I had to destroy parts of the home Elias built if I wanted any chance of keeping myself alive.
That was the part I had not understood when I first found his drawing.
I could not afford a second stove.
I could not afford lumber for an entirely new door.
I could not purchase a proper stone wall.
Everything I needed had to come from the mountain, our cabin, or the abandoned materials scattered around the old workings.
The work began with the floor.
I had already opened the entrance enough to pass through standing.
Now I needed a level surface inside.
The chamber's natural floor sloped toward the front.
It was covered with gravel and hard-packed earth.
In places, the frozen ground resisted every strike of my pickaxe.
I wanted to lower the floor by another two feet.
That would provide more room beneath the sloping stone ceiling.
It would also make the chamber easier to arrange for living.
I began near the back wall.
The first several inches were the worst.
The earth was frozen so firmly that the pickaxe sometimes bounced from it.
I had to swing repeatedly at the same patch.
Then I used the shovel to lift the broken material.
My shoulders hurt.
My back tightened.
I felt the effort in my wrists every time the blade struck stone.
I had been accustomed to hard work before Elias died.
I had gardened, carried water, stacked wood, and helped maintain the cabin.
But excavating frozen ground was different.
It punished the same muscles for hours.
I had an old wheelbarrow left from when the cabin was built.
I brought it to the draw.
I filled it with gravel and earth.
Then I pushed each load outside.
Instead of dumping the material farther downhill, I carried it across the front of the chamber.
There I began forming a low bank.
It would interrupt the wind before it reached the stone wall I intended to build.
It would also help hide the entrance.
Each load was small.
Together, they slowly changed the ground.
I learned not to measure progress by how exhausted I felt.
There were days when I worked until my fingers could barely close, yet the floor looked only slightly lower.
So I measured the depth.
I measured the cleared area.
I compared what I had done with Elias's sketch.
Numbers told me the truth when my body insisted nothing was improving.
At night, I returned to the original cabin.
I ate whatever was easiest to prepare.
Sometimes beans.
Sometimes bread with a little salt pork.
I had to conserve the provisions purchased for winter.
I also had to eat enough to keep working.
I slept deeply but not comfortably.
My arms stiffened during the night.
In the morning, I sometimes struggled to lift the kettle.
Then I went back to the draw.
I knew the calendar was moving.
December fifteenth approached whether my work advanced or not.
When the floor was finally level enough, I turned to the front wall.
That was where I needed to use the stonework Elias had taught me.
Our fireplace had been built without elaborate equipment.
He showed me how to select stones that would support one another.
He cared about the broad surfaces.
The angles.
The weight.
He said a wall would be reliable only if its stones settled against one another properly.
I remembered his hands turning each piece before deciding where it belonged.
Now I used the same method.
I gathered granite from the nearby slopes.
Flat pieces whenever possible.
Angular stones that could lock together.
Small fragments for filling gaps.
The larger foundation pieces were too heavy for me to carry.
I used Jericho to help drag them toward the entrance.
He moved slowly, leaning into the effort.
I walked beside him and watched every stone.
I would not risk injuring the only animal I had.
At the chamber, I set the foundation stones in place.
Then I began stacking.
There was no mortar.
I packed the spaces with small stone and earth.
I adjusted each piece until it sat firmly.
The wall grew slowly.
Its base was nearly three feet thick.
I had no reason to make it delicate.
It needed to withstand wind, snow, and the pressure of winter weather.
And it needed to remain stable while I lived behind it.
I left space for a doorway about four feet high.
Beside it, I planned a small square window.
The wall took four days of gathering, hauling, lifting, and fitting stone.
I sometimes became so frustrated with a stubborn piece that I had to put it down and walk away.
Then I came back.
Tried another angle.
Found another stone.
There was no one to hurry me.
Only the deadline.
When the front wall stood, I examined it from outside.
The granite blended with the rockfall.
That pleased me.
I was not trying to build a handsome house.
I needed a place that would remain unnoticed.
The doorway was next.
I went back to the original cabin and stood between the main room and our bedroom.
The door there was solid oak.
Elias had chosen it because it was strong and well made.
I remembered him hanging it.
He had adjusted the hinges until it swung without scraping the floor.
Now I took a screwdriver from his tools.
I began removing the hardware.
The first hinge resisted.
I worked it loose.
The second came away more easily.
When the final hinge was free, I had to support the weight of the door myself.
It was heavier than I expected.
For a moment I stood holding it, breathing hard.
Beyond the opening lay the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
The place where I had last watched Elias sleep before he left for the upper basin.
I had avoided changing much in that room.
I had kept his things where he left them.
Removing the door made the cabin look unfinished.
It also made me understand how completely I was leaving it behind.
I set the oak slab down carefully.
Then I carried it outside.
Jericho helped transport it to the hidden shelter.
I had to protect the wood from damage as we moved over the rough trail.
I could not afford to split it.
At the chamber, I examined the doorway and the door.
The opening needed a wooden frame.
I remembered an abandoned mining structure beside the creek.
Some of its lumber was still usable.
I went there and removed the pieces I needed.
The boards were weathered, but sound enough for framing.
I hauled them back.
Then I began fitting the frame into the stone opening.
I checked the alignment repeatedly.
The door had to close properly.
A narrow gap could allow winter wind to enter for hours.
I had no second person to hold the oak slab while I secured the hinges.
I supported it as best I could with blocks and stones.
Then I fixed the hardware.
The work took most of the day.
I lifted.
Adjusted.
Lowered.
Moved the supports.
Tried again.
By the time I finished, I was trembling with exhaustion.
I pushed the door.
It swung.
I pulled it shut.
It met the frame closely enough to be useful.
I opened it once more.
Then I closed it again.
I stood in the chamber with my hand on the oak.
It was the same door I had opened every night before going to bed beside Elias.
Now it stood inside the mountain.
I had not expected that to hurt.
But it did.
I sat down for a few minutes.
Then I returned to work.
The stone wall and oak door could keep out wind.
They could not keep me alive through the coldest weeks without heat.
For that, I needed the stove.
Our cast-iron stove was heavy enough that I could never have moved it whole.
So I began taking it apart.
I removed the legs.
The stove door.
The detachable sections of the firebox.
The stovepipe.
I separated everything that could safely be removed.
Then I arranged the pieces according to weight.
The iron was cold against my gloves.
Some edges were rough.
I had to stop frequently to protect my hands.
Transporting the stove took two full days.
Jericho carried what I could secure to him.
For the heavier pieces, I used the old wagon and handled the difficult sections a little at a time.
I did not rush.
One broken component could ruin the entire plan.
When everything had reached the chamber, I began putting the stove together again.
The assembly was familiar.
I had watched Elias work on it before.
I checked the connections carefully.
I positioned it where I believed it could heat the chamber without interfering with the door or window.
When it stood upright, I felt relieved.
But I had not solved the most important problem.
Smoke.
A stove without proper ventilation would not make the chamber safe.
It could kill me as surely as the cold outside.
I could not simply pass the pipe through the front wall.
Anyone walking through the draw might notice smoke escaping from the hidden entrance.
The entire purpose of the shelter depended on keeping it concealed.
The pipe had to rise through the granite overhead.
I studied the ceiling.
Near the front, a narrow natural fracture suggested the rock might be thinner.
I chose that spot.
I took Elias's heavy steel rod and the sledgehammer.
Then I began working at the stone.
The sound echoed through the chamber.
Every strike traveled up my arms.
Small fragments fell onto the ground.
Dust settled on my clothes.
I worked for hours.
By evening, I had made only a shallow opening.
I examined it.
Then I looked at the ceiling.
There was far more granite between me and the upper surface than I could remove with a hammer before the deadline.
I thought of the keg Mr. Abernathy had placed in my wagon.
The blasting powder.
Elias had worked with explosives in the course of his surveys.
I had observed him and understood that careless handling could be fatal.
I did not take the material lightly.
I knew I had no right to assume that knowing a little made me an expert.
But I also knew the chimney had to be completed.
I prepared a limited charge as carefully as my knowledge allowed, following the kind of precautions I had seen Elias observe.
Then I left the chamber and sheltered behind a large boulder before the blast.
The sound was dull and heavy.
It seemed to pass through the ground beneath my boots.
I remained where I was until the dust had time to settle.
Then I approached cautiously.
Inside, fragments lay beneath the opening.
The explosion had broken through the thinner section of granite.
A passage roughly six inches across reached the upper surface of the fallen shelf.
I looked upward.
I could see daylight.
I had spent days thinking about that chimney.
Now there was an opening.
I brought in the stovepipe sections.
I fitted them together and passed them through the ceiling.
I used the sheet of tin to form a protective collar around the pipe.
Clay and fine gravel helped close the remaining space.
I checked the joints and the surrounding stonework.
Then I examined the outlet above.
It emerged among rocks and low scrub on the false floor of the draw.
From a distance, it would be difficult to distinguish from the surrounding ground.
That was what I needed.
But I still did not know whether the stove would draw properly.
I had to test it.
The date was December fourteenth.
One day before the company expected me to leave.
I brought in a small supply of seasoned wood.
I checked the pipe once more.
Then I lit the fire.
At first, I watched the flame anxiously.
I examined the stove.
The connections.
The chimney.
I looked for smoke escaping into the chamber.
The fire strengthened.
The draft carried smoke upward through the pipe.
I stepped outside and climbed far enough to examine the outlet.
The smoke rose among the rocks and dispersed into the cold air.
There was no great black column announcing that someone lived beneath the ridge.
I returned inside.
Warmth began spreading from the stove.
The granite walls remained cold.
I knew they would take time to absorb heat.
But the fire was burning.
The chimney was working.
The door closed.
The front wall stood.
I had made the place habitable.
I sat near the stove and held my hands toward it.
They were scratched.
Swollen.
Marked by small cuts and bruises.
My shoulders hurt so badly I could barely raise my arms.
I wanted Elias to see what I had built from his drawing.
I wanted him to tell me whether I had understood it correctly.
Instead, I listened to the small sounds of the stove and the faint wind outside.
The chamber was not beautiful.
It had a rough stone wall and an oak door that had once belonged to our bedroom.
The floor was bare earth.
The window was small.
The ceiling was low near the entrance.
But it was dry.
Protected.
Warm enough to make me believe winter might not defeat it.
I spent the remaining hours carrying essentials from the original cabin.
I moved what I needed most.
Food.
Blankets.
Tools.
Elias's journals.
The rifle and ammunition.
A lamp.
Cooking things.
I left enough furniture in the upper cabin that it still looked like a place someone had recently lived.
I did not want to draw attention to what I had taken.
Nor could I move everything in a day.
The original cabin remained standing.
But my necessary possessions were now below the granite shelf.
On December fifteenth, I listened for horses.
I expected a man from the company.
Perhaps Finch.
Perhaps a sheriff.
Perhaps someone sent to make certain I had obeyed the notice.
Nobody came.
The day passed quietly.
The trail remained empty.
I stayed in the hidden chamber that night.
I kept the stove burning and wrapped myself in a blanket.
The granite still needed time to warm.
I could feel the cold coming from the deepest part of the wall.
But I was out of the wind.
And for the first time in a month, I was sleeping somewhere the company did not know to search.
The next morning, I opened Elias's journal.
I found the drawing dated October 12, 1886.
I looked at the rough lines he had made two years earlier.
He had seen an unusual formation.
I had seen the possibility of surviving.
I closed the book and placed another piece of wood in the stove.
I had not escaped the company's claim.
I had not defeated the winter.
And I had not solved every problem that lay ahead.
But I was no longer waiting inside a cabin for someone to put me out.
I had built another place to live.
