I’m hard at work painting by day and drawing at night. Twenty-five good drawings are done. On the fair, warm days Rockwell spends most of his time out-of-doors. Being Sir Lancelot still delights him and there’s not a stump in the vicinity that has not been scarred by his attacks with lance and sword. These stumps are really mostly all giants. I am now reading the Department of Agriculture year book. It’s very instructive.
Tuesday, January twenty-first.
The north wind rages to-night. It is cold and clear starlight. With the violent wind-gusts the snow sweeps by in clouds-sweeps by except for what sweeps in. Over my work table it descends in a fine, wet spray so that I’ve had to cover that place with canvas and work elsewhere. A wild day it has been and a wild night is before us. And yesterday was little brother to it.
These days are wonderful but they are terrible. It is thrilling now with Olson absent to reflect that we are absolutely cut off from all mankind, that we cannot, in this raging sea, return to the world nor the world come to us. Barriers must secure your isolation in order that you may experience the full significance of it. The romance of an adventure hangs upon slender threads. A banana peeling on a mountain top tames the wilderness. Much of the glory of this Alaska is in the knowledge I have that the next bay—which I may never choose to enter—is uninhabited, that beyond those mountains across the water is a vast region that no man has ever trodden, a terrible ice-bound wilderness.
We begin to think less of Olson’s return. I have settled to my work and can imagine things continuing as they are for weeks. They will continue so unless the wind forsakes the north. Two days ago after a very cold night we awoke to thunder and lightning—and snow! In two hours the sun was out. That afternoon I stripped and danced awhile in the snow—a little while. Then, after a hot bath, out again in my nakedness for a roll in the snow, dressed,—and felt a new man. Rockwell loves it all more and more. He seems absolutely contented and spends hours a day outdoors.
What a marvel is a child’s imagination! It is a treat for Rockwell to play “man-eater” at bedtime and attack me furiously. And if at any time I’ll just enter his pretend-world it’s all he can wish for. Another filthy mess of fox-food has been prepared and a new sack of salt fish put to soak in the lake. I do hate that chore. Pioneering I relish; ranching I despise, at least blue fox ranching. The miserable things slink about so in such sick and mean spirited fashion.
Thursday, January twenty-third.
Sometimes the smoke goes up the flue—and sometimes down. And that’s not good for the fire. I sit within six inches of the stove with a frozen nose and icy feet. The wind sifts through the walls. Now, with our moss calking shrunken and dried and shriveled further with the cold, our cabin would be light without windows. These are so far the coldest days of winter. Although it blows straight from the north, whence only fair weather comes, the day is dark with drifting snow cloud high. The water of the bay is hidden in driving vapor. We cut wood and stuff it everlastingly into the stove. To-day seventy pieces for the ravenous air-tight, big chunks, have been cut and split—and we’ll cut again to-morrow. But with all the trouble of cold weather we’d be mightily disappointed if the winter slipped by without it.
It’s a real satisfaction to find that my calculations in supplies, in bedding, in heating equipment were just right for conditions here. We’re running low now in cereals and milk but we had planned to visit Seward this month to restock. Olson’s absence is quite outside of all plans. If he isn’t sick it’s hard to explain reasonably in any way.