In spite of Cynthia's admonition he returned to the kitchen and cleaned the bacon grease from the floor, using half a roll of paper towels in completing the task. He did the dishes as well, hoping for an early reprieve from her justified anger. When he finished the chores, he swallowed three aspirins and went outside to shovel the accumulating snow, hoping further activity might dissipate the anger he felt, not only at Shipton, but at himself for losing it in so public and childish manner. By the time he finished, it was after eleven and Cynthia still hadn't returned. Bird Song was as quiet as a tomb, with Janet either the most silent domestic on record or snoozing away in an unoccupied room. Dean took a deep breath and decided he'd better trudge up to the ice park, wool hat in hand, and attempt to make his amends.
The crowd had grown since Dean's Thursday trip, both in numbers of climbers and spectators. The largest group was assembled below the bridge where some activity was taking place. The crowd seemed clustered at one particular spot. It was difficult to see as the intensity of the falling snow was increasing by the hour. Dean wandered up the penstock trail, the path he and Cynthia followed earlier, where Donald Ryland had climbed. Small clusters of people were gathered at every vantage point. Piles of gear were stacked about while partners called out to those below, fed line and encouragement, while others watched, a number with anxious looks on their reddened faces as they looked downward. Dean searched for his wife but didn't spot Cynthia's colorful ski jacket among the pockets of viewers. He continued to trudge forward, leaving the river and crowds behind.
It was peaceful on the path, in spite of the snow and increased inconvenience of trudging in its depth. Once beyond access to the river below, the seldom-used path presented an unbroken cover of fresh white, now blanketed in more than a foot of fresh powder, as it followed the large pipe toward the reservoir. Nevertheless, Dean waded forward, enjoying the peace of being alone in the woods.
When he reached the waterfall at the base of the storage pond, the mist rose up from the cascade, creating a myriad of icy fingers of crystal in the cold air. He paused, leaning against a concrete abutment, mesmerized by the never-ending torrent as it flowed over the edge of the dam. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he began the fifteen-minute walk back to the awaiting problems of civilization.
After the trail bent toward the cliff, Dean could see down the gorge, all the way to the roadway bridge where ghost-like spectators continued to mill about in the whirl of falling snow. He was surprised to spot young Donnie Ryland, recognizable by his small stature and familiar jacket, running down the end of the trail. The boy was too far away for Dean to hail but Dean hurried his pace in hopes of stopping him and asking if he'd seen Cynthia. A short distance further, he was surprised for the second time when he caught sight of Janet O'Brien. She was standing at the rail, peering down river, dressed in only a sweater, clutching her arms to her body against the snow and chilling cold.