October 12, 2014
The air tonight is cold, but nothing so obvious as frost is to be seen; the trees are mostly bare of leaves and I'm walking on a gilded carpet of the fallen. Snow on the mountains of Hatcher's Pass inches lower day by day, and the Lake is ruffled and foamed by a stiff wind. My hands are cold, reddened by the same wind, and the new boards in the dock stand out in stark contrast with the lovely old weather-beaten ones. My brother's boat is shipping water- it is one of the few still tied alongside this ancient gray dock. I must remind him to pull it out before it freezes.
It is the middle of October again, and as I walk swiftly up our road I hope sincerely that the bears are all fat and tired, sleeping sweetly in their dens and caves. The house on the hill has a light on, an autumn beacon in the slowly falling dusk.
