“Maybe I was wrong,” he said softly, “about what it takes to get this far.”
The news spread faster than Ingred could ever have imagined. By the end of February, three families had visited his cabin to see the wool insulation for themselves. By early March, seven more had arrived. They pressed their hands against the walls, felt the oily texture of the lanolin-coated nonwoven fabric, and asked questions about thickness, fastening, and cost.
The answers were simple. 3.5 inches thick, nailed directly to the interior boards, using scrap wool that would otherwise have been burned. Total cost: 40 cents for materials if you didn’t own a sheep. Nothing if you did.
Karen Grande showed up in person on March 8th, accompanied by her husband, Martin. They slowly toured the house.
and Ingred’s cabin, examining every surface, while Ingred, standing by the stove, answered their questions.
“How much warmer?” asked Martin. He was a portly, silent man, with the calculating gaze of someone who had built an empire from scratch.
“At -46 degrees Celsius outside, the inside stayed at -22 degrees Celsius with the stove on low. At -63 degrees Celsius outside, it stayed at -9 degrees Celsius with the stove burning constantly.”
“And the wood consumption?”
“A fifth of a rope a week under normal conditions. More during the worst storms. But I survived on a total of two ropes from November to February.”
Martin Grande looked at his wife. Something sparked between them, a communication born of twenty years of collaboration.
“We have 14 cattle camps,” said Karen. “They’re all fenced with wooden boards, but they’re all cold. Every winter we lose herders. Sometimes because of bad weather, sometimes because they leave before the cold kills them.”
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