It has been a beautiful, clear, cold, violent northwest day. I’ve painted on and off all day with wood cutting between. One can’t stop going in such weather, and out-of-doors you can’t stand still for it is too icy cold and windy.
Rockwell and I have just now, eight o’clock, returned from down the beach where we went to look for lights from Seward. But we could distinguish nothing meant for us. The moon has risen and illuminates the mountain tops—but we and all our cove are still in the deep shadow of the night. It is most dramatic; the spruces about us deepen the shadow to black while above them the stone faces of the mountain glisten and the sky has the brightness of a kind of day. Olson brought us goat chops for dinner. We could not have told them from lamb.
This afternoon late a small power boat appeared in the bay attempting to make its way toward Seward. After some progress the wind forced her steadily and swiftly back. When we last saw her she seemed to be trying to make the shelter of our island or one of the outer islands, the while driving steadily seaward. It’s a wild night to be out in the bay though doubtless calm at sea. It is such an adventure that we must be on our guard against. As we look across the bay toward Bear Glacier, which is hidden by a point of land, we can see the effect of the north wind sweeping down the glacier, a mist driving seaward. It is nothing less than the fine spray of that wind-swept water.
Monday, October twenty-first.
It is so late that I shall write only a little. To-day was again wonderful, a true golden and blue northwest day. I have painted and sawed wood, and built myself a splendid six-legged saw horse. Olson thinks I have already cut my winter’s supply of wood—but it seems to me far from it. Rockwell has been most of the day at his own animal book, making some strange and beautiful birds. This morning the ground was frozen with a hard crust. It did not thaw throughout the day, and again to-night it is very cold. Winter is at last upon us, the long, long winter. And the sun retreats day by day farther toward the mountain. I look to the sun’s going with a kind of dread. We have seen nothing of the boat that last night was driven to shelter. We believe the men to be in the other cove of our island.
