Song for a Winter's Night

by: M-A

There's something to be said for a winter's night spent in a snowy womb. To have all outside sounds muted until they are hardly a whisper carried by the wind. The Inuit call this place a quinzhee--a snow shelter--but I call it a miracle. How can a dome with walls of snow one foot thick be so snug, so protective, like a mother's embrace?

Ray wasn't so sure about spending a night here.

He didn't have time to think as we prepared the site, tamping the snow down with our snowshoes. He didn't have time to think as we spent hours scooping powdery snow onto our base using only our snowshoes and mittened hands, working slowly so as to not break out into a sweat. He didn't even have time to think as we let the mound sinter; he was too busy helping me skin a hare for lunch.

It was only when I let Ray dig out the first scoopful of snow from the entrance tunnel that he began to have second thoughts. The further in he dug, the more quiet he became; this worried me. His breathing was shallow and his body shook as he dug deeper. He acknowledged that he did not like being encased as he was under so much snow, but he insisted that he keep on digging. Ray was afraid, but he worked on. I worked from outside, removing the snow he threw back at me, and spent some time with my head in the tunnel talking to him, to keep him company.

In the end, Ray proudly finished digging out the tunnel, then he slithered back out into dazzling sunshine. He took in great gulps of air; I rubbed his back to comfort him and praised him for his courage. I then let him rest while I went into the quinzhee to dig out the sleeping chamber.

It didn't take long for Ray to force his way back into the narrow tunnel. He knew that someone had to move the snow if we wanted to sleep inside that night. We had spent two nights sleeping out in abominably cold temperatures, with only a lean-to, some cedar boughs, and our Arctic sleeping bags for warmth. It would be warm, just slightly below the freezing mark, in the quinzhee. Surely, that was motivation enough to fight claustrophobia.

When I finished hollowing out the chamber, I smoothed the walls and floor, then belly crawled out. In a short time, the quinzhee would freeze solid and be ready for habitation.

Ray was sitting on a log by a fire when I came out into the twilight of a winter's eve. He was stirring the remains of our hare stew in a pot; the smell made my stomach growl. There is something about a day spent in the winter's air that makes one constantly ravenous.

Tired, we made quick work of the stew and cleaned up the camp, then I proceeded to bring our gear into the quinzhee, storing it under the eaves I'd dug out around the sleeping chamber. I left Ray outside to tend to the dogs because the quinzhee's entrance tunnel is most daunting to the uninitiated. I knew it would be best to make Ray face it as little as possible that night.

The gear stowed, I spread a tarp over the chamber's icy floor, then pegged it. I knew from experience that the sheet would move over the slippery ice as the night wore on and the quinzhee's inhabitants moved in there sleep. I lit the lantern, checked for ventilation, then called to Ray. He came in a moment later, crawling backward so that he could pause to place a block of snow across the tunnel's entrance.

He sat cross-legged by the entrance and looked around at the shadows bouncing off the curved walls. He commented on how quiet it was inside, and I just smiled. I knew, even though he didn't, that he was going to have a good night's sleep. It's hard not to in such a warm, dark, quiet place.

We rolled out our sleeping pads, then our sleeping bags. With our combined body heat, the temperature in the quinzhee had risen enough that we were able to remove our boots and parkas. I urged Ray to change into fresh clothes before going to bed. He didn't ask me why, but I told him anyway. Much as we try to avoid sweating on our adventure, the force of our exertions invariably lets off moisture. This moisture on our clothing would cool during the night, chilling us. He conceded that a brief cold moment was worth a warm, dry night.

Within moments, we were comfortably settled in our sleeping bags, dressed in woolen long underwear, socks, and our hats. I curled up in my bag, listening intently for the wind's howl, but I heard nothing save Ray's quiet breathing. I asked him if he was comfortable, but he didn't answer. He was already fast asleep.

I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face.