One Man's Wilderness, 50th Anniversary Edition

by Richard Louis Proenneke

  Suddenly it happened, the worst accident of my cabin building career. The piece of wood I was working turned, and I raked my thumb with the newly sharpened ripsaw. Blood ran all over the place. I hurried down and stuck my thumb into the cold lake, watched the water turn from green to red, then doped up the gash, wrapped a rag around it, anchored it with a piece of tape, and went back to work.

  Burned my sourdoughs a bit on the bottom, but they were good anyway. It will take a few trial runs to get used to my antique range.

  First night on my new bunk. Five inches of foam rubber will make it just about right. I can hear Hope Creek real plain. That will be a pleasant sound to go to sleep by.

  The lake water is good, but now I pack it from Hope Creek and I think there is none better that I have ever tasted. I like to think of the high places it comes from.

  I lit the Coleman lantern this evening. A bright, friendly glow in the wilderness, the warmth of home.

  August 2nd. Best sleep in a long time. The sound of the waves lapping the gravel beach and the never-ending rustle of Hope Creek until freeze-up. No better sleeping pill.

  The stove did a fine job on the hotcakes this morning and my wooden spoon is just right. Perfect-sized cakes every time.

  I must have a stool outside to set things on when opening the door. A ten-inch slice from a twelve-inch-diameter log, and legs augered into one side. Gave the legs a flare so the stool won’t tip when I step on it. Why not a couple more thin slices from the log, and plane them smooth? Now I had place mats and hot pads to save my plastic tablecloth.

  That Babe! He landed and had things unloaded at Spike’s cabin before I could get to him. We put the gear back into the plane and taxied down to my beach.

  He’d brought the polyethylene at last, more than enough, and plenty of grub. Also a package from my sister, Florence.

  I watched Babe’s eyes move with approval over the cabin walls. “A nice place,” he said. “A real nice place.”

  “Like heaven,” I said.

  He just looked at me and slowly wagged his head.

  I waved to him as he took off down country into the rainy fog, heading home.

  Good news. Spike and Hope want me to take the stove from their cabin. They will bring in another one sometime. In nothing flat I paddled down to get it. I took out some of the ashes before hauling it down, then out went that sorry-looking other monster, rocks, gravel, and all. Some spikes into the top of my stove stand and the old reliable was soon in place. I scratched a match. She took off like a gut-shot cat. A welcome sound, as welcome as having one’s wife return to full duty after an operation (I imagine).

  In thirty-five minutes, the blueberry can was full.

  The biscuits puffed up just right and baked to a turn. All is going well. Tomorrow I can work full time on the roof.

  August 3rd. Not the breath of a breeze. Just the kind of day I need to put the polyethylene on the roof. Even the trace of a breeze makes it want to float.

  A few minor details in preparing the felt paper, then I unrolled the polyethylene and tucked the edges to get at least four thicknesses to tack through, and I fastened her down.

  Next I built a carrying rack for the moss. Made it out of poles in a frame two feet by three feet. I filed the blade of my round-point shovel and I was ready for the moss-cutting detail. I had a good moss bed all picked out. I cut out rectangles about eighteen inches by thirty-six inches, and eight inches thick. Two chunks double-decked on the rack made a good load. Once around the edge of the roof, and the cabin took on a new look. Before it seemed as though the windows were too close under the eaves, but the thick roof fixes that now.

  Installing an organic roof from the forest floor source. Sections will grow together. Notice the mullions in the Mylar picture window and the driftwood sculpture behind the “panes.”

  By late afternoon I finished the lake side of the roof. I got to thinking of blueberries for dessert. Thirty-five minutes later my picking can was full.

  A beautiful, still evening. The cabin is beginning to look as though it belongs.

  August 4th. A surprise last evening just as it was getting a bit on the dark side—Babe in the old Stinson. As soon as the prop stopped, out he bounced from his little door up forward.

  “Man, am I ever tired,” he said. “Been flying for ten hours. Moved the prospectors’ camp to Farewell. Moved everything. Coming back it got so dark I couldn’t see the gas gauge, and the last time I saw it, the needle was on the wrong side of the glass.”

  He had some gas cached here. He would stay the night and gas up in the morning.

  I had the fire going the next morning when Babe said, “Sure don’t take long to stay all night here.”

  Suspenders hanging, Babe washed up. I could hear him sputtering water through his moustache. After hotcakes and bacon we hauled the gas that was cached in the brush and poured the fuel into the tank of the Stinson, which looked like a Greyhound bus compared to the T-Craft. Big doors, big windows, and room inside for five fifty-gallon barrels.

  The old girl was balky at first. She had made many starts yesterday. The 120 oil made her stiff. A primer line had broken and, even after some repair work, still didn’t prime too well. Finally she stuttered and shuddered into life. I watched her taxi out into the lake. She lifted easily. I wondered what they were thinking back in Port Alsworth when Babe didn’t return last night.

  Back to the roof job. It seems I have cleared two acres of moss and still the roof isn’t covered.

  Hard to believe, but I have all the moss in place at last. The cabin suddenly has even more character. This roof has helped more than any one thing to give the cabin a finished look. Now for the poles to hold down the moss. Four poles on a side will look better than three, I figure.

  Babe brought in some fresh groceries that needed refrigeration. I had dug down a foot into the moss yesterday and found frost. Why not dig a hole and put in a gas-can box, then use my moss-carrying rack loaded with moss for a cover? I think that will do the job. I must put the thermometer in there to find out the temperature.

  Clouding up down country. May bring rain tomorrow. I’ll never hear it with all the moss on the roof to deaden the drops when they hit.

  August 5th. No rain.

  I finished mossing the woodshed roof. Then I cut and notched the poles to lay over the moss and fastened them down. The woodshed is now complete and looks it.

  I need more poles for the cabin roof and also to make a long ladder for a meat tree. Only one place to find poles like that: the upper end of the lake, a four-mile paddle each way.

  Found the poles easy enough. Took me an hour and a half to paddle home against a light breeze. It was after nine before I got my supper dishes done. A real productive day.

  August 6th. Clear and calm. Almost too warm. I would like to see some rain. The waterfall across the lake is about to run dry.

  Today would be a small detail day. Window-closing handles and latches. Hinges to make and put up a ten-inch by twelve-inch shelf on the wall for my water bucket. Many wooden pegs to replace nails to hang things on. The poles to peel that I hauled yesterday.

  Thinking ahead for the winter season, I found three trees spaced about right and put two green spruce poles in traction among them to get the proper curved shape for sled runners in case I decided to build a sled.

  In and out of the cabin all day. A kettle of red beans on the fire. Put in bacon rind and bacon chunks and onions and all my favorite seasonings. That’s the kind of cooking to do in the wilderness, something that cooks while you do something else and don’t have to stand over.

  The thermometer in my cooler box under the moss reads forty degrees. Under the really deep moss I am sure the temperature would read even lower. And here it is close to eighty degrees today.

  August 7th. The sun is getting up later.

  Lots of mountains to climb over before it strikes the cabin.

  Today I put the poles on the cabin roof to hold the moss in place until it gr
ows together. I converted the three-legged stool to a four-legger. A near fall convinced me this had to be done. Then I built a three-shelf open rack for outside the door to set butter, blueberries, and such away from the heat of the cabin.

  Really warm today, too warm. I ran a check on temperatures. Forty degrees in my cooler box, seventy-eight degrees in the cabin, ninety-four degrees in the sun, and the lake water sixty-six degrees in the shallows. That last reading really surprised me, and I promptly went for a swim. The surface water was almost comfortable, but I could feel the iciness that lurked just below.

  I glued corrugated cardboard to my wooden place mats. They look rustic and are good insulation for hot pots.

  Small planes beginning to appear, flying the peaks and those high pastures looking for game. The season will open on the tenth. I wonder what that meat costs a pound?

  This is the warmest day I have ever seen here at the lakes. I didn’t even build a fire.

  August 8th. Really had a time here this afternoon. I looked up from my letter-writing to chew on my pen end and peer down the lake through the big window. For a moment I thought I was having hallucinations. Lots of motion and here comes a brown bear up my path.

  He was nosing the gravel as he shuffled toward me, getting bigger all the time. He looked somewhat small for a brown, but he would have been big for a black. Abruptly he stopped and flipped his muzzle at the wind currents. I waited for him to wince as the man-scent struck him, and bolt with a crashing into the brush.

  The bear raised his muzzle, testing the wind.

  No such reaction at all. He just ambled unconcerned past my big window in the direction of the rear of the cabin. No more had he gone out of sight when I heard sounds that brought me right up out of the chair. That character was trying to climb up the corner of the cabin and onto my new roof!

  This would never do. I slid the .357 magnum from its holster on the wall and stepped out the door. No bear could I see on the roof, so I yelled and touched off a round that exploded like a thunderclap.

  It didn’t have the expected result. Around the corner came the bear in four-paw drive. I scrambled for the door, pulled it shut and gripped a fist down hard on the handle. The bear came slamming against the planks. I felt his weight bulging the upper door and heard the rake of his claws.

  What kind of a bear was this? The noises he was making didn’t sound friendly at all. In fact, they sounded downright psychopathic. His guttural complaints trailed off and I knew he was moving away. Through the small window I watched him poke toward the woodshed. He explored the area thoroughly, standing on his hind legs, teetering and snuffling along the front eave. He was one curious bruin.

  The cabin nestled among spruces below snow-frosted Crag Mountain.

  Was he going to try climbing up the woodshed? Maybe it would take the heavy artillery to scare him off. I loaded the ought-six, opened the window, and rested the barrel on the sill. Then I turned loose a rebel yell.

  He must have been a reincarnation of Jeb Stuart. He spun with unbelievable quickness and came on like the cavalry. I drove a slug into the path in front of him, making the gravel fly. He put on the brakes, whirled in retreat, then stopped, rising to his full height as if trying to peer beyond the cabin logs and solve the strangeness there. Noiselessly he dropped to all fours with an almost fluid movement and was gone.

  Less than five minutes later, here he came from another direction, this time toward the front of the cabin, stalking—silently and ominously.

  I didn’t like it at all. There was an orneriness about him I could feel. I couldn’t have pets like this running around the place. The best thing to do would be to shoot him, skin him out, and write a letter to Fish and Game.

  He must have picked up warning vibrations. Off he went in a sudden huff, slinging his forepaws in pigeon-toed strides until the willows closed behind him. I checked the latch on my door and went back to my letter writing.

  This evening I went on bear patrol. No sign of him. Just passing through, I hope. I think he has headed out of the country. I guess I made myself a pretty good door at that. One thing I can’t understand though: If that character wanted in, how come he passed up the big window?

  Let’s have some rain. Every day I have been watering what is left of my garden.

  I need an outside bench. Some slabs from my board ripping operations are available. Well, what do you know about that? I got carried away. That bench just grew and grew into a small table and a rather handsome one at that.

  Green onions promise flavoring.

  The top is fifteen inches by thirty-two inches. It stands twenty-eight inches off the ground.

  Now for a general cleanup of the area. I moved all my scrap to the woodshed or under the trees nearby. Some I would be able to use so I kept them separate. I found one four-inch-diameter log end that wasn’t split, so I augered a one-and-a-half-inch hole into one end, three inches deep, and planed it smooth. Then I cut the piece down to a three-and-three-quarter-inch length. A dandy holder for pens and pencils.

  I cut the brush under my clothesline and raked up two buckets of wood chips. Now the cabin looks landscaped.

  A good day, like all days, at Twin Lakes.

  August 9th. No sign of that psycho in the fur coat. He’s far away, I hope.

  Heavy gray clouds. Might bring some rain. The lake is rising slightly. Must be the warm weather has been acting on the snowfields in the high mountains. No sign of game at all. Strange I don’t see a caribou on the slopes now and then.

  A big caribou bull stood on the Cowgill Bench.

  While cultivating the garden, I rolled out a potato the size of a walnut. The green onions look respectable. The crops to grow at Twin Lakes are rhubarb, potatoes, lettuce, green onions, and radishes.

  I have decided that no more chips and sawdust will be made in front of the cabin. I scraped up the entire area slick and clean and dressed it properly with a new coat of beach gravel.

  Fishing at the mouth of Hope Creek has been poor. Where have the fish gone?

  The wind is strong this evening, and the lake is churning as if it wants to turn itself loose.

  August 10th. Gray clouds racing across the sky. This must be a real blow on the Gulf of Alaska.

  Today, among other things, I’d build a butcher’s block for outside the door. A ten-inch length of eleven-inch-diameter log with three legs. I finished it in short order. Then from the same log I sliced off two five-eighths-inch slabs cut on a diagonal and planed them to bring out the grain and the growth rings. They will make proper decorations for the wall or the fireplace mantel. I coated them with clear shellac. I shellacked my plaster wolf track, too.

  The rest of the morning I spent supplying wood for the stove. I sawed up pole ends and short sections of logs left over from the building program.

  After lunch I bucked up a tree that had blown across the trail last winter. I packed in the log sections and chopped up the limbs into stove lengths. Sharp tools make wood cutting a pleasure.

  I am getting hungry for a fish. Decided in late afternoon I would have to catch one. After many casts beyond the gravel bar at the mouth of Hope Creek, I was onto a fish. I worked him easy, for I was fish hungry and didn’t want to lose the grayling. A rock on the head stopped his flopping. His colors faded quicker than a sunset. I could see him browning in the pan as I dressed him out and left his entrails for the birds.

  Beached on the lower lake. Getting the kinks out from the paddling while admiring the panorama.

  Picked some blueberries but found very few cranberries.

  August 11th. A big caribou bull on the Cowgill Bench. Very dark, with his cape starting to whiten and the velvet graying on his antlers. The insects were giving him fits.

  The camp robbers have still not come to the cabin.

  Stayed close to home today. The boss hunter has brought hunters. Two-legged animals will be prowling the hills for a spell.

  August 12th. The spruce boughs are glistening with raindrops. The la
nd had a bath last night.

  Calm after the big blow of yesterday. I decided to take a trip down to the lower end of the lake. I could use a fish or two.

  An easy paddle down. An arctic tern sliced above, hovering to look me over, his breast picking up a pale blue cast from the water. Rags of fog are strewn about the high peaks. I pulled the canoe up high on the gravel of the lower end. Fish were breaking. One that looked two feet long rolled on the surface. If I could only sink a hook into that one—but no luck after many casts. To make matters worse, the breeze was coming up strong, and down the lake at that. One last try. I let the lure sink way down and twitched it toward me. Wham! A heavy fish but not much fight. More color than I have ever seen in a lake trout. Bright yellow fins and belly, big lemon spots against gray-green sides. This one should break my record of nineteen inches. I had my fish but now I was in trouble. Whitecaps all over the place and that seventh wave a big one. I could leave the canoe tied to the brush and high on the beach and then walk the three miles back, or give it a try.

  I shoved the canoe out into the wind, crouched low with knees spread against the bottom. It was a battle. I finally made it to a bight in the shoreline near Low Pass Creek, and it was a relief to get behind the steep beach out of the wind. I slid the canoe into the shallows, tied her fast, and gorged myself in a blueberry patch.

  Still blowing. I tied one end of my long line to the bow and the other end about two-thirds of the way back toward the stern. Holding the line in the middle, I kept adjusting until the bow of the canoe was farther from shore than the stern, and started walking the beach. It worked real well for a time, until it got broadside to the wind and was blown ashore. Then I got in to paddle to the next favorable section of towing beach.

  I was getting home, but it was a slow process. I got slowed down even more when I hit a section of no beach and big boulders. I took to the open water and battled my way. As I passed the boss hunter’s cabin, I saw something hanging on the meat pole, with birds flying around it. The fresh meat looked like a front quarter. No other sign of life around the cabin.