Generous hospitality of Archbishop Ryan in Anchorage. I have been staying at his house since Tuesday night. A comfortable bed in the basement where he also has his bar. He is from New York and has a New York humor and urbanity.
Whatever else I may say—it is clear I like Alaska much better than Kentucky and it seems to me that if I am to be a hermit in the U.S., Alaska is probably the place for it. The SE is good—rain and all. I have still to go out to Western Alaska—and missed Kodiak where there is, I hear, an old Russian hermit. (Last week I saw the Russian church in the Indian village of Eklutna, up the road from the convent.)
Last Sunday I climbed a mountain behind the convent, guided by a boy who knew the trail. Very tired after it!
Wednesday and Thursday—wrote letters in the Chancery Office at Anchorage, two of them to Fr. Flavian, trying to describe Alaska.
September 28, 1968. Juneau
Green walls of mountains in the rain. Lights of the Federal building in rainy dusk. Narrow streets ending up against a mountain. A towering waterfall snaking down out of the clouds. Green.
Blue-green Juneau. The old cathedral. The deserted hospital. The deserted hotel. The deserted dock. The deserted school. We met Senator Gruening11 in the airport and shook his hand. Famous people are never as tall as you expect.
Night in the comfortable bishop’s house. Torrent in the channel outside. Sound of water racing smooth and even at fifty miles an hour into the bay. I oversleep. Get up just in time to put a few clothes on—but not to shower—before Fr. Manske12 arrives (7:30) with the car to take me out along the shore. The clouds lift a little and beyond the green islands are vague, snow-covered peaks. A beautiful channel full of islands.
September 29, 1968. [Feast of] St. Micheal
Quiet Sunday morning in the (empty) bishop’s house. Anchorage. Rain. Wet carpet of fallen birch leaves. Wind. Gulls. Long road going off past a gravelpit toward Providence Hospital where I preached a day of recollection today. More and more leaves fall. Everyone’s at Palmer, celebrating St. Michael and the Parish.
Talking of the changing of nun’s names (at Mother House) Sister Charity said: “Those who have mysteries have to change.” Others were interested in the rigors of Trappist life, sleeping in underwear. A Kodiak grey nun knew Abbot Obrecht. There’s always someone, somewhere who knows a Trappist.
Noise of heat walking around in the walls. I am hungry.
The empty house of bishops. Quiet. False flowers and false autumn weeds in a bunch on the table. Empty coke can. Two Sundays ago I was driving down from the Jicarilla reservation to Santa Fe. One Sunday ago tired from climbing the mountain at Eagle River.
“All the Sisters who have mysteries have to be changed?” And they are delighted at my monastic nickname “Uncle Louie.” But the Bishop would prefer more reverence, more decorum. However, he says nothing. At Mass today I did not give the nuns the kiss of peace for fear of the Bishop. Several of the Precious Blood Sisters came with bangs—a slightly different hairdo.
There were three or four copies of Ave Maria on the table but I did not get to look at them to see if my statement on draft record burning was there.13 Nor have I had any repercussions. A letter from Phil Berrigan (Allentown Prison, Pa.) was forwarded from Gethsemani. He does not mind prison life. But demonstrations and draft card burnings are not understood: they help Wallace. Is it possible he may be President? Yes, possible.
September 29, 1968. Anchorage. 17th Sunday after Pentecost
Late afternoon. Rain. Cold. I got home from preaching the Day of Recollection to (most of) the Sisters of the Dioceses at Providence Hospital. It was good and I was less tired than I expected. The grey nuns of Kodiak (mostly old—one little young one looking slightly lost and very young). The ones at Marian house (various groups—Bishop and I and Frs. [Thomas] Connery and Lunney concelebrated and had dinner there last night). The Precious Blood nuns from Eagle River—my old friends—two Episcopalians with blue veils, two from Copper Center, the Good Shepherd nun from Philadelphia who, it seems, came up on the same plane with me—(Could it have been the same one?) and the Providence nuns at the hospital.
Came home. Bishop’s house empty (he is at Palmer, at the parish feast of St. Michael’s). I stood in the wet, empty, leaf-covered driveway and watched the seagulls flying by in the rain. I probably won’t be able to go to Dillingham tomorrow. Tuesday—day of recollection for the priests and then Wednesday I finally go to California.
All this flying around Alaska has been paid for by the Bishop.
We had a good talk last evening and he agreed that if I came to Alaska it would be simply to live as a hermit with no kind of parish responsibility.
Yesterday morning—driving in rain up the shore of the channel, past Mendenhall Glacier, outside Juneau. Shrine of St. Therese in rain. Lovely big trees. A good spot—but not for me (would be swamped by people). Juneau is a handsome little town. I could get quite fond of it! Mass in an old church in Douglas. (The churches here are poverty stricken!) Flight out of Juneau on a big jet from Los Angeles—back into the high and prosperous realm above the clouds.
September 30, 1968
Light snow in Anchorage on the last day of September.
Flew to Dillingham in a Piper Aztec (two engines) a fast plane that goes high. Bristol Bay area—like Siberia! Miles of tundra. Big winding rivers. At times, lakes are crowded together and shine like bits of broken glass. Or are untidy and complex like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Two volcanoes: Iliamna—graceful, mysterious, feminine, akin to the great Mexican volcanoes. A volcano to which one speaks with reverence, lovely in the distance, standing above the sea of clouds. Lovely near at hand with smaller attendant peaks. Redoubt (which surely has another name, a secret and true name) handsome and noble in the distance, but ugly, sinister as you get near it. A brute of a dirty busted mountain that has exploded too often. A bear of a mountain. A dog mountain with steam curling up out of the snow crater. As the plane drew near there was turbulence and we felt the plane might at any moment be suddenly pulled out of its course and hurled against the mountain. As if it would not pull itself away. But finally it did. Redoubt. A volcano to which one says nothing. Pictures from the plane.
In Dillingham some time ago (a year or two) the sister of the Orthodox priest went berserk and tore through the Catholic mission with an axe, breaking down one door after another as the Catholic Father retired before her from room to room, calling the State Troopers on various telephones.
Dillingham—grey sky, smelling of snow. Cold wind. Freezing. Brown tundra. Low hemlocks. In the distance, interesting mountains. We flew to them, between them. Brown vacant slopes. A distance somewhat like New Mexico (flat, dark blue line). Another distance with snow-covered mountains vanishing into low clouds. Lake Aleknagik speaks to me. A chain of lakes far from everything. Is this it?
Aleknagik.
Nunavaugaluk (a very impressive deserted lake—separated mountains).
Akuluktok Peak.
Nuyakuk River (the big river at Dillingham—from Nuyakuk Lake).
October 2, 1968
Big black mouths of the jet engines open in silver fog. We bounce high over the Chugach lifting out of Anchorage.
We come up into the sunlight, possibly over Cordova.
“My own journey and life-goal which had colored my dreams since late boyhood was to see the beautiful Princess Fatima and if possible to win her love.”
(H. Hesse, Journey to the East)
“I met and loved Ninnon, known as ‘the foreigner”’—she was jealous of Fatima—“the princess of my dreams and yet she was probably Fatima herself without knowing it.”14
Yesterday—Day of Recollection for some 50 priests at P[recious] B[lood] convent. Almost half of them chaplains, many of these in from “the sites” (missile launching sites, etc., in the Aleutians and Far North).
Sister Mary wrote me a very sweet note on the back of a card showing an “Alaskan Sunset.” I have not been able to throw it a
way. Mother Rita Mary gave me a good clock. The incredible generosity of Archbishop Ryan. Tom Connery waited with me for the plane (an hour late). Msgr. [Francis A.] Murphy ended up by cooking a fine steak dinner (we flew to Dillingham together Monday). Tom Connery goes to Dillingham Friday (for two weeks).
“Among the tram ways and banks of Zurich we came upon Noah’s Ark guarded by several dogs which all had the same name.”
Perpetual mist grant unto them O Lord. The seatbelt sign is on “Please Fasten Your Seatbelts Thankyo!” What is this “Thankyo!”? Is it west? Is it only Alaska?
Suddenly I hear a steel band I had on tape in the hermitage.
Nine Rules for Air Travel
1. Get the last window seat in the back, next to the kitchen.
2. Get Bloody Mary when the girls start off with their wagon.
3. Read Hermann Hesse, ]ourmry to the East.
4. No use looking out the window. Fog all the way up to 36,000 feet.
5. Get second Bloody Mary when girls come back down aisle.
6. Expect small dinner, racket of which is right beside you (slamming of ice box doors, etc.).
7. Sympathy and admiration for hardworking stewardesses.
8. Cocktail almonds in pocket for Suzanne [Butorovich]. who is supposed to be at airport in San Francisco—assuming we make some kind of connection in Seattle!
9. “We had brought the magic wave with us. It cleansed everything.” (Hesse)
The sky finally opened when we were over British Columbia and all its islands and on the way down into Seattle we flew over at least six big forest fires and a lot of small ones that were nearly out. But the big ones were by no means out and now south of Seattle the whole lower sky is red-brown with the smoke of big distant fires. Volcanoes stand up out of it. Mt. Hood, etc.
No connection at Seattle so we stay on this plane, and it will stop at S[an] F[rancisco].
Title for a possible book The Fun Diary of My Uncle-anti-salacious.
October 3, 1968
Then there was Portland (where we were not supposed to be) and the plane filled up and I finished Hermann Hesse and Paul Bowles15 and looked out at the scarred red flanks of Lassen Peak and as we landed in SF a carton of Pepsi cans broke open and the cans rolled around all over the floor in the back galley and even a little bit forward, under the feet of some sailors.
Embraced wildly by Suzanne in airport. Her little sister Linda was so quiet. And she talked of her music and her ballet and her French (good accent). Then they went home and I slept nine hours in the (expensive) motel.
Stewardess 1—“When her eyelashes began to fall out I…” (inaudible).
Stewardess 2—“Real ones?”
Stewardess 1—“Yes!”
This morning the big American Freight went up ahead of us black-smoking in the fog and a big Japanese passenger came down blinking gladly from Asia and then we tugged at ourselves a little with our propellers and then came up here where we are now high over a lake of dirty cotton, in the baby blue sky of California.
I can’t remember the last sign I saw down there in that world, but something beautiful like
XAMN RNWY BFR XING
October 8, 1968
More than a week since I last wrote in this thing. I am now at the Redwoods monastery. Dawn. Cold, hard frost, and a quiet crow softly cawing outside. It is good to be here.
Last Monday—flew to Dillingham (Alaska) over the volcanoes. A fine wild spot—desolate as Siberia. I like the lakes that are to the north of it. Tuesday—a day of recollection for priests there. Many chaplains. I spoke most of prayer. The Bishop was pleased. Wednesday I flew south to San Francisco. Met by Suzanne B. and her family. I had supper with them and slept at the International Inn which was expensive. Then on Thursday morning I flew to Santa Barbara. Spoke informally at the Center and in the evening met some people at Ferrys’—John Cogley and his wife, the Kellys, the Laucks, Mae Karam who typed [The Geography of] Lograire for me, and so on.
A feeling of oversaturation with talk, food, drink, movement, sensations. The Madonna Inn on the road (U.S. 101) outside San Luis Obispo exemplifies the madness of it. A totally extravagant creation, a disneyland motel, impossible fairy caves, a waterfall that starts in the urinal when you piss on the beam of an electric eye, a hostess with a skirt so short her behind was almost showing.
With the Ferrys—drove up 101 to San Francisco, arrived fairly tired, had dinner with Paul Jacobs and his wife and Czeslaw Milosz and his wife at the Yen Ching—excellent North Chinese food—sweet-sour soup, pot chicken, duck, twice-fried pork, fish, etc. A great dinner—but too much. That was October 4th.
The morning of the 4th I said Mass—with Hugh McKiernan16—at Casa de Marca, the IHM’s place in Santa Barbara.
The 5th—since I am to see the Dalai Lama early in November, I went down to the Pan American Office on Union Square to change my flights. Found Dharamsala in an atlas and decided Amritsar was the place to fly to.
Then we drove off around the Embarcadero, over the Golden Gate Bridge, stopped a little at Muir Woods, then on up Route 1. Pleasant little towns, winding road, eucalyptus trees, hills, shore. We came fairly late in the afternoon to Mendocino and all the motels were full. I found a bed in the Ames Lodge, two miles out in the woods—from which I had a good walk in the morning, through young redwoods, down to the river. Very quiet and lovely.
I decided the best thing would be to come to the monastery and say Mass in the evening (as I could not contact the pastor in Mendocino about saying Mass in his church). We spent most of the morning on the country road that goes along the ridge above Bear Harbor. Finally found Bear Harbor—and was shocked to see it was being torn up by bulldozers—roads are being cut and Jones seems to be trying to open up the same sort of development as is taking place at Shelter Cove. Everything on this coast is in movement. Land is being sold at enormous prices. Little houses are going up everywhere. There is little or no hope of the real kind of solitude I look for.
October 11, 1968. Friday
Today begins a three-day conference—on contemplative life, houses of prayer, etc. “Organized” (or non-organized) at request of Mother Benedicta of the IHMs of Monroe, Michigan. Last evening Mother Myriam and I casually wondered what to do. Decided I was after all to give some talks about something and start the usual discussions. After midnight, in the rain, they all arrived from the plane at Eureka—headlights, muffled voices, doors opening and closing. A Passionist shares my bathroom and is in there now showering, shaving, etc. but I haven’t yet seen him. Most of the others are nuns. Two from Alaska—Mother Rita Mary and Sr. Mary, with reports of another (minor) earthquake.
Yesterday the Ferrys left for the Oregon coast. I went to Garberville with Joe (former Brother Giacomo of Gethsemani and Vina) and got a tetanus shot at the Medical Center. I also mailed to India the first draft of my talk to be given at Darjeeling—which I hastily typed out on Wednesday—the F[east] of St. Denis.
Yesterday too, I was able to take my lunch to Needle Rock and spend the afternoon there. Quiet, empty, even the sheep ranch is now vacated. Why? For the bulldozers to come? I ate a cheese sandwich which made me sick, but not enough to spoil the afternoon. When I arrived there was a layer of mist hanging about half way down the mountain—casting metallic blue shadows on the sea far out. And near shore the water was green and ultramarine—long quiet rollers furling themselves in orderly succession and crashing on the beach. Hundreds of birds—pelicans—cormorants patrolling the water. Scores of young brown gulls. And then sea lions rising for air and swimming under the rollers just before they’d break. (The rain falling on the house sounds like the sea.)
Very quiet and peaceful on the shore. Gradually the mist descended and veiled everything so that you could barely see the waves breaking at the foot of the cliff. I can still think of nowhere I would rather settle than at that ranch—if it could stay more or less as it is.
The other day we (the Ferrys and I) drove to Patrick’s Point beyond Eureka. N
othing very interesting—except that I sat in the sunny haze over the sea and listened to sea lions barking on a rock.
October 13, 1968 San Francisco
Up late in the Clift Hotel. Drove down from the Redwoods with Portia Webster and Sr. Marie, RSHM, who are both postulants there. We made good time, had supper in Ukiah and stopped for a drink in Sausalito (where I went into a bookstore for Sylvia Plath et al). Got into the hotel, big room-not as quiet as might be with traffic on Geary-turned on the radio and there was Ella Fitzgerald singing
If you don’t want my peaches
Why do you shake my tree?
The three-day (2-½ day) workshop at Redwoods seems to have gone well—and was quickly over. On the first day (Friday) torrents of rain all day. The next day dark and misty; today bright again. The conference this morning was in the old chapel (library) and then after Mass we had a fine lunch in the community room, a short talk finally and then I went and threw things pell-mell into my bags and we left. Tomorrow I hope to get my Indonesian visa—have supper with Portia somewhere down by Fisherman’s Wharf and on Tuesday fly to Bangkok.
The Other Side of the Mountain Page 24
