If
I Went Back To Fort Collins, I Thought I Was Farther From A
Mountain Life, And Had No Choice But Denver, A Place From Which I
Shrank, Or To Take The Cars For New York.
Here the life was
rough, rougher than any I had ever seen, and the people repelled
me by their
Faces and manners; but if I could rough it for a few
days, I might, I thought, get over canyons and all other
difficulties into Estes Park, which has become the goal of my
journey and hopes. So I decided to remain.
September 16.
Five days here, and I am no nearer Estes Park. How the days pass
I know not; I am weary of the limitations of this existence.
This is "a life in which nothing happens." When the buggy
disappeared, I felt as if I had cut the bridge behind me. I sat
down and knitted for some time - my usual resource under
discouraging circumstances. I really did not know how I should
get on. There was no table, no bed, no basin, no towel, no
glass, no window, no fastening on the door. The roof was in
holes, the logs were unchinked, and one end of the cabin was
partially removed! Life was reduced to its simplest elements. I
went out; the family all had something to do, and took no notice
of me. I went back, and then an awkward girl of sixteen, with
uncombed hair, and a painful repulsiveness of face and air, sat
on a log for half an hour and stared at me.
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