Day eleven.

The melt continues. There's bare ground everywhere and signs that this might be true spring: increased bird activity, more mammals out and about and, most telling, insects. There must have been a big hatch yesterday, because the front window was, come sunset, battered by moths. And with moths comes a lot of other animal life, things waking and migrating in to eat them.

Speaking of which, I had a bit of a scare last night. It was around 10-ish and I was avoiding writing by chatting online, and I excused myself to pee. I flipped on the outside lights and opened the door and heard a huge crash on the other side of the wood pile, near the outhouse and the neighbor's shed. I grabbed the dog, who was growling like mad, and darted back inside. I'm not proud to report that I headed right for the rifle underneath the bed, and then, making sure the dog couldn't squeeze by me, peeked my head back outside to listen to the animal crashing through the woods. It was something big, and it was moving slowly away from the cabin and down toward the road and to the bog behind it. Whatever it was, I'd apparently startled it off, and I put the rifle away, peed and gathered some more firewood, then settled in for the night. Theories abounded during my discussions later on. It was a bear! It was a moose! It was Sasquatch or chupacabra or Elvis! It was a deer.

This morning, I went out to look for tracks, and they were right there by the outhouse: a big furrow through the snow and then narrow little hoof-marks. It was a deer—and not even a particularly big one—but it must have been lame, for how slow it was moving. Normally, you startle a deer and they're gone in a flash. This took a good minute to get out of earshot. I'm sure this is the first of many wildlife encounters as the world comes to life around me, and I'm happy to report that I didn't panic, shoot myself or the dog or the deer, or get eaten. These northwoods white-tails are killers.

Did some good writing yesterday, including several instances where I thought I'd written myself into a corner and then, through narrative brilliance, navigated my way out of it. This is unreasonably rewarding. I took a long, somewhat tiring walk with the dog after doing chores, down to the landing and then up the other way, along the shore and up the river heading east. Slogging through the snow in the woods, as warm as it's been, is taxing; you're basically wading through knee-deep slush the whole way. I came back and enjoyed a late lunch of my jerky, then settled into the rocking chair for a nap, Annyong curled up on my lap, because I am 112 years old.

I want to write and write today. I'm on a good streak and I don't want to lose momentum. On the other hand, it is so. Nice. Out. Maybe a walk, then writing.