One Man's Wilderness, 50th Anniversary Edition

by Richard Louis Proenneke

  I finished another course of rocks over the arch. Then I pulled the hearth in gradually to chimney size.

  I tried something new that works very well. I packed in some coarse beach gravel, and when filling in between the inner and outer wall, I troweled in some mortar, dumped in as much gravel as it would stand, and puddled it in with a stick to settle it. I am now down to the required eighteen inches for width and starting the smoke shelf.

  The front side is coming up to pass the smoke shelf. Now five inches between the two sides.

  One more course of stones inside will plug the opening. I had thought of a stone mantel, but as yet I haven’t seen any suitable stone. I may insert some three-and-one-half-inch pegs through the top course of stones and then rip a heavy slab from a good log. Then I’ll plane the top of it and Varathane it as well as the face of the entire fireplace.

  Tomorrow, weather permitting, I will be starting up with the chimney. Rough seas today. No chance to get sand.

  September 14th. Twenty-eight degrees. Clear and frosty.

  The beach gravel next to the water was frozen hard as a rock. My stones were covered with frost. The lake was calm so I hauled a load of fine sand from the point. When the sun came out from behind Crag Mountain, it warmed up the fireplace location.

  Clouds are moving in like troops rushing to the front. I was just starting the straight sides of the chimney when it started to snow, flakes as big as goose feathers, but it quickly turned to rain.

  I still had the face of the fireplace to finish, so I worked inside the cabin. I spaced my mantel pegs and mortared them in. Then I put in a row of small stuff to level it off. All the face needed now was to have the concrete stain removed. I wish I knew what the stone masons use. An acid of some sort, I believe. I had a little mud left, so I worked outside in the rain to use it up.

  I tidied up the inside and scratched away the loose mortar from the seams with a bent nail. Then I took the braces and wedges away from the supports under the arch. I was tempted to remove the wooden arch completely because the first two seams above it were very hard. Finally I decided I had better leave it there until I completed the chimney.

  Chimney between purlin log and ridge pole rising around the collapsible flue form.

  I’d had a kettle of white beans on the stove all day, seasoned with everything in the cabin. I tossed in onions, potatoes, carrots, bacon and even chunks of the mountain ram, then a tablespoon of flour mixed with cold water. A regular old Midwestern bean soup to keep the sourdough biscuits company.

  Fall colors are fading fast. Blueberry leaves fall away at the touch now. I must have one more good picking session.

  September 15th. A faint trace of blue sky. My camp robber friend joined me for breakfast.

  Today I finished the chimney throat and pulled in the sides to go up straight between the ridge log and the purlin log. While I worked over the opening, I could feel the warm air rising. That’s a good sign.

  Fifty inches of chimney to build now, and it should be complete. One problem—I have no flue pipe. I must build a collapsible form to act like one. If I hinge it with gas-can tin on the four sides, I can keep removing and raising it. Spacers will hold it in the rectangular position again. It will be a faster operation, and a form on the inside will make the smooth surface necessary for proper smoke flow.

  My rock supply is holding up better than I expected. It looks as though I will have rocks to sell after I am finished.

  September 16th. Twenty-eight degrees and the stars out.

  While waiting for it to warm up, I would build my collapsible form. It required six panels of gas-can box and eighteen hinges for all four corners and the center of sides and ends. I knock the spacers out that hold it expanded, and it will contract enough so that it can be lifted and raised for the next section. Too bad there will be only two lifts to complete the chimney. Ten-thirty before I got the fool contraption completed.

  It was warm working in the sun, which finally had the whole sky to itself. The mountains were a blazing white against the blue.

  I still had considerable form material and braces inside the smoke shelf and throat. I may have to burn them out. My collapsible form sitting on top of all this just clears the roof on the under side.

  I have changed the mortar mix to five-to-one and am getting better mortar than at four-to-one. Sifting the cement through screen wire helps considerably.

  While I was working today, the camp robber swooped out of the trees and perched on my shoulder. I turned my head slowly. He was within inches of my face. “I think we’ll get along fine,” I said. I gave him a chunk of meat scrap, and he was gone for the day.

  Well, I just couldn’t put it off any longer. I got the Swede saw and sawed the posts from under the arch support but it still stuck there. I tapped it with the hammer until it broke loose. I had covered the wooden support with a piece of plastic, and the arch was smooth as glass on the underside.

  Last fall from offshore in the canoe, I visualized a cabin on this spot. I could see in detail just how it would look. The fireplace has turned out the same, just as I pictured it. If I can only get rid of that cement stain! Last evening I tried a little vinegar, and it did more good than all my scrubbing with water.

  September 17th. A frosty morning at twenty-three degrees. Thirty-five degrees in my cooler box. Lake water at forty-two degrees. Much vapor in the vicinity of the connecting stream. Looks like a high-rise hot spring.

  Today I was ready for a chimney with no flares, curves, or whatever. While it was still frosty, I cut the notch in the rear overhang of the roof to let the chimney through. Slicing through the moss, I found it still eight inches thick and still loose.

  I was able to remove the form from the region of the smoke shelf. If a smooth inside to a chimney is important, I have it. Seeing the glassy effect the treatment had done on the arch, I will do likewise with the collapsible form and cover it with plastic.

  One more course of stones will put me to the purlin log. About thirty inches to go, depending on how it looks from the lake. One sack of cement left, and a sack has been lasting about two days. I will need another load of sand. Seems I have hauled eight loads so far.

  The boss hunter left this afternoon. I heard the sound of his hammer as he boarded up and put a big chain and padlock across the door. A padlock went against the code of old trappers and prospectors, who left a cabin ready for any passerby who needed food and shelter. The lock was there last year, before I came, so perhaps experience has taught him that the cabin code has gone down the drain with a lot of other values.

  I watched him take off, and waved. He was too far away for me to see whether he waved back but I like to think he did. I think that about winds up the hunting season for this year. How many rams were taken? How many are left?

  September 18th. Foggy and calm. Twenty-two degrees.

  There’s a ram stew simmering on the stove with everything in it but the kitchen sponge.

  I hauled my last load of sand down from the point and started on the last sack of cement. I hope it will do the remaining twenty-eight inches of chimney. Can’t just run down to the corner store out here.

  This evening I am just coming out on top of the roof, with about fourteen inches to go. I had to slow down my hot pace to cut flashings out of gas-can tin. By tomorrow evening I had better be done since the cement sack will be empty.

  My collapsible form couldn’t have worked better. I’m glad I took the time to make it. With it sitting on top of the chimney for the next course, I wondered how the chimney would draw, so I put a piece of scrap tar paper into the firebox and touched it off. The smoke poured up the chimney in fine shape even though the spacers were in the form. When I am finished, I will experiment with the throat to see how much I can close it off and still not smoke up the cabin.

  Peppery ram stew for supper. Just the way I like it and plenty of it.

  September 19th. Twenty degrees and clear.

  Today I would go as far as I coul
d. The cement would give out by evening. The chimney was taking more mortar than I figured and more time, too. Work was slowing down because of climbing up and down for special-shaped rocks.

  About ten-thirty I heard a plane. It was Babe. He had a “brush rat” with him. They had been passing by and just dropped in to check on my progress. He didn’t have anything, but he mentioned I had a package. He spread his arms apart to show me how big it was. There was other mail, too. He would be in with it before freeze-up. Most of the lakes down country were already frozen over. Their inspection tour over, off they went, probably to pick up a caribou somewhere.

  I have enough cement for one more course of stone. I would have finished, but a man must be polite when company calls.

  I took my eggs out of the cooler box and brought them inside. The temperature read thirty-two degrees under the moss. Then I went out to the creek flat on a hunt for special stones for my chimney cap. The fall colors are gone now. Dark brown and grays have replaced the yellows.

  Well, the pressure is off! The fireplace is built and what little there is yet to do can be done regardless of the weather. I will allow a few days for curing, and then build a warming fire in the first fireplace at Twin Lakes.

  September 20th. If I was going to stay the winter, I would need more meat. Today was the last day of the sheep season and I liked sheep meat better than caribou. The sight of four good rams in a bunch convinced me.

  I put the butchering outfit, camera gear, and musket into the canoe and paddled across the calm lake in the shadow of Crag Mountain. The big rock face of the mountain would hide my approach from the sheep. I decided to leave the camera gear in the canoe. This was serious business today. Up through the spruce and into the high country that I loved, careful not to expose my movements to the sheep. They must know now what a stalking figure on two legs means. I stopped to examine a lone spruce deformed by the wind, a few tufts of branches left near its top. There were fresh tooth marks in the bark and long brown hair hanging from every sliver. The claw marks were higher than I could reach. This was the bears’ social register, and the one who had signed it recently was big.

  I climbed to a rocky outcrop and eased my head just barely above the rim. There were the rams out of range, lying down and soaking up the sun on a ridge line. I watched until they rose, stretched, took long looks down the mountain, and then trailed off out of sight. I climbed fast. I didn’t want them to be out of range next time.

  As I peered over the rim where they had been bedded, I saw them again. Closer now, but still out of range—my kind of range, at least. They were on another ridge and climbing slowly. In between was a rocky point and a little saddle. I left my packboard and jacket behind and climbed, keeping the rocks between the sheep and myself. I was breathing hard from the fast scramble and wondered whether I would be able to hit anything when I reached the rocks.

  One shot opened and closed the hunting season on a full curl ram.

  I peeked over the top of a granite boulder. About 200 yards away, the rams were moving behind a grassy knoll. They would appear on the other side of it. The first legal-curl ram to step into the clear would be my target. I wriggled to some dry grass and waited there on my belly, the safety off the ought-six, my heart thumping against the earth.

  Suddenly there he was, a big ram stepping out. A full curl at least. I held the tip of the front sight blade just below the top of his shoulder, took a deep breath, and as I slowly let it out, squeezed the trigger. The shot crashed loud in the high stillness.

  I heard the whunk of the bullet hitting. The ram did a flip, and down he came sliding and rolling in the new snow. I could see a red spot growing larger on his front shoulder. Down past me he rolled and kept right on going. Maybe he would make it to the timber. I watched him until he stopped. Then I went back for my packboard and pulled on my jacket. My hands were trembling. Up above me three rams posed against the sky for a thrilling moment and dropped out of sight.

  My sheep was stone dead. If the bullet hadn’t done the job, the fall had. He was a big one, with a little better than full curl and both tips intact. Plenty of meat and a beautiful snowy pelt. I had opened and closed the season in one day, with one shot.

  I took him by one heavy horn and dragged him on down the mountain to a level place beneath some spruce trees. As I dressed the big ram out, the camp robbers came gliding in. They perched on the limbs, watching me with inquisitive tilts of their heads as I peeled off the hide. Some ravens croaked from the crags. They had seen the whole show and were talking it over.

  At first glance I figured three loads. I took the neck, front quarters, and ribs the first trip. A record trip down to the beach, non-stop. Steady going is the way to do it. Each time you stop to rest, it is harder to go again. One careful step at a time and eventually you’re there.

  Back up through the timber again to find the camp robbers picking away at the kill. The hind quarters didn’t seem too heavy. Maybe I could clean up what was left in one super-load. I had sawed off the skull cap, with horns attached. I put the head, feet, and some other scraps in the hide, which I rolled into a compact bundle. The heart, liver, tenderloin, and brains I put into a flour sack and tucked it between the hindquarters roped on the board. I tied the horns atop the hide bundle. All that was left were the entrails and a few small scraps that the birds and other prowlers of the slopes could share.

  It was a much slower trip down the mountain this time. I was glad to get down on the level and see the gleam of the canoe through the brush. It had been a rugged load, but I had saved myself a trip.

  Paddling across the still lake, I felt like an Indian hunter returning to a hungry tribe. I glanced up at the high place where I had made the kill. It seemed clouds away.

  I put the heart, liver, and brains to soak in a pan. I put the bloody flour sacks, the pelt, and the horns into the lake to soak. I hung the meat in the woodshed for the night, cleaned up all my gear, and put it away.

  The pelt must have weighed 100 pounds when I dragged it from the water. Nearly all the blood had soaked out of the white hide, but after I fleshed it I put it back into the lake to finish the job.

  Sheep liver and onions for supper. The liver fried two minutes to the side. Pink in the middle, full of flavor, and I ate enough of it. Maybe some of that old boy’s ability to romp the high places will rub off on me.

  A satisfying day. The search for meat is over. I hate to see the big ram end like this, but I suppose he could have died a lot harder than he did.

  September 21st. I put my smoker into operation again. I kept it going all day, and while all the meat except the hindquarters cured in the smoke, I worked on the white hide and hung it on two poles to dry in the sun.

  Not a pound of meat will be lost due to bullet damage. The bullet hit a whisker high behind the front shoulder. Shooting up at such a steep angle, I should have held a shade lower and would have caught the heart.

  September 22nd. Smoked the hindquarters today. Salted down the sheep pelt and cleaned up what was left of the skull. The smoked meat of yesterday hung in the woodshed with a plastic covering over it. I found the spruce squirrel tugging at this plastic game bag. Away he bounced over the ground when I yelled at him, and such a fuss from his perch on a branch stub! Stamping his feet and pumping his tail and scolding as if he had more right to the meat than I did.

  I hung all the sheep meat high off the ground and covered it with the poncho. I always thought this is the way I would like to do it. Butcher at the right time of the year, hang the meat in the open until it freezes, then just keep sawing off chunks as you need them until it is gone. That’s living in the wilderness first class.

  September 23rd. Clear, calm, and a frosty twenty degrees.

  Hope Creek is beginning to ice up. I put the thermometer in the creek mouth. Thirty-one degrees. If the creek stopped moving, it would freeze up in no time.

  I did a lot of cleaning around the fireplace site today. Picked up all the rocks I didn’t use and put them
into a single pile away from the cabin. Cleaned up the seams of my last day’s work and washed it down. Really looks first-rate.

  Now the test for the draft. I took a sprig of fireweed with the seeds ready to fly and shook it in front of the hearth opening. The seed feathers drifted slowly down, then into and up the chimney. I could visually study the flow of air by watching them. Some circulated over the smoke shelf before going on up. This will be a working fireplace, I am sure.

  September 24th. Twenty-five degrees. High, thin overcast.

  No pressure now. I might just as well get breakfast in the daylight.

  I have decided that rather than put another course of stones on my chimney I will extend the height six inches by making a liner from a gas-can tin. One gas can would do it. I would push it down inside the chimney and insert a few cross ties to make it more rigid.

  I was cutting through a seam, which is tough going for a small snips. I was pushing and bearing down hard when it happened. The snips suddenly broke through. My right thumb was sliced open on the back side.

  I could move it, so I had missed the tendons, but it was a deep cut just the same. I tied it together with a couple of Band-Aids and wrapped a rag around it. Then I went back to my project. Lucky I didn’t have on my good leather gloves which were on the bench beside me. I would probably have cut the right one open, and it wouldn’t grow back together as I hope my thumb will do. Soon the addition to the chimney was complete.

  No harm in building a small fire under the green chimney, I figured, so I got some shavings and started one. It was satisfying to see the smoke go up and increase in speed as it passed through the throat. Then it started to smoke inside the cabin a bit. I discovered that with the cabin shut tight, air was going up the chimney faster than it was coming in. Opening the window or the top half of the door a whisker corrected the trouble. I am not sure how long I should let the mortar cure before building a normal fire, but I had better wait several days.

  About noon I spotted a canoe with two hunters paddling up the far side of the lake through the reflections. In the middle of the canoe was a huge caribou rack, and they were riding low in the water. They must have been thankful for the still water.