Happy Thanksgiving
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Izzy Bird, pickled pork

Isabella is still in the cabin in Estes Park.

She and the young men were happy to have finished up the pickled pork last night because they had grown weary of it but are now without meat. Fortunately, the young men shot an elk the previous day. Unfortunately, they intended to keep it intact to sell in Denver. Fortunately, they gave up on that plan and Isabella awoke to the smell of venison.

Supplies are running low. “… there is only coffee for one week,* and I have only a scanty three ounces of tea left. The baking powder is nearly at an end.” They are economizing by breakfasting late and having two meals rather than three. They hope Evans comes soon with a resupply.

Still, the mood is light. “Our evenings are social and pleasant. We finish supper about eight, and make up a huge fire. The men smoke while I write to you. Then we draw near the fire and I take my endless mending, and we talk or read aloud.” They also discuss their present circumstance re: supplies and sick calves and “the possible intentions of a men whose footprints we have found and traced for three miles.” These are all topics that recur, she says, “and few of which can be worn threadbare.”

 

* this, my friends, would be my limiting factor.

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