Like a man

Sam Keith from the journals of Richard Proenneke,

One Man's Wilderness: An Alaskan Odyssey

(1973: Alaska Northwest Books, 1999).

This is one of my very occasional forays into non-fiction. Dick Proenneke moved to Twin Lakes Alaska, in 1968, when he was in his early fifties. His goal was to build a cabin and spend an entire year in this secluded spot, living off the land and braving the brutal winter, when the temperature could get as low as -45ºF. In the end, Proenneke stayed for about twenty-eight years. His cabin is now a provincial landmark, and his journals and film footage are valuable records of Alaska's native landscape, flora, and fauna.

While Proenneke's experience may not be the most extreme ever recorded - his loyal friend Babe regularly flew in with a few supplies from civilization, and he did not hang out with grizzly bears - it might be the most meticulous. With the exception of nails, tar paper and polyethylene for his cabin roof, and a few simple metal tools, Proenneke built his cabin, above-ground cache, john, furniture, and other odds and ends (like a sled and snowshoes) from logs that he harvested, transported, seasoned, and hewed himself. He used old gas cans to make hinges, containers, and pots and pans. He fashioned a dutch door with wooden hinges and even a wooden locking mechanism. Everything he made looked so clean and operated so smoothly that, from the photographs, it is hard to believe they are handmade. His cabin logs tuck together seamlessly. He gathered stones from the lake beach and built himself a beautiful, neat, fireplace. He fired one shot at a ram early in the hunting season, and the meat lasted him the entire winter. Proenneke described in detail many of his projects and travels up and down the lakes, and most fascinating of all, filmed his activities as well. (Some of this footage has been collected in the one-hour program Alone in the Wilderness, which you can periodically catch on PBS.)

I was drawn to the book by the televised program, but was happily surprised to find that, on the page, Proenneke has a flair for rustic turns of phrase. He could write as well as be manly. On getting a bite on his fishing line: "It happened with the suddenness of a broken shoelace." On the view: "Rags of fog are strewn about the high peaks." On encountering a weasel: "There he was, sitting upright like a fence picket." Evocative and authentic. And my favourite, on the sudden changes in the lake: "Like a woman. All smiles one minute, and dancing a temper tantrum the next." (Proenneke's bachelor philosophy and attiudes toward women were charmingly old-fashioned. When Babe promised to bring some "mission girls" out to the cabin for a visit, poor Dick set about scrubbing down his quarters with the zeal of my Aunt Donna before a family reunion. The girls never materialized.)

This book deserves your attention for three reasons: because Proenneke's feats as an outdoorsman were outstanding; because it reads with sweetness, passion, and honesty; and because it will make even the most committed urbanite sigh at the prospect of solitude in the mountains.