Part 3
The second storm hit on January 28th. It came without warning: a clear morning that turned gray by midday and white by evening. The temperature, which had risen to a relatively mild -5 degrees, plummeted to -10, -20, -30 degrees and continued to fall.
By midnight, thermometers on ranches in Meagher County read 63 degrees below zero.
63 degrees below zero. Colder than any temperature Ingred had ever experienced. Colder than any temperature most humans on Earth would ever experience. Colder than the coldest Norwegian winter by nearly 30 degrees.
The storm lasted six days.
Ingred stopped checking his woodpile. He burned what was supposed to burn without counting. He kept the stove burning constantly, stoking it every hour and sleeping in 20-minute intervals between stoking. The temperature inside dropped to 57 degrees, then 54, then 48. 48 degrees, 32 above zero inside, meant freezing. But with 63 below zero outside, 48 above zero was a miracle. It was the difference between misery and death.
He put on every clothes he owned. He stuffed the cracks around the door and window with extra fleece. He hung
Wool blankets draped across the ceiling, creating a second barrier beneath the insulated roof. She did everything she could think of, and then waited.
Her sheep survived in the wool-lined barn, huddled together for warmth, feeding on the hay she had stored that fall. She lost 11 animals, the older ewes and the weaker lambs, but 225 survived.
Across the open prairies, thousands of cattle died. Entire herds froze to their feet, their bodies frozen, only to be found months later, as the snow melted, as if they had simply stopped moving and never started again. Judith Basin lost 60% of its livestock that winter. This event would later be called the Great Dying, the disaster that destroyed the extensive livestock industry and transformed the economy of the Northern Plains.
But in her 12-by-14-foot cabin, lined with raw sheep’s wool, Ingred Torsdaughter survived.
The storm hit on February 3rd. The temperature rose to -20 degrees Celsius, then -10, then 0, then 5. By February 10th, the temperature was 15 degrees Celsius, warm enough for Ingred to crack the door and feel the air on her face without pain.
She had an eighth of a cord of wood left, enough fuel for perhaps 10 days, considering her survival rate. Winter still lasted five weeks.
She wouldn’t make it.
She understood it clearly and without panic. The calculation was simple. She had survived the most severe cold Montana had to offer, and it had cost her almost everything. The wool insulation had held up. It had performed far beyond her expectations. But the wood was gone, and there was none to be found.
On February 12th, she began walking toward White Sulphur Springs. The snow was waist-deep in some places, but the sky was clear and the temperature mild, only -8 degrees Celsius. She reached town in the early afternoon, her legs aching and her face burned by the wind.
She passed the ranchers’ hotel, the stable, the bank where she didn’t have an account, and stopped in front of Elias Croft’s store.
The store was crowded. A dozen people crowded between the shelves, all with a gaunt and desperate look, as only February can do to frontier folk. Croft was behind the counter, thinner than she remembered, with deep circles under his eyes.
Ingred waited for the crowd to thin. Then he approached.
“I need wood,” he said.
Croft stared at her for a long time. His expression was unreadable.
“You’re alive,” he said.
“YES.”
“I heard about Arnison. He said you saved his life. He said your cabin was warm enough to bring him back to life.” Croft paused. “He said you lined the walls with sheep’s wool.”
“Yes, I did.”
Croft was a calm man.
“The old Hendrickson property,” he said finally. “Twenty miles north of town. The family left in November, back to Minnesota. Their woodpile is still there. Three cords, maybe four. No one’s claimed it.”
Ingred stared at him. “I can’t pay for four cords.”
“I know.”
Croft took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. “Consider it a credit. You can pay me back in wool next fall. At market price.”
“Why?”
Croft put his glasses back on and looked her straight in the eye.
“Because I told you you’d freeze to death. And you didn’t. Because everyone I know with more resources and more possibilities is dead or ruined, and you’re here in my shop begging for wood to get through the winter.” He shook his head slowly. “I’ve been in this area for 18 years. I’ve seen a lot of people trying to survive. Most fail. Those who don’t…” He paused. “Those who don’t usually have money, family, or fortune. You have none of that. You just have sheep, stubbornness, and an idea that should have killed you.”
He looked at the wall as if he saw something beyond it.
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