The Snow Child

Set in America’s last frontier at a time when most of its vastness was still uncharted, The Snow Child draws on the immediacy of the Alaskan wilderness to explore raw nature’s terrifying power and intoxicating beauty. Indeed, the presence of transcendentalist philosopher Henry Thoreau and his spirited engagement of the wilderness far apart from civilization informs the novel’s thematic treatment of both the terror and the romance of frontier living.

Most obviously, nature here is a terrifying force. The winters are brutal. Subzero temperatures, howling wind, and unrelenting snow create a harsh environment in which the homesteaders must farm and hunt for their livelihoods. The narrative records their hardships and their confrontations with the wilderness. We are given descriptions of Jack shooting the massive bull moose and then dressing it, of Faina gutting the wild swan, of Garrett tracking foxes. For these homesteaders, nature is a powerful antagonist; they must earn their livelihoods through discipline, sacrifice, and hardship.

But the narrative does not merely see nature as foe. In spring and summer, we are given descriptions of the untrammeled wilderness’s breathtaking beauty. The frontier is an unspoiled landscape that can inspire epiphanic joy. We are reminded of that intricacy, that rugged beauty beyond words, when Mabel struggles to capture the majesty she sees all about her in her sketch pad. After a decade, Mabel comes to find the beauty of her adopted world keen and rich. Though Mabel and Jack offer the security of their cabin to Faina, she pines for the freedom of the woods, the engagement of both its beauties and its terrors. In the end, she prefers the natural world to civilization with its fences, roofs, and walls.

It is a cliché, but the novel ultimately argues that we need others. But this is not the saccharine sweetness of the fairy-tale world. The novel anatomizes how difficult securing love can be, how threatening love can be, and yet how necessary it is. We can endure life, but with the generous presence of others that experience becomes meaningful, even magical. The threat here comes not from the obvious terrors—the unremitting force of nature, the chilling reality of death, the unremitting anxieties over financial ruin, and the very real fear of starvation—all of which impact Mabel and Jack. Rather, the threat is enduring those catastrophes alone.

Whether in the casual fireside chitchat of Esther and Mabel, the Good Samaritan dynamic between George and Jack, the epistolary exchange between Ada and Mabel, the fetching love between the wild girl and her adopted parents, or ultimately the powerful and tonic pull between Faina and Garrett, the need for others is both inexplicable and undeniable. Who can explain the heart? Why does George offer to help his neighbor? Why does Garrett honor his commitment to Jack’s farm? Why does Faina return winter after winter to the cabin? Why can’t Garrett shake the image of Faina in the woods? Why does Faina so passionately kiss Garrett? Loneliness, apartness, the shattering echo chamber of the self are the perils here. Love is not easy; the experience of love brings with it catastrophe, pain, and anxiety. But its energy, its generosity, and its mystery make interaction with others palliative and sustaining.