to keep my mind off my girl troubles.
My trapped-in-a-blizzard-with-a-beautiful-girl troubles.
I slog through the snow, grumbling to myself because I know I’ll have to shovel this path on my way back. It’s the only access to where my tether and anchor system is located.
And the snow’s up to my mid-shins again.
This storm is fucking nuts.
A contingency plan is essential. If the shack collapses, we’ll need another shelter. I decide that I’ll start working on a snow cave next, close enough that I can maintain a pathway, but far enough away that if the cabin collapses, the cave won’t get crushed.
But first things first.
I reach the tether system, remove my snowshoes, and attach the mountaineering cleats to my boots. Next, I attach the tether and test the safety line before I start climbing, hand over hand.
I dig my cleats into the snow-frosted exterior of the shack walls and pull myself up on the roof. I reach down and grab the long-handled snow rake from a drift.
I begin the tedious process of removing snow. I start with clearing each of the bottom corners, which allows loosened snow to drop to the ground instead of piling up. Then I work my way around the entire roof surface, scraping off the top few inches from the entire roof.
Then I start all over again, removing more.
I’m about halfway through my second round when a squall slams into me. I steady myself on the line and keep going, knowing that this wind will take me out if I fail to give it the respect it warrants.
I prefer not to fuck with nature if given the option.
Sure, I’ve been trained to handle the worst of what the environment can dish out. But if I have any choice, I’ll take the nastiest, most vile human opponent over the wild, random brutality of Mother Nature any damn day.
I work as quickly as possible, one bit at a time, locked in place with spikes in the ice and tether around my waist. As I go, I inspect the roof for any new damage. I don’t see anything, but then again, I can barely see my gloved hands in front of my face.
After about an hour, I’ve managed to remove eight inches or so of new snow.
It’s still the heavy, wet variety that could spell disaster for this little surveyor’s shack.
If I had to guess, I’d say this stuff weighs well over ten pounds per square foot, and that’s a lot to ask of this stack of toothpicks.
For now, the roof seems as secure as the first time I climbed up here, though I can’t be certain in the darkness. I’ll return again in the morning for another go-round.
Without warning, the wind blasts directly into my back. The impact slams me onto the roof. The rake sails through the air.
Time to wrap it up.
I climb down the way I came, retrieve the rake, take off the cleats, and put on the snowshoes. Then I dig through a drift until I find the wide snow shovel and get to work.
If the snow keeps coming down at this pace, I’ll be faced with a mess in the morning. I’m thinking four feet of accumulation with drifts much higher.
I’ve seen that kind of snow before—Wyoming and southeastern British Columbia come to mind.
But the worst blizzard by far was the one we encountered on a rescue operation in the Hindu Kush mountains of Afghanistan, where the temperatures got close to forty below and more than twenty feet of snow dropped in a twenty-four-hour period.
A lot of innocent people were hurt that day.
So yes, this storm is bad, but it’s good to remind myself that it could always be worse.
I make steady progress shoveling the pathway and tossing the gathered snow aside. I’ll have to make sure I keep the front door area clear, so that we can exit if necessary.
Not that we’d get very far.
Now for the contingency plan.
It’s damn near impossible to gauge distance in this dark, swirling mess, but I think I make out the mound that was once my ATV.
So I trudge in that direction, keeping my head bent down against the wind as I carve out a walkway with the snow shovel.
I work until my back and arms burn, and I find the perfect spot.
Beyond the Can-Am 700 is a snow drift that looks to be about six feet high. For the first time since this storm began, I’m damn glad I’m dealing with heavy, wet precipitation, because the light and fluffy stuff wouldn’t hold its shape the way I need it to.
Next, I walk back to the shack and exchange the snow shovel for the heavy-duty scoop shovel left behind by the surveyors.
I use it to start carving out an entrance on the backside of the drift, away from the wind.
I’ve picked a spot that’s far enough away from the cabin to be safe if the roof collapses, but close enough to take advantage of the ATV’s weight.
That sucker’s not moving, so I could tie down supplies, if needed.
I dig. This shelter must be small enough to contain our body heat but large enough to hold some gear and allow us both to sit upright and lie down flat. My back aches as I dig out an arched entrance. It’s slow going.
I pray we won’t need this. But it’s my duty to provide the option, in case we do.
With each heavy shovelful removed, a cave begins to take shape.
I can’t finish this job in one go, since I’ll need more accumulation to raise the burrow’s height, but at least I’m getting it started.
That’s critical. With each trip I take outside, I’ll dig deeper and higher.
I’ll smooth out the floor and scrape out the curved walls.
My mind wanders as I work, and I keep coming back to this: it’s a damn miracle we found this place.
And in the quiet of my mind, I once again thank my mom for looking out for me.
Since I’m already in the neighborhood, I decide to take the opportunity to apologize to her for my behavior as a kid, and for how petty I could be.
It's long overdue.
I’m sorry, Mom.
I was always waiting for her to admit that she had her favorites—Cal and Special K, obviously—her oldest and youngest. I convinced myself that half the time she didn’t even remember I was there. She’d never think to seek out my company, just the two of us.
I resented the hell out of her for that.
Now that I’m an adult, I see things differently. I know that Stella Roberts MacLaine loved her family with an unwavering fierceness, and I have many happy memories of my life before she died.
I now understand that she worked like a dog to keep the ranch afloat while raising five loud, obnoxious, demanding boys who did their damnedest on the daily to get into trouble.
It couldn’t have been easy. She was an incredible woman. Even now, all these years later, I miss her like hell.
Thank you, Mom.
I spear the shovel into the snow and decide I’ve done what I can for tonight. I give the interior one last leveling scrape, then retrace my steps to the cabin, clearing the path again as I go.
I arrive at the door. Resting the scoop shovel against the exterior wall, I take a moment to steady myself before I go inside.
Hard physical work usually clears my brain, yet here I am, still unsure what to do about Phoebe.
Because what I want to do and what I should do are two very different things.