“2/1/78 wednesday morning, dense fog fills the canyon, an unusual event in that it has not rained for weeks now. a cold air ~ polar air ~ must have moved in last night, for the thermometer registered a 30° low, about ten or twelve degrees below the minimum recorded for the past week. in spite of that, my water line did not freeze, and only a very light frost shows around the cabin. actually, yesterday afternoon i noticed a sharp decline in temperature, and attributed it to a change in my metabolism. then upon further consideration i decided colder air must have moved in. the thermometer bears me out. and the fog is probably a direct result of the colder air. there has been no fog in the canyon since the rains. it is burning off now. today was scheduled for a group hike, probably down into giant gap from bogus point.”
[Russell Towle's journal]
“2/1/79 ~ morning. snowing again. my headache is gone, but my body is a little achey still. it is finally thursday and i get to see cynthia again, how nice. maybe we'll spend the weekend here ~ and i'm out of firewood, and tim's saw is out of order, so great, no firewood, a cold cabin, no money, i've let everything slide but it's ok, everything is sliding perfectly into a position so that all nine of beethoven's symphonies will thrill the very bones of giant gap, with aretha franklin songs lining the edges, and a few beatles tunes outcropping here and there, peruvian flute concertos transmitting through the hooves of deer into the earth and back out through the buds of manzanita flowers-to-be ~ it will be very nice! sonatas for cello and piano by bach will mate with django reinhardt tunes while clouds twist and unravel the gasping energy of tibetan saints in perfect concordance. let's see. anything else? oh yes! throbbing conga drums will gently but inexorably incline the earth towards spring, echoes of spring-to-be will cause our feet to twitch and our sexual organs to hang loose and warm in anticipation. a lone trumpet will split the scented air with lines of melody etched in gold upon the pink pyramid of Giant Gap. who plays the trumpet, perched on the impossible spire of Mobut? who stands and throws melody lines for eagles to glide on, golden lariats entwining nostalgia with clarity with power with grace with all the yearning of all God's children? who is that spirit-singer with the radiant countenance?
... laughing.”
[Russell Towle's journal]
“2/1/82 ... Now, Schubert, morning sun stabbing its warmth through the cabin. I need to cut more firewood. Want to work on my hot water system. Realign the water-jacket in the stove and cut out the draft tube in the tank.
The snow on the road coming in is patchy, and the skiing is threatened. I can drive in to the cable now. Shoveled some snow into the thin spots yesterday. I'd guess it's a losing battle. Perversely, in places the snow on the road is over two feet deep and well-consolidated. In places it is inches deep. In places it's gone.
Someone walked in my ski tracks yesterday, my track that I was so proud of because it was so perfect and fast. Now it's a mess.
[...] ”
[Russell Towle's journal]
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