“DEEP SNOW”
OF ILLINOIS
American storytellers have always been particularly fond of tales depicting extraordinary meteorological phenomenon. Even the chronicles of Paul Bunyan make express referenced to the “Winter of the Blue Snow,” “Rain that Came Up from China” “Year of Two Winters” or some other such time. Indeed, strong winds, deep snows, odd rain, hot summers, etc. all have their place in the local legends and rumors embedded in the memories of young and old alike.
No matter who you speak with, it seems that everyone can recall a period in their own lifetime measured by Mother Nature’s hand. Having grown up in Virginia, myself, I can clearly recall the Blizzard of ’96 for many things, the cancelation of two straight weeks of school not the least of which. Alternatively, someone else may be likewise inclined to relate the particulars of a blistering Carolina summer or of a windy season in Seattle, both more often than not. Still, whatever the case may be, such unrivaled weather seems to always be a cause of great refection and often finds its place among the defining moments in our memories.
For better or worse, such was the case in Central Illinois in the winter of 1830-31 or as it is referred, somewhat romantically, the “Winter of the Deep Snow.” And, as amply evidenced by the following, it was certainly anything apart from a small cause of reflection by those who were made stronger for having saw it through. But in perusing the following, think not simply on the account given but feel free to reflect on those of your own reminiscences whether this may mean rain, sleet, heat or perhaps a deep snow.
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THE “DEEP SNOW” IN ILLINOIS
FORTY YEARS AGO. [September 15, 1871]
The constitution of your society defines an old settler. He is one who resided here before the deep snow. The thought has occurred to me that it might be interesting to many in this audience to be informed of what we mean by the deep snow. We shall have no difficulty in making ourselves understood on that subject. In the interval between Christmas, 1830, and New Year, 1831, of course, forty years ago last New Year’s, snow fell all over Central Illinois to a depth of nearly three feet on a level. Then came a rain, with weather so cold that it froze as it fell, forming a crust of ice over this three feet of snow, nearly, if not quite, strong enough to bear a man, and, finally, over this crust of ice, there were a few inches of very light snow. The clouds passed away and the wind came down upon us from the northeast with extraordinary ferocity. For weeks, certainly not less than two weeks, the mercury in the thermometer tube was not, on any morning, higher than 12 degrees below zero. The wind was steady, fierce gale from the northwest, day and night. The air was filled with flying snow, which blinded the eyes and almost stopped the breath of any one who attempted to face it. No man could, for any considerable length of time, make his way on foot against it.
The story of such a winter as this may be pleasant enough to hear to one who hopes never to experience it; but the situation of the inhabitants of this country was certainly rather alarming. The people were almost wholly from regions more southern than this, and knew nothing by experience of dealing with such a depth of snow and such cold. Indeed, I had then some experience of New England winter, and have had some since, but I have to this day never seen any other which bore any comparison to this. Jacksonville had then about 400 people. We were dependent chiefly for keeping warm on having plenty of wood, for our houses were certainly far enough from being warmly built; and yet our supply of fuel for the winter was not as is more commonly the case now, piled at our doors before the beginning of winter. It is in the forest, and must be brought us, through the snow, and by people who were quite unaccustomed to it. Could it be done? It was at first not quite apparent that it could. Our corn was in the fields, over which this covering of snow as spread, and to a great extent the wheat for our bread was in sacks in like condition. Snow paths could not be broken after the New England fashion. There a few hours of wind blows all the snow from exposed places, and deposits it in the valleys and behind hills, where the wind cannot reach it. A little energy with ox teams and sleds will break out a road and there is no more trouble till the next snow-storm. There is no truer picture than that given by Whittier in his “Snow-Bound” of the frolic of breaking the roads after a great snow storm. But nothing of that sort would have been of much use in our case. In this level country there is no end to the drifting as long as the snow lasts and the wind blows. There are no covered places in which the snow can be driven, consequently the path would fill behind a team, or any number of teams in a few minutes, so that its track could not be seen. The only way in which snow paths were finally made was by going as nearly as we could in the same place, till the snow was trodden hard, and rounded up like a turnpike. The snow-fall produced constant sleighing for nine weeks, and when at last warm rain and sunshine prevailed, about the first of March, in melting the snow from fields and untrodden places, the roads remained as lines of ice, which disappeared but gradually. The New Englander has scarcely any such experience of winter as this—certainly not unless it be quite in Northern New England. We had no railroads then, nor indeed any dream of them. But our mail communication with the rest of the world was quite interrupted for several weeks continuously. We in those days had one mail a week, and that on horseback from Springfield, and to bring that through that snow required more energy than mail boys in those days were master of.
I say we had no railways in those days. But how little good they would have done us if we had them. I am free to confess that my memory of the deep snow produces in my mind to this day an unconquerable aversion to long journeys by railway in the winter. Should such a winter as that of 1830-31 occur again in Central Illinois, our railways would be as useless to us for five or six weeks together, as though they were buried a thousand feet in the earth. The cuts would all be filled, and they would fill again in half an hour, behind any train that might dig its way through. It is a consolation that such a winter has never occured but once in the memory of man. But what has happened once may happen again. If it does we shall have a very definite idea how important our railroads are to use, and we shall be very glad that the snow is not over the telegraph wire. I cannot say, after all, that in town there was any very serious amount of suffering—we did get food and fuel and a good deal of fun and frolic out of the deep snow, though at the expense of not a few frozen ears, noses and faces, but the loss to the farmers in stock and crops, was very considerable. Some varieties of wild game were nearly exterminated. Deer were entirely unable to protect themselves from the dogs and the huntsmen.
I think, then, my audience will agree with me, that the line drawn by this association to define an old settler is a very definite and palpable one.
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