conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Pacific, Northwest, Mount with the genre: History, Americas?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'A Year in Paradise'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book? Start with the sentence 'A Year in Paradise
  Like the redheaded California woodpecker, he stores food during lush seasons for the hungry winters'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Year in Paradise
  Like the redheaded California woodpecker, he stores food during lush seasons for the hungry winters. The woodpecker buries his acorns in holes which he drills for them in the bark of the oak trees, but the lazy nutcracker simply stashes his food in little caches among the densely matted branches of the alpine trees.
  Ruth had never before seen this bold highland bandit, since he never, even in the coldest winters, comes into the lowlands around Puget Sound. I remembered him immediately from a dramatic maneuver he had demonstrated for me one time high in the Montana Rockies. I had been climbing above timberline and had stopped on a high rocky ridge to rest and admire the view. The sheer canyon wall dropped for a thousand feet or more below me. I had been noticing the birds as I climbed, and especially these big fellows because they were so bold and because I had never seen them before and did not know their habits. So I was amazed when two of them, who had been sitting in some timberline trees near my resting place and observing me critically, suddenly flew out over the canyon, paused a moment in mid-air, then closed their wings and plummeted like falling stones for a thousand feet to the bottom of the gorge. There they flattened out and disappeared from sight in the trees along the riverbank.
  To the Clark's crows I am sure this was pure pastime..., a thriller staged for me but mostly for their own enjoyment. I could imagine them sitting on a branch far below me and saying to themselves: "I'll bet that knocked his eye out!"
  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON WHEN WE CAME at last to the ranger station at Narada Falls. We found dry fuel behind the stove and built a fire. There were blankets hung by wires from the rafters to keep them from the mice, but there was no food in the cupboards. Ruth collapsed on the bunk. I removed her snowshoes and boots and tried to call Gus at Longmire but the telephone was out of order.
  For a long time I considered whether we should go on or stay at the cabin overnight without food. It is only a mile and a half by trail to Paradise Inn from Narada, but the trail is very steep. I felt we should stay for Ruth's sake, but I was afraid Gus and Olga would be worried when we did not check in and Gus might spend the night with the rangers looking for us. I decided to push on.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Cowlitz hunter fell on his belly and peered over. Far below on the talus slope he saw the broken body of the great ram. The cliff was unclimbable. Not even a mountain goat could have scaled it. The Indian looked to the right and to the left. On each side the rocks rose sheer, unbroken. Then he stood up and raised his eyes. There before him towered the great mountain—Tahoma, the dwelling place of the gods. For days he had been near it but always in the shadow of the lesser peaks. Not once had he seen it. Now it loomed above him; it almost leaned over him. He was startled and he was frightened. He had displeased the gods. He had killed the last of the bighorn sheep. He reached for his medicine pouch at his belt. He would ask forgiveness of the great spirit. He would appease the wrath of the mountain gods.
  But the pouch was gone. Somewhere he had lost it. His gods had forsaken him. The mountain bore down on him. He started to raise his arms in supplication, and then he turned and fled down the mountainside.
  I barely had time to slide down the Pinnacle Glacier and make my way through the mountain ash and boulders along Pinnacle Creek before darkness overtook me. When I reached the trail at Reflection Lake it was entirely dark. But soon the moon came over Mazama Ridge and I had no trouble following the trail back to Paradise Valley. Ruth was waiting up and badly worried when I arrived. I showed her the arrowhead, which I still have.
  Next morning at the guidehouse I said nothing about my adventures, and the following day Wes and the two junior guides made their ascent of the unnamed peak. They gave me some quizzical looks when they returned but they made no public announcements either and the peak remained unnamed, if not unclimbed, until several years later when the National Park Service officially named it Lane Peak in honor of Franklin K. Lane, Secretary of the Interior, who was then retiring after many years of meritorious service. I have never climbed it since.
  SO SPRING FLOWED INTO SUMMER as unobtrusively as morning into afternoon. The days remained long and bright, the weather mild, and the tourists began to spread like a colony of ants over the base of a gigantic anthill. The mountain stood serenely aloft, little concerned with the rustlings in her skirts. She reigned over a bigger, broader world.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last three paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: WE DRAGGED THE WOODEN SHUTTERS out from their place beneath the porch and Ruth held them while I nailed them over the doors and windows. This little cabin would quickly disappear beneath the falling snow. We then piled our gear on an old toboggan and with Ken running alongside to steady the load, eased our belongings down the steep hill to where the truck waited beside the road.
  The road crews had already placed tall yellow stakes along each side of the highway and by all the guard rails of the bridges, which would guide the steam shovel and the snowplows when they opened the road again in the spring. My duties would bring me back occasionally over the ski trail, but Ruth and Ken would not again see our valley until the chinook winds released it from next spring's snows.
  To the old mountain high above, all this I am sure, meant nothing at all. Heat and cold, light and shadow, life and death, time and eternity—of these the mountain was totally unaware. But perhaps the Indians were not wholly wrong when they recognized a spirit dwelling in and over the mountain—a guarding spirit who directed the actions of those who, like ourselves, played brief roles on this vast alpine stage. Who knows—but certainly for three of us life would never be the same again. During all our life the great mountain would be there and never would we look upon it (as we do almost daily from our home on Lake Washington) without knowing that it is one of the benign dynamics of our being.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Ken, rushing, invaded, pushed, bringing, opened.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: WE DRAGGED THE WOODEN SHUTTERS out from their place beneath the porch and Ruth held them while I nailed them over the doors and windows. This little cabin would quickly disappear beneath the falling snow. We then piled our gear on an old toboggan and with Ken running alongside to steady the load, eased our belongings down the steep hill to where the truck waited beside the road. 
  The road crews had already placed tall yellow stakes along each side of the highway and by all the guard rails of the bridges, which would guide the steam shovel and the snowplows when they opened the road again in the spring. My duties would bring me back occasionally over the ski trail, but Ruth and Ken would not again see our valley until the chinook winds released it from next spring's snows. By then the sound of rushing water would once more have invaded the silence of winter; avalanche lilies would have pushed waxy buds through the edges of the reluctant snowbanks; bear and marmot would be bringing their little ones to feast newly opened eyes on the bright new world; and, not to be outdone by all of these, Ken would have a brand-new baby sister. 
  To the old mountain high above, all this I am sure, meant nothing at all. Heat and cold, light and shadow, life and death, time and eternity—of these the mountain was totally unaware. But perhaps the Indians were not wholly wrong when they recognized a spirit dwelling in and over the mountain—a guarding spirit who directed the actions of those who, like ourselves, played brief roles on this vast alpine stage. Who knows—but certainly for three of us life would never be the same again. During all our life the great mountain would be there and never would we look upon it (as we do almost daily from our home on Lake Washington) without knowing that it is one of the benign dynamics of our being.