One Man's Wilderness, 50th Anniversary Edition

by Richard Louis Proenneke

  By the time I made my beach, I had had a workout. My trout measured nineteen inches on the nose. It was a female loaded with eggs. I fried them in bacon grease with lots of corn meal, a dose of Tabasco sauce, some poultry seasoning, salt, and pepper. When the eggs got hot, they commenced to pop like popcorn and flew every which way when I lifted the lid covering the pan. They were different.

  August 13th. It could rain today without too much trouble.

  I made a paper-towel rack out of some spruce stock. Two end pieces supported a dowel that could be easily removed. Next I made a curtain rod out of a skinny piece of driftwood and hung the burlap curtains sister Florence had sent.

  Clean up my beach—that was a job that needed doing. I wanted to make it a beach that a pilot would enjoy coming into. I piled the driftwood in one pile, the rocks and boulders in another, and waded out to pick the large stones from the bottom to pile them also. When I finished, I was sure I had the best plane-landing place in both lakes.

  A heavy fish splashed just out from the cabin. Have the sockeyes arrived? I must watch for them.

  A little later I looked up from applying a coat of Varathane on my furniture to see a scarlet fish with a green head slice through a wave. It is the end of a long journey for them. They will spawn and die. Their escape from the can is a very brief reprieve.

  This evening I sat on my driftwood pile admiring my cabin. Pale blue wood smoke rose up through the dark boughs of the spruce, and beyond, looming huge and majestic, the jagged peak of Crag Mountain. The cabin was complete now except for the fireplace and, maybe later on, a cache up on poles. It was a good feeling just sitting and reflecting, a proud inner feeling of something I had created with my own hands. I don’t think I have ever accomplished anything as satisfying in my entire life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Camp Meat

  August 27th. A frosty morning.

  I picked up two rams in the spotting scope. They were feeding on a grassy bench high above Glacier Creek, at the base of a rock slide. Suddenly five more rams appeared, big curved horns against the blue sky. It wasn’t long before I heard an outboard motor, and there droning toward Glacier Creek in a small boat were two hunters. Other eyes had been watching those rams, too.

  This would bear watching. I could use some sheep meat, and if those boys made a kill up that high, they would surely leave most of the meat on the mountain. I watched them beach, shoulder their packboards, sling their rifles, and head up the stony creek bed. They were off on a search-and-destroy mission.

  From time to time I checked the hunters through the big lens. They were making very slow progress. The big rams were dropping down lower, a string of white dots on the thread of a trail. I almost wished I could warn them.

  I decided to pick a can of blueberries while waiting for the main event, so I packed the spotting scope and tripod up to the hump behind the cabin. Picking had been slow, and just as I discovered a patch loaded with large berries, I heard shots rolling down from the high places. Six shots, one echoing on the heels of the other. They must have been shooting at extreme range hoping for a hit. I saw five sheep trailing across the mountain. There had been seven.

  I picked up the hunters on the rock slide. I saw one ram tumbling down the steep incline. The men started another on its way, over and over, legs flailing the air. When the rams stopped, the hunters worked down to where the white blobs lay and started them rolling again.

  What a way to treat a set of horns and cape, not to mention the meat. Finally the bodies came to rest on a stretch of level ground. The boys decided this would be the butchering place and went at it. I concentrated on the berry patch. I knew where to find some sheep meat in the morning.

  Back at the cabin in late afternoon I glanced into the spotting scope at intervals to see how the hunters were doing. They were coming down with heavy loads, stopping to rest often. They will remember that trip up and down the mountain for a long time.

  About seven o’clock the outboard started up, and two very tired men were only the width of the lake away from calling it a day.

  August 28th. Clear and frosty at 4:30 a.m. At 5:45 I embarked on Operation Sheep Meat. Flour sacks, meat saw, and packboard were loaded into the canoe. On the trip across, the sun didn’t strike me until I turned the canoe bottom up on the gravel beach.

  At 6:40 I took off up the creek. I followed game trails and beat the brush toward the steep cottonwood-covered slope. The cottonwoods were nearly all of one size and as straight as telephone poles. High ferns, highbush cranberries, and fireweed, but none of it blooming now. The blue sky showed through the branches. A part of living has got to be climbing through a grove of cottonwoods when the leaves are shivering in gold.

  The wind blew cold from the glacier, and patches of fog poured down as I neared the end of the climb.

  I found the two rams lying about twenty yards apart. More meat had been taken than I figured, but neither of the carcasses had been opened. I dressed them both out and couldn’t find anything wrong with the meat. The cold mountain air had kept it chilled.

  I made up a load of two front quarters, the tenderloins, the ribs, neck, and some pieces of sheepskin. I sawed off two of the feet, just to have, and tucked them into the load. Then I sat down with my back to it, worked my arms into the straps, and shrugged the heavy pack to my shoulders. I rose to my feet and, with my walking stick, picked my way toward home.

  Whitecaps were on the lake when I reached the canoe. Why is it that the wind always blows up the lake when I must cross it going down? They were big swells, too. I remember my commercial fishing days. Before a blow, the big swells came.

  I was halfway across the lake before the breeze picked up, and by the time I reached my beach the wind was blasting. Had I been another fifteen minutes later I would have been hunting for a hole.

  I sorted the meat and hung it high from the branch of a tree. I fleshed out the two pieces of hide and soaked the blood from the white hair. Then I prepared the ribs for supper. They were flavorful, but I was sure of one thing: The big ram they came from had roamed the mountains for a long time.

  August 29th. Today I would smoke the sheep meat.

  The other day I had passed the boss hunter’s camp. I saw six quarters of meat hanging uncovered from the meat pole. At forty feet the stench came to me. The wolves had done a better job. My meat would be properly cared for.

  I set up a big tripod of poles over the smoke tunnel outlet, hung the entire batch of meat in the teepee, covered the structure with the heavy plastic, and touched off a fire at the other end. I heaped the fire with dead cottonwood and peeled alder. Soon the smoke was pouring from the tunnel outlet, and the meat inside the plastic tent was lost in the vapor.

  The still lake reflects all images.

  Dug three hills of spuds today. Not record breakers for size but they had real smooth skins.

  I must add an accessory to the john. That rascal of a spruce squirrel just went berserk with a small roll of toilet paper. He packed it off with him and bannered it up and down and over the boughs. What a mess! We will have no more of that. The toilet paper is now stuck on the spruce peg as usual, but it is capped with a coffee can. Let’s see if the little scamp can figure that one out.

  While transferring my meat from the smoker back to the meat tree, I noticed an occasional sockeye salmon break water. A pretty sight, those bright red fish arcing in the sun against the green water. Lots of mileage on them since they entered the fresh water. They struggled against the currents of the Mulchatna and the Chilikadrotna and finally into the Twins.

  I covered the meat with a poncho and stored the ladder. Now the meat should be able to take it if there is a rise in temperature.

  September 6th. For some time now I had my plans for the fireplace drawn up, and they looked satisfactory. Yesterday Babe came in with the big Stinson and brought, among other things, six sacks of cement, a garden hoe, and an empty fifty-gallon drum, but no lime. Without it the mortar might not stick well
to the stone. That bothered me but I will go ahead with construction anyway. I hope there will be enough cement.

  A familiar sound rained down from the sky this morning as I was picking blueberries up on the benches. I looked up and there they were, beating their way up country against the wind—about forty big gray, black-necked honkers.

  This would be the morning to start the fireplace. I had been packing flat stones from the bed of Hope Creek for the past few days. These would be for the base. The sight of those geese made me even more anxious to get the project under way.

  First thing, I would need a tub in which to mix mortar. That’s where the fifty-gallon drum made its contribution. With a wide Sears chisel, I cut the drum in two. Such a racket! The edges of the tub were rolled and hammered flat. The garden hoe completed the kit. Next a good gas-can carrier to pack the rocks and mortar in. I cut a gas can lengthwise a generous six inches deep, then fashioned a cradle of light poles with rugged handles. I set the gas-can tub into this and nailed it fast. Result—a sturdy rig.

  After checking my plan several times, I marked the logs for cutting. I almost hated the thought of cutting into those cabin logs that I had fitted with such care, but it had to be done.

  I transferred my rock pile from the beach up to the back of the cabin, the colorful rocks laid out side by side so I could see them individually, the rest in two piles, one on each side of the fireplace location.

  I dug out for the base, allowing for lots of rock in a solid footing to eliminate danger of it tipping in time or settling.

  Tomorrow I will see the hole cut and some stone put into place. I’m not sure how it will go without the lime.

  September 7th. Temperature forty-three degrees at 4:30 a.m.

  The lake was moon still. A good morning to haul some sand. Up at the point was a good supply, two grades, fine and coarse. I loaded two gas-can boxes, my new carrier, and two gas-can buckets into the canoe and paddled through the thin fog. I could see tracks of caribou at the water’s edge.

  Four loads of sand. That was enough for a start. I won’t cut that hole in the back of the cabin too high until I find out how this rock laying is going to go. I took out sections from the two bottom logs. That gave me plenty of room to lay the base. Took out some rock and dirt on the outside and I was ready for mortar. Three shovels of fine sand, two of coarse, and one heaping shovelful of cement, just about the right amount for a good mix. I dumped all the rock I could get into the six-inch-deep, four-foot by five-foot area. I used flat rocks on that part of the base extending inside the cabin. When the base was finished, I had used less than a sack of cement.

  The yellow colors on the slopes of Falls Mountain are really budding up now. Those are mostly cottonwoods. They seem to prefer the sun-warmed slopes.

  September 8th. A white frost and a light crust on the sand of the beach. A trace of new snow on the peaks.

  I hauled three loads of sand while the lake was still. I am not overly happy with my cement. I have to screen it and then break up the hard lumps. I hesitated to take out more logs. Let’s see how the outside rocks stack up first.

  I spent the day on the outside. Finished the sack of cement I opened yesterday and not quite half of the second one today. The chimney is a good twelve inches high and nine inches thick. I cleaned up the joints around the rocks. So far so good. Will it stand the test of time?

  There was lots of flying activity at the boss hunter’s cabin and at the rough landing strip at the head of the lake.

  The yellow colors across the lake are even brighter this afternoon, and with a dead-calm lake the reflections are a delight to see.

  Ram stew sopped up with sourdough biscuits is mighty good eating.

  September 9th. The fine weather continues. I appreciate it.

  I took the plunge today. I cut the other five logs out of the back of the cabin and let the sun shine in. I sawed the opening the full forty-eight inches wide and then made two splines, one for each side of the opening, and drove a twenty-penny nail through the spline and into each log end. The splines will be imbedded in the mortar. Nine-inch jambs—an opening thirty inches across, twenty-six inches high, and twenty-four inches deep.

  A picture-perfect day to work. Big, puffy white clouds in a blue sky. The slopes golden in the sun.

  This evening my fireplace stands fourteen inches above the base all the way around. About another ten or twelve inches in front, and I will be ready for the arch of the opening.

  Much shooting over at the boss hunter’s cabin. Almost as if someone had missed a good shot because his sights were haywire, and he was making sure it wouldn’t happen a second time.

  In the late afternoon I paddled out on the still lake to see the reflection of my cabin. When the sun is low, it is as if the cabin is being spotted with a very bright floodlight. I am anxious to get that fireplace chimney above the roof. Then I will build a smoky fire and take a picture of the action from out here.

  The fireplace form in place to support the arch.

  September 10th. Such weather I have never seen. Frosty and clear, with everything in extra-sharp focus. I should make good time today. No sand to haul, no logs to cut, no meat to cook, plenty of ram stew left and getting better all the time.

  The fireplace now stands twenty-four inches behind and twenty-two in front. I must build the arch over the opening, and then on up to fill the opening. Nineteen inches to go and the hole in the back of the cabin will be plugged. At present I have a snug-fitting arrangement of corrugated cardboard that I wedge into the opening to shut out the cold air at night. I’ve used two sacks of cement and a third is gone from sack number three. If five sacks get me started up the chimney, I will be happy.

  September 11th. Temperature twenty-nine degrees and warming. Lake water at forty-four degrees.

  Today is the day to build the arch. I had given a lot of thought as to how it can be done wilderness-style. I took one of the bigger log sections I had cut from the opening and bucked off a thirty-inch length, the width of the fireplace opening. I marked one side grid-fashion, lines one-half inch between lengthwise, and lines two inches apart up and down. Then I drove two nails, one in the center of the top line, the other eight inches away and toward the end on the second line.

  Next I hooked the one-man cross cut sawblade at the handle under the outboard nail, and over the center nail I pulled the end of the saw down until it touched the bottom line. I traced a pencil line along the curve formed by the sawblade against the log. I moved the outboard nail to the other side of the center nail and repeated the procedure.

  The result was a three-inch arch in a thirty-inch length. I roughed the log to the line with my ax and then finished it off with the jack plane. Next I flattened the ends on the underside to sit on posts I had cut from logs. I set the arch in place and spiked it to the posts. Then I braced and wedged them tight, and covered the arch with a piece of plastic.

  Stones to outline the arch were on hand. The center one, pale orange and about four inches square, I had found on Emerson Creek. The rest were roughly rectangular. I mixed rich mortar, and by eleven o’clock I had my face stones in place and some filled in behind. I was quite happy with the way it turned out, so I decided to let it set the rest of the day and work on the back side.

  I am starting to close in on all four sides to the throat and smoke shelf. Once past that point the chimney should climb at a rapid rate. I still have three and a third sacks of cement, which should be plenty.

  I watched a Supercub land in some rough water, then take off a few minutes later in a shower of spray. A pretty fair pilot I would say. I’m happy he can’t land up where the big rams are.

  After supper I gathered more rocks of special shapes and sizes until it was too dark to see.

  September 12th. An overcast cutting off the tops of the mountains. The frost gives them a ghostly look.

  I had no idea there are so many rocks in a small fireplace. About seventy-five percent of them don’t seem to fit until just the ri
ght situation turns up. One in particular I tried a dozen times before, and today it fell into place as if it was made for the spot.

  Another row of stones above the arch is completed and filled in behind. That makes it a good six inches thick. I am taking it slow on the front side to let it set up properly. I’m using a stronger mixture there, too. All my stones in the front of the fireplace have been collected in my travels up and down both lakes, the high country and the low, so they are representative of the entire area.

  I’m just about ready now to start forming the smoke shelf, and nearly have the sides pulled in to the point where the chimney will go straight up. It shouldn’t take long after that. Three sacks of cement are gone. One more should get me to the chimney.

  Building this fireplace has been just as interesting as building the cabin, and it will take me about as long as the heavy log work on the cabin, ten days.

  It was real cool working bare-handed. I didn’t think I could do the points as well with my old rubber work gloves on. My fingertips are worn thin and tender. I gave the old gloves a try again later on, and this evening my hands feel better because I did.

  I will need more fine sand from the point tomorrow. I hope the lake flattens for the trip. Today I found the last half of the sack of cement not caked, which worked much better.

  Several planes came in and left today. I think the hunters are pulling out. Soon just the Man Upstairs and I will be running this big country again, and the game will move back in.

  September 13th. Thirty-two degrees at dawn. The mountains down country are white. Breezing up.

  A box of very coarse beach gravel that was wet last night was frozen. When I went to mix my second batch of mortar, I noticed a few stray gobs of concrete in the tub were frozen.