Caretaker’s Log, Sunday, January 25, 2015
I'm up at 8:15. I get downstairs and only run the water before I call Michaela. She's at the airport about to fly to Puerto Vallarta.
Morning chores. Coffee. Cat. Fire. Bulk charge.
There's at least one moose in the foothills next to the road.
I water the plants. They don't need much to drink today.
I almost finish Streets of Laredo.
I eat breakfast.
I go for quick thirty-five minute ski, up and down the road’s first hill. The downhill goes faster each time. The fresh air is nice. The weather is warmer with less chill of a wind than yesterday.
I take a bath. Wash my hair.
I finish Streets of Laredo. It didn't end as gruesomely as I had feared.
I take a cue from the cat and stretch out on the couch and close my eyes. She's in her house also napping.
I eat some tahini and apricots.
I call Phinehas. He's at some friends’ house and not free to talk.
Hungry, and not interested in the soup I made, I go out to the storeroom and look at all the food supplies. I find a bag of gluten-free pancake mix. There’s a score of recipes on the back. I make scones. The lodge now smells delicious. The scones taste delicious.
Scones are dinner, right?
The sky turns pastel, pink and blue in the east. In the west, a neon orange-pink. Quite a show.
Phinehas calls me back.
I write a little bit.
I Skype with Tim about his book.
I continue to write. Now the intrigue is picking up. I'll edit out the clichés later.
Caretaker’s Log, Monday, January 26, 2015
It's a frosty morning. Ice glistens off the edges of all things, buildings, trees, willow shoots, fence posts, the cat’s porch screen.
I'm attempting to train myself to get up a little bit earlier. Not for any particular reason. Just because. Today I do get up about thirty minutes earlier than usual.
I'm excited that there are scones for breakfast.
Four weeks today.
While doing a crossword puzzle, I hear a small plane or helicopter. But by the time I’ve got my coat, hat, and gloves on and gotten outside it's not in sight, if it ever was. I hear the sound fade away to the northwest over the mountain ridge. Faint, fainter, and gone.
It's forty-something degrees. I decide to go and ski. I'm ten minutes out when I hear the sound of snowmachines from the east where the snowmachine road is. I go back to the lodge in case I end up with visitors.
But, not in the mood to be idle, and since the ice and snow around the incinerator shed door are melting in this heat wave, I hack away at it until I can get in. I bag up the bag trash, and then burn the burnable trash in the incinerator. Then I chop wood for two hours. I don't need my coat or a hat. It's way too hot.
A moose picks a spot on the slope just below the cabin named Spruce and sits down in the snow presumably to watch me work. It must be a good show. She stays put.
The cat follows me back to the woodpile as I'm putting things away to check out what I've done.
Then I'm starving. I eat a bowl of soup, two mozzarella cheese sticks, and some dried apricots for a pre-dinner snack.
Then I take a bath.
I do some things online.
Record the weather—today’s high was an amazing 46.5 degrees.
Venus is bright in the west.
Dinner is another bowl of soup, one mozzarella cheese stick, and a scone.
I write some more.
The moon is nearing half-full. Good night, Big Dipper. Good night, Orion.
Caretaker’s Log, Tuesday, January 27, 2015
There is one moose down in the field. Good morning, moose. The mama and baby are in the front yard. They move up the slope and paw the snow for the grass underneath. They’re wary of the field moose. The field moose has a close eye on the baby and mama. The cat and I watch them all. There's a fourth moose over with the field moose. That's probably the brothers Jake and Jim.
It's going to be another warm day.
I'm depleted from all the work yesterday.
Breakfast is two scrambled eggs and two scones with organic strawberry spread.
I call my mom. She's out in the country. She'll call me back. I call my grandmother. She's at the store. She'll call me back.
I'm not up for much of anything strenuous today.
I write for an hour.
I go sit outside in the sun. It's 48 degrees.
I start to read White Oleander.
My mom calls.
From inside, I hear a small plane. This time I get out in time to see it. Off in the distance. It makes a circle and then it's gone. Out of sight, out of sound.
I read some more.
It's been clear and warm all day and then suddenly, the clouds roll in bringing snow. Wild flurries. I record the weather. Trace amounts of snow in half an hour.
I make rice spaghetti with artichoke hearts for dinner with a side of broccoli.
I cozy in for the evening. The fire has heated the room so hotly that I have to take off my socks. And then eventually, like all nights, bedtime comes.