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14

Friday Sept 18 '70 The day before leaving. So total a wetness, an all-over boundless, infinite world of wet. As I walked to Ice Pond, and through the village to the p.o. & up Horn's Hill, I thought Adak must be like this, and Wrangel, and Attu, and if I were [[strikethrough]]not[[/strikethrough]] stranger to this kind of greyness and cold and ocean mist, I would be wild with enjoyment. I would be writing poems to it. [[strikethrough]]Perhaps[[/strikethrough]]To be in it so naturally - in this to be so easily a part, - there is a fulfillment [[strikethrough]]realization[[/strikethrough]] of the longing of all those long early years. So here I am. A good summer. Today is the cold north.