In a little cabin, way back in the woods at the end of a long timber trail lived an old man who made his livelihood from the mountains. And how I came to spend those darkest weeks of winter with him is a story in of itself.
    We were the most unlikely of companions. At the time, the winter of 1915 when the railroads were just making their way through the area, I was lucky to find any shelter from the winter elements. Autumn had been holding on for over six weeks and I thought I could beat the snow to the other side of the mountains. Well, I was wrong. On horseback with a pack mule, I got caught up in tremendous drifts of blowing snow. The old trapper found me and lead me back to his cabin. I reckon if he hadn't come across me I would have been lost in short order.
    His cabin wasn't much of a home but it was warm and he agreed to let me stay until it was safe to travel on.
    He didn't talk much. I guess he was used to being alone. In fact, he wouldn't even tell me his name for the longest time until I took to calling him Old Steven. He finally told me his real name but by that time it didn't matter. I called him Old Steven and that was about all that was necessary.
    After that first storm ended, it was clear that I wouldn't be leaving for a long time. The snow was much too deep for traveling and Old Steven resigned himself to the fact that I would be with him for the greater part of the winter.
    I tired to make myself useful to the old trapper. I offered to do just about anything but most days he refused my help. Finally late one evening he told me that he had a job for me, if I wanted it.
    "Reckon tomorrow's the time," he said.
    "Time for what?" I asked.
    Old Steven didn't answer for a long time and then finally said, "If'n you want to make yerself useful, set out tomorrow and find us a log."
    "A log?"
    He struck a match on one of the rocks that made up the fireplace and put it to his pipe.
    "About this diameter," he said, holding up his arms, "and as long as you please. Make sure that log is dead, son. I think a young tenderfoot like yourself can figure out deadwood, eh?"
    After the many hours of silence, it was delightful to hear his gentle ribbing.
    I closed the book I was reading.
    "What shall we use this log for, Old Steven?" I asked.
    "You'll see, sonny boy," he answered, not even looking at me. "You'll see."
    I settled back in my chair and took up reading where I had left off. I had about a dozen books with me on my travels and I had read them by the soft firelight so many times I could almost recite them by heart.
    When Old Steven spoke again, it startled me: "Yes, sir, almost time fer it."
    His last comment didn't need answering but it was so unusual for him to be this talkative. I so enjoyed hearing another human voice that I tried to encourage him to continue.
    "But I haven't seen a timepiece anywhere in the cabin," I said.
    Old Steven quietly laughed to himself and knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
    "Don't need a timepiece for his one," he said and no more was said for the rest of the night.
    Upon waking the next morning, I found that Old Steven was gone. It wasn't unusual for him to set out by himself through the mountains, returning with a snowshoe hare for the evening stew.
    Early that morning I began my task of finding a log to suit his needs. It wasn't easy wading through the snow and finding just the right tree.
    Finally I came across an old ponderosa pine that must have been struck by lightning years ago. I spent the rest of the morning cutting it down and dragging it back to the cabin through the miserable blowing snow. My hands, numb with cold, we cut and bleeding by the time I finally wrestled the brut to the shelter of the cabin.
    Late into the evening there still was no sign of Old Steven. It was about then I began to worry. It wasn't like him to be gone so long.
    Presently I heard a commotion outside the small cabin and opened the door to see Old Steven making his way through the darkness with a small deer slung over his shoulder. Without saying a word, the old trapped came inside and began preparing the deer meat. He cut out two flank steaks and then set the meat to cook over the fire.
    After that, he took out a pot of water that had been boiling in the fireplace and made himself a bath. I returned to my books while Old Steven scrubbed himself from top to bottom and even washed his thinning hair.
    Afterwards he dried himself next to the fire and then did something I still have a hard time believing: Old Steven pulled out a clean shirt and a neck tie and a fancy dinner jacket that would have done him proud in any opera house in Denver. And that old trapper dressed himself up in all his finery.
    By time, the meat was thoroughly cooked and ready. Old Steven pulled out two fancy plates and a set of long necked wine glasses and some real silverware.
    "Yes sir," he finally said, "this is the night."
    "The winter solstice?" I asked.
    Old Steven nodded. He picked up one end of the big log and set it in the fire to burn.
    "Yule log," he said. "I call it my Night Log. Ought to burn all night long. We'll be needing a little light on this night. Longest night of the year."
    We dined on exquisite china eating a meal fit for a king. Old Steven finally leaned back after the meal and said, "I usually do all this alone. Don't mind sharin' with ya, but I'm not used to the company, ya understand."
    He took out a small bag and spread out the seeds before him. I watched as he took a heavy skillet, dumped some oil in it and then made popcorn over the fire for our dessert.
    While we sat in front of the fire, Old Steven took out something else that surprised me even more. It was a book. He opened the book and began reading: "And in that region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night."
    I listened to him reading the Christmas story way up in the dark mountains as far from civilization as possible. As we sat through the night, we pushed the night log further into the fire and watched as it's gentle flame keep the darkness at bay.
    "No matter where I am," Old Steven said, "or who I'm with, I pretty much do these same things on this night, this longest night of the year."
    As I said, it's been many, many years since that night and now I am older than my former winter companion during those brutal blizzards. I'm sure Old Steven is long gone but I try to honor his memory each winter with a night log of my own.