Billy’s Frozen Walk

Dedication

To my father.

Your style of teaching was not to tell but to show and then let me try.

I am the man I am today because of your example and willingness to let me find the solutions that would shape me into who I have become.

Preface

Imagine a world with no computers, cell phones, or GPS. How about a world where a road was defined by how often tires drove across it, beating down the grasses? Addresses were often defined by calling out landmarks: the ranch behind the hill, with the creek that runs along the bottom.

In this world, electricity was a novelty, refrigeration often was determined by how cool the hole in the ground was, and running water was defined by how quickly you could hustle a bucket from the well to the sink.

This was the world that my dad grew up in. It was tough, but it built character. You did what you needed to do to survive, including asking for help from others, sometimes a higher power, and not necessarily in that order. You relied on the old-world knowledge, and you invented new as necessity required. When I say ‘you,’ I mean my father’s generation and those who came before; this was their norm.

When he told my brothers and me this story around a campfire on a recent fishing trip, it made me appreciate more the time in which I grew up and now live and the technologies and comforts we, as a society, have taken for granted. His story impressed upon me the need to use my mind more when necessity requires. When circumstances are challenging, looking for an expedient solution is not always the best choice. Often, the answer is found by talking to more experienced folk, and success is determined by sheer will.

These are some of the thoughts I had when he shared with me this amazing tale and others that, one day, I may write. I hope you find my interpretation entertaining, and maybe, like me, you will learn from his ‘more experienced’ example.

Chapter One

William Walter Winfield, cursed himself, “I can’t believe I did that!”

Frowning and muttering to himself, he trudged, footstep after slippery footstep in the knee-high powder snow. It was the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday with temperatures so cold standing water would turn solid in seconds. A cloud-covered sky spewed flaky snow while gusting winds swirled the icy showers mercilessly. The fast-falling crystals whipped around every which way, piling up on the young man’s head and shoulders, stinging his eyes, and making it difficult to see, let alone follow the white-blanketed country road that was hard to see during the best of times. Thick clouds of frosty breath obscured his vision with every exhale, making his blindness complete.

Turning around to check his progress, he could just make out the outline of the slight rise in the supposed road a hundred feet or so behind. Disappointedly, he guessed maybe he had walked a half-mile from where he had left the old Chevy Bel Air in the ditch, his mother huddling inside to keep warm. Frustrated, he set his head down, hands in pockets, determined to make it to the Davis ranch another two and a half miles up the disappearing road–if only he could find his way in the blizzard.

Everybody called him Billy, a tall, skinny fifteen-year-old with bony arms and shoulders sturdier than they appeared. He was known to be a bit of a rabble-rouser, but he was independent and dependable when he needed to be. Today was one of those days; he’d have to prove his reliability once more, for his mother’s sake.

He was dressed in a winter down jacket, a flannel shirt, well-worn jeans, his favorite cowboy boots covered by shin-high galoshes, a wool flap-cap pulled down as far as it could go covering his slicked-back blond hair, and wool mittens he had received as a Christmas present from his mother. Hunched over, he walked along the buried, lonely road, pulling his coat tightly around himself to keep as much heat from escaping his usually adequate clothing. He stood straight up as a brutal gust of wind found entry through his collar and flowed bitterly down his spine.

“Agh!” he yelled. “Serves me right for getting stuck.” The outburst caused him to lose his balance, his feet skating on the hidden ice under the snow, and he went down, catching himself on his mittened hands, inches from burying his face in the snowbank. Laughing, he was glad no one was here to witness his blunder. Quickly, his chuckling face turned severe as he realized his situation was bad. He would freeze to death in the sub-zero winds if he didn’t find his way to the ranch. Mom would run out of gas, the car would be buried in the snow drifts, and she, too, would meet his frozen fate.

Son, a man owns his mistakes, knuckles down, and takes care of business. His father’s lesson echoed in his head as he picked himself up out of the snow and continued his frozen march–a new conviction burning in his chest.

Usually, his father would have been driving, but he had fallen from his horse recently and was having difficulty getting around. So, on this brutal afternoon before the accident, it was just Billy, the driver, and his mom, the passenger, in the car. Billy was home from school for the week, attending to the cattle and other ranch chores while Dad was recovering. He didn’t mind the break. Chores were an acceptable diversion from the hectic pace of school and boring lessons, but he did miss his conspiratorial friends. It was fun causing a stir with his pals and coming up with hair-brained ideas to get out of doing homework.

During the week, Billy boarded out with various families in the nearby town of Jordan so he could attend school. They provided him with food and shelter, making it easier to attend school in town, miles away from the family ranch. On the weekends, he’d go back home to catch up on chores. The families he stayed with in town didn’t provide much else as far as structure or parenting. Some, left something to be desired, being abusive and uncaring, while others, like his current family, were kind. For Billy and his parents, this was just the way it had to be. Billy loved school, and he and his parents were willing to compromise, because of the difficulty of commuting from the ranch to Jordan so he could get an education.

When he stayed with his boarding families, the teen was left to his own devices, essentially on his own, and this freedom left opportunity for mischief. He certainly took advantage of this lack of oversight, but there was an unseen boundary he felt, and he never strayed so far that he would dishonor his family name. Billy was a good kid, and though multiple families raised him, his mom and dad instilled a sense of responsibility through their example. He understood his parent’s hard work afforded them their ranch; it would all go away without their dedication to the land, crops, and animals that lived there. This example kept him on the straight and narrow, and he stayed on that path, the best as a teenager could.

As he soldiered on, he was recounting the accident and wondering if there was anything he could have done to avoid it. Wouldn’t have mattered if Dad were driving; the whiteout made it impossible to see the drift, he thought to himself.

In Montana, winter was brutal. Sub-zero temperatures were the norm, and so were drifting snow and blizzards. This storm, however, surprised everyone. The Farmer’s Almanac didn’t mention trouble until next month. Still, he berated himself for not being more prepared. He saw the sky and the deep snow on the road. He knew better and should have brought warmer clothes; he was just so focused on returning to town that he overlooked the weather.

The unrelenting winds brought him back to the moment and whipped around his body; his hands and feet were freezing, tingling like pins and needles, pushing him to keep moving. His footwear proved a hindrance as each step slipped, making him feel like he was losing ground with every effort forward. He couldn’t see any sign of a road anymore or familiar landmarks. He realized in horror, seeing only swirling blankets of snow and flurry, that he was lost, and, in every direction, everything looked the same.

A momentary lull allowed his eyes to spot a small hill, and with relief, he knew it was all downhill on the other side, about a half mile to the Davis ranch. He’d shave off a mile of difficult road time if he went over the bluff. Renewed, he started for the ascent, thinking, can’t be any worse than sliding around down here on the ice.

Billy followed what he thought to be old cattle paths worn into the hillside. His path took him zig zag across the rise. More than once, he stumbled and slid before catching a branch or a buried shrub to arrest his descent. Every time he fell, he got back up. His determination was even more set, and he wasn’t going to let his mother down. He was cold and wet, and unless he gave up, it couldn’t get any worse; at least, that was what he told himself.

Glowing in the distance, he saw his destination from the snow-covered summit, giving him another boost of spirit. He plodded on, plowing through the thigh-high snow, trying his best to ignore his painful, numbing limbs.

Chapter Two

“Billy Winfield, you get yourself in here before you catch your death. What in tarnation are you doing out in this blizzard?” Mrs. Sensibee grabbed Billy by the frozen jacket and pulled him inside the warm two-story ranch home. When he crossed the threshold, the heat of the fireplace and the kitchen stove burned at his frozen cheeks as he was unceremoniously stripped of his snow-encrusted clothing.

“Billy! Grab Billy a dry flannel shirt and some long johns; bring them down here right away,” yelled Mrs. Sensibee at the ceiling.

Now, as a narrator, I pride myself on telling a coherent, entertaining story if I may be so bold. And, at this very moment, you may be scratching your head at that last bit of dialog. Well, you aren’t going crazy, and I didn’t misspeak. There are indeed two Billy’s in this story. There are actually three; however, everyone calls William Walter Winfield, Senior by his middle name Walter. To clear things up, for the moment, we will refer to Billy Sensibee as Will and Billy Winfield as Billy. Got it? Good. Oh, and one more thing: The Sensibees were caretakers of the Davis ranch, living and running the ranch for the Davis family, who lived somewhere else. This was a common thing back then, or so I have been told. Anyway, back to the story.

Will came down the stairs, a quizzical look on his face, a flannel shirt and long johns in his hands. Will was a couple of years older than Billy and a couple of bags of flour heavier. Billy was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, a wool blanket wrapped around his body, rubbing his hands together as he cozied close to the wood-burning stove. Mrs. Sensibee was pouring a piping hot cup of cocoa as Billy recounted his last several hours, starting with the accident, his subsequent bone-chilling slog, and ending with the painful rapping of his frozen knuckles on the Davis ranch’s wooden front door.

“Mom’s still in the Bel Air. Do you think we could take your tractor and pull the car out of the ditch?” Billy’s voice quivered as he asked for help.

“Of course, we can, but you aren’t going anywhere until you thaw out proper. Now drink this,” directed Mrs. Sensibee. “Mabel will be fine for now. You said she had plenty of fuel, and she’s a tough old girl, I can tell you that.”

Mr. Sensibee and Will put on their coats and went outside to prep the tractor for the rescue mission while Mrs. Sensibee poured Billy a bowl of hot beef stew. He had put on the larger dry clothing loaned to him by Will and was starting to regain sensation in his extremities. “When your clothes dry out, I’m going to drive you to your car,” announced Will after he came back into the house and shook off the cold.

For the next 30 minutes, Billy and the Sensibees visited as he ate, thawed, and put back on his mostly dried clothing. The sky was darkening, and Mr. Sensibee was eager to get the boys on the road. They needed to get the car out of the ditch and return home before it got too dark. “Alright, when you get to the corner going up the hill, watch out for any sign of washout. With all this snow and ice, the creek might be backed up and have damaged the road,” advised Mr. Sensibee as he watched the two boys make their way to the old Ford Ferguson tractor.

The old machine was a reliable metal beast, the same model the Winfields had on their ranch. It had the typical two smaller wheels in the front, two larger treaded tires in the back, and a single metal seat for the driver. Luxury was not a consideration, but the steering wheel that guided the powerful old Ford engine got the job done. Will jumped in the driver’s seat and revved the already running machine; a puff of black smoke belched out of the stack. If you wanted a ride on the one-seater, you either drove or had to stand on the pallet on the back forks and grab onto anything you could find that wasn’t moving. Or better yet, put your hands on the driver’s shoulders as you bumped down the snow-covered road. That’s what Billy did as he stood during the next chapter of his unexpected wintry adventure.

The falling snow had let up, but the wind was moving around drifts that piled up on every inanimate object. Billy did his best to keep his balance while Will struggled to keep the wheels in the middle of the hidden road. The lights were not up to the task of showing the pitfalls and the hidden traps buried in the snow, and when the pair had come to the corner leading up the hill, the old beast slipped. Its front wheels slid into the ditch before Will could recover, pitching the metal machine onto its side and tossing the passengers off its back like a crotchety bucking bronco.

“You alright?” asked Will, sticking his head up out of the bank.

“Yeah. How about you?” responded Billy, once again covered in white fluff.

“I’m fine, but Dad’s going to kill me.” The pair dug themselves out, walked around the half-covered tractor, and determined it was hopeless to get the beast out. It had slid too far off the washed-out road, just like Mr. Sensibee had warned, and it wasn’t going anywhere. “There was no real way to avoid it. I didn’t see the washout until we fell in,” said Will.

The boys had traveled about halfway to their destination when they came to their inglorious stop. With nothing left to do, they decided they needed to split up.

“Tell your mom I’m sorry. Hope you get home safe,” said Will as he turned and walked back the way they had come. Billy headed up the hill on his way back to the car, pretty sure he was going in the right direction, dreading every footstep he took, his body starting to chill through anew.

Billy found himself, once again, alone with his thoughts. He was silently working out the details of how to get the car free from the landscape’s icy grip when he realized he could barely see once more. The snowstorm had worked itself back up into a frenzy, making his trek all the more difficult. The whipping snow, the thick cloud cover, and the fact that it was now evening gave Billy a new meaning of fear. His sense of direction was gone; shivering and lost, a surge of panic gripped his soul.

On his next step, he slipped forward and found himself buried chest deep, on his knees, numb from exposure, full of fear. An unexpected wave of calmness that he couldn’t explain until much later in life washed over him, and he remembered a recent Sunday sermon. The pastor of the small country church that he and his family often attended had stated, not for the first time, Ask and you shall receive. The prophetic thoughts reverberated through the teenager’s mind in his moment of desperation.

Lord, I humbly ask you to keep my mom safe and warm. I need help and light to find my way to safety. Amen. These were the words in his heart that he broadcast to the heavens from his frozen knees.

It’s not an unusual thing for Billy to pray. He had been brought up in the Presbyterian church, on and off, all his life. And there were times when he thought, Man, that was a close one, prompting a quick ‘Our Father.’ But he had never been this close to imminent disaster, and for the first time, the reality of possibly not making it out alive gave his plea a much more personal meaning and urgency. Suddenly, as if walking through a curtain, his view cleared as he pushed himself up from the ground. He turned around and saw the blinding wind squall moving south away from him, a clear moonlit demarcation of chaos on one side and, on the other, calm. The storm had passed him and continued on its energetic way, leaving a blanket of fresh snow covering the expansive landscape. The moon was bright, and the sky was clear, filled with stars. He saw a vast winter wonderland that glowed blue from his vantage. Turning back around, he spotted two familiar hills where he knew the road cut between. Giving a loud cheer, he restarted his march toward the target that led to the car with renewed hope and awe as he broadcast his ‘Thank you’ prayer with all heartfelt sincerity.

Chapter Three

Billy opened the Bel Air’s door with a tug and a creek, the hinges stiff from the cold. “Thank God, you’re safe,” said Mabel. “I’ve been praying you’d make it back.”

Billy recounted his struggles, his recovery at the Sensibee ranch, and their eventual failure with the tractor as he turned on the car and revved the engine. Once again, he rubbed his hands together, this time in front of the half-buried car’s glorious heat vent. Billy laughed, the kind of laugh you give when you learn you didn’t know everything like you thought. Shaking his head, he recounted how he had prayed for a miracle from his knees, and his prayers were answered.

“I’m proud of you, son. The Lord has more in store for you to accomplish. Just remember that,” Mabel said with certainty.

Enjoying the warmth of the engine, Mom and Billy sat there, mostly in quiet contemplation, while Billy’s frozen body thawed. He had put the car in reverse to see if the miracle was still in place, allowing it to get out on its own power. The wheels just spun, and the car stayed put. “Worth a try,” said Billy. “I guess we are walking home.”

The pair got out of their warm cocoon, the crisp, calm air stinging their faces. They were both as ready as they ever would be for Billy’s third trek of the day. It’s a good thing Billy was in top physical shape. He worked hard on the ranch, herding cattle, bucking hay, and carrying buckets of water, sometimes for miles. As I said earlier, he was a sturdy lad.

Mabel was also tough as nails. She was probably the best cowhand on the ranch, having horse-riding skills most people envied, and she didn’t shy away from any task that needed to be done, including walking the three miles home in the cold. A dozen eggs in hand, a gift intended for Billy’s boarding family, Mabel followed in Billy’s tracks as he led the pair back up the moonlit buried road. After an hour of silent trudging that ended in a boot-stomping dance, the pair shook off the cold on the front porch of the Winfield’s ranch house. Billy looked over at the thermometer hanging on the wall; it read 30 degrees below zero, a stark reminder of how close he had come to disaster. With thankful hearts, they were home.

Mabel walked into the kitchen and put on a kettle. She made a quick dinner, as she was hungry, having sat chilled in the car all afternoon. Even though Billy had eaten, he ate again, never missing any opportunity for eggs and toast. Stomachs satisfied, they recounted their story to Walter, who was simply happy they were home safe. “In the morning, we’ll take out the Ford and pull out the car,” was all he said. Billy slept well that night; he was exhausted, and his own bed had never felt so good.

Bright and early the following day, having had a hearty breakfast, Billy and Walter stepped outside. It was frigidly cold, but it was calm, and the sky was gloriously clear and blue, the snow blinding white as the sun shined off its surface. Billy went to the shed to grab a heavy tow chain and a shovel while Walter started the Ford. Once again, Billy was standing on the back, testing his balance as the tractor plowed its way through the deep snow. Having driven every inch of his ranch, Walter knew the route to the main road, whether he could see the road or not. The pair arrived, rosy-cheeked, at the buried Bel Air without incident.

Assessing the covered vehicle, both Winfields were confident digging out the car and pulling it free was something they could handle. Let me be a little more specific about that last statement regarding the pair’s confidence. Still having back issues, Walter was confident Billy’s back was up to the task. He saw his son as a young man now, being witness to and having confidence in his ability to do just about anything he put his mind to. The older gentleman would have been there to dig if his health had allowed, but today, it was his son’s turn.

Billy’s back was up for it, and he dug a trench around the vehicle. Grabbing the chain, he found a spot under the back bumper and attached the hook while Walter waited to put the tractor in reverse. Billy stood up, satisfied with the chain’s connection, stepped back, and motioned his dad to start pulling. Walter turned his head, looking back, and gave the metal beast some gas; the engine spluttered and protested, then suddenly, with a jerk, the old tractor quit, not having moved an inch. Walter stepped on the clutch and turned the key, causing nothing more than a clicking, whirring sound from the stubborn engine. Repeating this a couple of times to no avail, the engine, which had mostly been reliable, would not turn over.

“This old beast never did like the cold,” Walter said as he stepped off the vehicle and peered at the engine. He checked the spark plugs, the battery connections, and the choke while Billy checked the gas tank. It all looked fine. Shaking his head Walter declared, “I’m not going to be able to fix it here; it’s probably something electrical.”

By now, Billy was used to disappointment concerning his efforts to get back to town, so he took it in stride. “I guess we’re walking back home?” he said.

“No use going home. We’ll just walk to Jordan. I’ll get a wrecker in town to bring me back out here, and you can go to school,” which made perfect sense to Billy, a bit abashed for not thinking of that himself. Grabbing his suitcase from the car, he and Walter headed toward town, following Billy’s previous tracks from the day before. They walked by the Davis ranch again before finding the main road that led the final four miles into town. It was beautifully clear, notwithstanding sub-zero temperatures, and the walk was, mercifully, uneventful.

As the pair entered town, Billy and Dad said their goodbyes at the wrecker shop, then Billy went on to his boarding house. Finding it empty, everyone either at school or at work, Billy took his belongings to his room and packed them all away. He had worked up an appetite after his early morning of digging and walking, and decided an early lunch was in order before he went to school. He found some bread and bologna, made himself a sandwich, and ate it at the old wooden kitchen table in quiet solitude.

Bundled back up, schoolbooks in hand, Billy, for the fifth time in the last twenty-four hours, found himself crunching across ice-covered ground in the cold winter air. The sun was sculpting icicles from every rooftop, stretching them toward the earth as Billy replayed the nearly disastrous events in mind. His internal narrator, the voice of Zane Gray, entertained him during his walk to school with an epic western tale of how Billy the Kid survived the icy tundra. He was looking forward to being with his friends and telling them all about it.

Eager to get to class, he ran up the stairs of the schoolhouse. The halls were empty as he made his way to his locker, dumping his lessons in and shutting the door with a slam. He could hear various muffled sounds like those of teachers clicking chalk on slate boards or calling the rambunctious teenagers to order. There was one sound echoing through the hall that brought a smile to his face. It was a muffled cacophony of musical instruments, all playing miscellaneous warm-up notes over the top of each other. He could make it to his favorite class before it started if he hurried. With renewed energy and the slap of his cowboy-booted feet on the tile floors, Billy ran off to band class.

He found his seat amongst his friends, his brass baritone in hand. The chaos was a bit overwhelming compared to his recent frozen isolation, but he started to relax while everyone tuned their instruments, practiced their parts, or simply gossiped and joked. Calling order, the conductor directed everyone to get out the sheet music for John Sousa’s ‘Stars and Stripes Forever,’ a marching band staple. Billy’s face lit up with a smile as the conductor brought the class to attention with a tap of his baton and began to count with metronomic precious.

Man, that was a close one, he thought with relief one last time. Happy to be back in school, safe, he put the instrument to his lips and took a deep breath as the band began to play.