Sunday, February twenty-third.
Friday was calm. We left the island at about eleven—after the usual hours fussing with the engine. At Hogg’s camp we called in for something to bale with, for the boat, being leaky, had taken in a lot of water. No one at home—so I stole a bowl from the shed and we proceeded. By then the sun shone upon us and we could observe, what we later confirmed at Seward, that the sun shines at the head of the bay while the island, our island, is shrouded in clouds. Quite different conditions prevail in the two localities. With us it is warmer and much wetter. The recorded rainfall for Seward, that some time ago seemed incredibly small, does not fit Fox Island at all. Olson’s records for last summer show prevailing rainy weather—and Seward rejoiced in unprecedented sunshine! And during these three days in Seward now, days wonderfully fair, thick clouds have always been over Fox Island. And even the wind blows there when Seward’s waters are calm.
And so on Friday we reached Seward with flying colors, stowed our boat up high, put the engine into Olson’s cabin, and walked again the streets of civilization. Here everyone is friendly. The first night Rockwell dined out at one house and slept at another with a lot of children. What must they have thought of his underclothes! I went supperless—writing letters instead. And then flute music at the postmaster’s. Next day very early the steamer came and the day passed for me in the wild excitement of receiving mail.