Halfway to the lake I saw it. The water was deep blue. We made our way toward it, changing our course slightly to the east to do so. It had been not more than half a mile away when Tim spotted it, so before long we were on its shores and looking across, searching the opposite bank for houses or boats in the water. We saw nothing but dead white trees in the water where the water had risen and killed them, and the dark green of the pines beyond.

Disappointed, Tim said: “Well, at least we’ll have plenty of fresh water. Maybe we can catch some fish.”

We skirted the shore for a few hundred yards until we came on a suitable camp site. As I unpacked the gear, Tim gathered the limbs for the lean-to. The snow was coming down heavily now, and we worked as fast as we could.

We finished in time. When the fire was blazing, I made some hot spruce tea and then began cooking up some beans which we had not had for some time, sweetening them with the leftover partridge and rabbit. Meanwhile Tim gathered and broke up firewood which we used to block one end of the lean-to. I piled some logs behind the fire to act as a reflector, and before long we were cozy and comfortable. Once you’ve done a task long enough, it becomes automatic and second nature.

“I think we’re in for it,” Tim said, staring up at the darkening sky, now filled with snow.

“We’ll be snug and safe,” I promised, stirring the beans. “And the snow will make it easier to find rabbit trails—perhaps even deer. Think you could hit a deer with that revolver?”

He grinned. “After our friend the raccoon, I wouldn’t bet on it.”

We ate and turned in early. The snow whispered through the spruce boughs, and some sifted through and misted our blankets. But as I had promised, we were warm and dry.

The storm blew throughout the night and was still going strong when dawn came. We looked out at the drifts but made no move to get up. The fire was out. It would be a cold, wet job rekindling it.

“Who needs a fire?” Tim said. “I’m warm.”

“You may be right. Let it go until we need it for cooking. We can eat beechnuts for breakfast.”

The day wore on, but the storm did not abate. We talked quietly of unrelated things, such as our favorite kinds of pie. Mine was blackberry, while Tim was inclined toward peach. I pointed out that since peaches would not grow in our climate, the only ones he was familiar with came in cans. He agreed, but still preferred them. As for ice cream, we had eaten only chocolate and vanilla and liked both.

“If only we had some condensed milk and sugar now,” I said, scooping up a handful of the fresh snow. “I could make snow cream.”