Isabella is still in the cabin in Estes Park. The bleakness of late November is starting to get to her.*
“This is a piteous day, quite black, freezing hard, with a fierce north-east wind. The absence of sunshine here, where it is nearly perpetual, has a very depressing effect, and all the scenery appears in its grimness of black and gray.”
Three of the horses, including Birdie, leapt the fence the previous night and they have no way to round them up. The two men were out looking for them and saw Jim returning to his cabin. He had “an awfully ugly fit on him” and they chose to avoid making their presence known. The two men are also weary of Estes Park, given that they promised to look after the place for five days until Evans returned. It has been five weeks.
“… in the grimness of a coming storm, Had that view of the park which I saw first in the glories of an autumn sunset. Life was all dead; the dragon-flies no longer darted in the sunshine, the cotton-woods had shed their last amber leaves, the crimson trailers of the wild vines were bare … How can you expect me to write letters from such a place, from a life ‘in which nothing happens?’”
Spoiler: Isabella finds a way to keep writing.
* Isabella is all of us, right now.