January 7, 1933

Have just returned from a trip up to Basswood Lake. Enjoyed the long stretches of the lake looking up to my old border country, felt good to swing along on snowshoes, feel the muscles working once more and to rest my eyes on distant blue horizons. Especially will I remember coming out of Wind Bay with the sun getting low and long snaky wisps of snow blown by the west wind, writhing over the smooth rippled surface of the snow. What a picture that was, millions of snaky streamers, pink and gray in the fading sun. Then dropping in to Ted's, an invitation to stop for the night, an hour at the woodpile more to escape missing the sunset than anything else. How peaceful it was out there with the dogs sitting on their kennels, the clean snow, silhouettes of pine and spruce and the pink in the west. It was beautiful and when I had finished my pile and it was dark, I was hungry and still half reluctant to go inside away from the popping stars and the new half moon.

I am not much of a cabin visitor. I do not play cribbage which I suppose I should learn and find so little to talk about. The only time I love a cabin is when I am alone. Company like with Thoreau bores me after a short time. I am happiest when alone with my thoughts although I do crave the other at times. What I miss most however is the chance to be alone where I can think.