One man’s wilderness by Mr. Sam Keith, Richard Proenneke Page A
Authors: Mr. Sam Keith, Richard Proenneke
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left his entrails for the birds.
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 land 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 thewind. 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.
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
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 land 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 thewind. 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.
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
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