All language subtitles for Alone-In-The-Wilderness-2004-DVDRip-XviD-VoMiT-eng

It was good to be back in the wilderness
again, where everything seems at peace.

I was alone, just me and the animals.

It was a great feeling, free once more
to plan and do as I pleased.

Beyond was all around me.

My dream was a dream no longer.

I suppose I was here because
this was something I had to do.

Not just dream about it, but do it.

I suppose, too, I was here to test myself.

Not that I had never done it before,

but this time, it was to be a more
thorough and lasting examination.

What was I capable of that I didn't know yet?

Could I truly enjoy my own company for an entire year?

And was I equal to everything
this wild land could throw at me?

I had seen its moods in late spring, summer and early fall

but what about the winter?
Would I love the isolation then,

with its bone-stabbing cold,
its ghostly silence?

At age fifty-one, I intended to find out.

Another hundred yards, and I broke out of the brush

to my pile of cabin logs I had cut last July.

I sat down and leaned against them

and while I chewed on a chunk of smoked salmon

my eyes wandered over the peeled logs.

That had been a big job last summer!

Hard work, but I enjoyed it.

It was cool at the timber, and there were
mornings I could see my breath.

I had harvested the logs
from a stand of spruce

less than 300 yards from
where they were now piled.

The logs were a great deal lighter now than they were then,

and could be handled easy enough.

It was in the late spring of 1968,

that Dick Proenneke
decided to leave civilization behind

to live in a pristine land yet unchanged by man

and to roam a wilderness through
which few other humans have passed.

While carving out his new life
in this remote valley

known as Twin Lakes, Dick would
not only keep daily journals,

but would film his Alaskan autosy with
the help of a tripod-mounted camera.

It was time to be moving on.

I was anxious to get to Spike's cabin

to see if it was the way
I had left it last September.

About 500 yards more
through the spruce and willowbrush,

and there it was.

Its weather-grayed moose antlers

spreading just below the peak of the roof.

A tin can on its stove pipe,

and its windows were boarded up.

The cabin had everything
needed to set up housekeeping

until my own cabin was completed.

A good stove, two bunks and a roof that didn't leak.

It's May 22nd.

Up with the sun at four o'clock
to watch the sun rise

and the sight of the awakening land.

It seems a shame for eyes to be shut
when such things are going on.

Especially in this big country.
I don't want to miss anything.

Today I would hike the five miles
down to the lower lake

to pack my third and last load of gear.

My tools, with which to build my cabin!

This time, with the binoculars
along, I would have an excuse

to stop now and then
and watch the slopes for game.

From this high vantage point, the hill
seemed to come alive with animals.

I suddenly didn't feel so alone anymore.

Almost noon before I got back to the cabin.

The rest of the day, I devoted to my tools.

I carved a mallet-head out of a spruce chunk,

augered a hole in it and fitted a handle to it.

This would be a useful pounding tool.

And I hadn't had to pack it in either.

The same with the handles I made for the wood augers,

the wide-bladed chizel and the files.

Much easier to pack without the handles already fitted to them.

Hope Creek had cut a big opening into the lake ice.

Was it too early to catch a fish?

I took the casting rod along to find out.

It didn't take long,

after several casts it happened
with the suddenness of a broken shoelace.

I slid the 19-inch trout onto the stones.

Fish with my beans tonight!

It's May 25. Break-up is not
the spectacular sight it was last year.

A big wind would have cleared the thin ice out yesterday.

As I loaded tools onto the packboard this morning,

the rotted ice began to flow past its exit.

When you have miles and
miles of lake-front

and pictured views to consider,

it's difficult to select a building site.

The more a man looks, the fuzzier he gets.

I cleared the brush, and poured out beach gravel,

and spread it to a depth of several
inches over an area roughly 20x20 feet.

I felt I had made the best possible choice.

It would be 11x15 feet.
Its front-door would face northwest.

And the big window would look down to the lake.

A pile of logs. Which ones to start with?

To make a notch fit properly you can't rush it.

Make several saw cuts
an inch or two apart

almost down to the pencil line,

and whack out the chunks with an axe,
until the notch is roughly formed.

Then comes the finish work.
A careful custom fit.

I have just the tool for the job.

One log in particular required considerable
hewing to straighten it.

I must say white spruce works up nicely
with an ax and a draw-knife.

Enough for this evening. The job had begun.

Tomorrow should see more working and less figuring.

It's May 29. Only a few chunks of ice
floating in the lake this morning.

By noon there was no ice to be seen.

It was good to see
the lake in motion again

and it was even better
to slip the canoe into the water...

...and paddle to work for a change!

I glided silently along over a different pathway.

The cabin is growing. 28 logs are in place.
44 should do it,

except for the gable ends and roof logs.

It really looks a mess to see
the butts extending beyond the corners,

but I will trim them off later.

You can't rush it.
I don't want these logs looking as if

a boy scout was turned loose on them
with a dull hatchet.

I was making good progress today
when I heard a plane.

It was Babe Alsworth.

I watched the plane glide in
for a perfect landing on the calm lake.

Plenty of groceries this time,
and among the supplies, rhubarb plants!

They should be put in the ground right away.

I found the frost about four or five inches down.

I planted fifteen hills of potatoes,
tucked in some onion sets,

and put in a few rows of peas,
carrots, beets and rutabagas.

Not much of a garden
by Iowa standards,

but it would tell me
what I wanted to find out.

Finally back to the cabin building.

I am a better builder
than I am a farmer, anyway.

38 logs are in place and
I'm almost ready for the eave logs.

I cut the opening
for the big window,

for the two smaller ones
and the opening for the door.

Five logs were very special. These were the 20-footers,

which along with the gable ends
would make the backbone of my roof.

Two would be eave logs,
two would be purlin logs

and the last and straightest one
would be the ridge log.

As it stands now, the cabin looks like
as logs are sticking out all over it.

Like the quills of a porcupine.

I have made good progress today.

My cabin logs have changed form in
the ten days since I cut the first notch.

It's June 7, and I believe the growing season is at hand.

The buckbrush and willows
are leafing out fast now,

the rhubarb is growing,

and I noticed my onion sets
are spiking up through the earth.

Those windowframes
have been on my mind.

Decided to do something about it.

First I build a sawhorse workbench.

Then selected straight grain sections
of logs cut from the windows.

With a thin blade of wide chizel,
I cut deep along the line on each side.

Worked fine. I smoothed the split side with a draw knife.

The result was a real nice board,
so I continued to fashion others.

Put 'em in place and nail 'em in.

I finished today cleaning
the litter of woodchips.

I mounted them in front
of the door, beaver-lodge style.

Quite a pile for eleven day's work.
Enough to impress that beaver.

It's June 9. Today would be a day
away from the job of building.

I'd look for the pole timber for the roof up lake.

After beaching the canoe, I walked through the timber,

crossing and recrossing the creek that
had its beginnings in the far off snows.

Good pines were not as plentiful as I had figured,

and I worked steadily to get 48 out
and packed at the beach by noon.

The mosquitoes were out in force.

To peel the poles, I made a tripod of
short sticks on which to rest one end,

and put the draw-knife to work.

I rafted them up, and moved them down the lake to my beach.

A good pile, but I doubted there would be enough.

Today I would secure the roof poles over the gables.

A cabin roof takes time.

Soon I would be ready to saw the ends
and fill the slots between the pole butts

onto the eaves.

It's June 18. Everything looks
as though it had a bath last night.

Must have been a good shower,
and I never even heard it.

A check on the livestock this morning
before going down to the roof job--

--a few caribou cows and their calves
just up country from Low Pass Creek.

Nothing else in sight.

Should be a bear passing through
one of these days!

These fillers should be called
squirrel frustrators.

Give those characters an entrance
and they can ruin a cabin.

I finished filling the slots
between the roof poles

and cocked joints with oakum.

I kinked around the blocks
on the outside.

Any place I could get a table knife blade in, got oakum.

Next was a job I had been
thinking about.

A countertop,
some window ledges and some shelves.

I decided ripping them with the ripsaw was the answer.

I could go down the middle of a log
5" in diameter

and 42" long in fifteen minutes.
Couldn't complain about that.

I think I have sawed
nearly everything I need.

Now, to trim the edges and start building.

I need a fish for supper.

So I took the fly rod
down to Hope Creek.

The grayling were feeding greedily.

Fins and tails swirling
all over the surface.

A fish snapped the fly on the
very first cast. A handsome grayling.

17� inches long. Enough for my needs.

It's July 2.

After a peaceful trip down lake
I located ten spruce tops.

I was anxious to try making hinges for the door.

I worked the wood to shape with an axe and a draw knife.

Now to saw the fork and butt end.

45 minutes and I had my hinge made. Not bad.

I put some finishing touch
on the door planks I made Sunday.

Now the door is ready to put together.

Too many men work on parts of things.
Doing a job to completion, satisfies me.

My roof poles are still
too wet for the tarpaper,

so I will work on my double-deck bunk.

Four posts with two rails on each side-

-and two small and two large on each end.

I augered 1�" holes
and trim the rail poles to fit.

Now when I get some glue,

I'll knock it apart
and glue it back together.

With a few leftover poles,
I built myself a chair and a bench.

It's June 27. A good rain it was last night.
Today would be a pole-hunting day.

I need about thirty to make the slats for my bunks.

After peeling the poles
the wind came up strong.

It brought rain and furrowed
the lake rough as a cob.

This lake can really change its
personality in a hurry. Like a woman!

All smiles one minute,
and dancing in temper-tantrum the next.

Tomorrow is Sunday. I will go someplace.

Next morning I loaded up
my camera gear,

and started walking
up the trail to the hump.

It was good to take a break away from the cabin.

As I topped the ridge along a dry wash,

a wolf came up from the other side,
30 or 40 paces away.

Then in a wink, she was gone.

The wolves had made a kill.

All that was left of the young caribou
was the backbone and rib cage.

The skin was badly torn
and pulled down over the front legs.

As you would peel back a rubber glove.

It looks like the wolves aren't
the only problem the caribous have.

What was a bull caribou doing down there,
where not a breath of air was stirring?

Insects were whirling around me
like sawdust blown from a power saw.

The bull also was having
a battle with the tinies.

Stomping, shaking, twisting,
turning and shivering his hide.

He would lie down and get back up again.
No rest at all.

Why doesn't he climb to
a breeze or take a swim?

Anything but stand and fight something
he can't hope to kill or scare away.

With a yell and a waving of arms, I spooked him.

He threw his antlers back
and off he clattered

over the stones and up the creek.

Good luck to you, old boy!

It's July 3. A cool, damp morning with fog
coming off the slopes

like the smoke from many campfires.

No wind now, so it's a perfect day for the tarpaper job.

I left the felt paper four to five inches.

I need just one more strip, twenty feet long.

I must admit the cabin looks
better already with the start of a roof.

Next I unrolled the polyethylene
and tucked the edges together

to get at least four thicknesses
to tack through.

And I fastnened her down.

Next I built a carrying rack for the moss.

I filed a blade from
my round-point shovel,

then I was ready for
the moss-cutting detail.

I cut out rectangles about 18"x36" and 8" thick.

Two chunks double-decked on the rack made a good load.

I put it around the edges of the roof,
and the cabin took on a new look.

I feel guilty about the
tarpaper and the polyethylene,

because they are not
true wilderness cabin materials!

But I am convinced they will do
a better job at keeping the weather out.

It seems I have cleared two acres of
moss, and the roof still isn't covered.

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

This morning I cut, hauled and peeled eleven logs by noon.

I would spend today on the construction of the john.

An important consideration in any new home!

Materials to finish the front
required lots of time,

ripping boards from
the last of my cabin logs.

It was twelve o'clock when I finished the last cut.

Four boards would make the door,
and the fifth would hold it together.

I made the hinges from a gas-can,
and they looked almost store-bought.

And then the final touch. Saw out
a crescent. And the john was done.

July 23. A day to hang the door.

I put the door into the opening and
fastened the top and bottom hinges.

I checked and re-checked my hinges
to see that they were in line.

I pulled the hinge pins,
set the door on an edge

and sawed it nearly through
for a dutch door,

which I intended it to be.

I put on some glue and nailed it fast.

Door works quiet and easy,
with all four hinges secured.

Not perfect,
but plenty close for rural work.

I must devise a latch for it.
Not just hooks like a barn door.

All I needed was a lock. I'd like to see
a bear try and figure this thing out.

But I suppose he would just
solve the problem

by wiping the door clean
from the wooden hinges.

After finishing the latch, I went
blueberring up on the Cowgill Bench.

I found a good patch.

I fear the blueberries really took a nipping
from the heavy frost not so long ago.

I found some berries big and healthy.
But many are small and shriveled.

When my can was nearly full
I noticed a movement across the creek.

Something yellow and brown.

A big bear, not fifty yards away!

I think I have picked
the wrong blueberry patch.

Lucky for me, and him, he didn't like my smell.

July 31. A tin-bending day.

Made a water bucket.
A wash pan. A dish pan.

A flower pan, and storage cans.

My cabin kitchen is shaping up.

I needed a big wooden spoon
to dip hotcake batter onto the griddle.

One spoonful = one hotcake.

In the woodpile I found scraps
of stump wood that looked suitable.

It took me no more than an hour
to turn out a good looking spoon.

I must make a wooden bowl too later on.

Today is the big day.

I will load all of my remaining gear
into the canoe,

and paddle down to my new home.

The lake is dead calm. A perfect day for moving.

Everything found its place,

and there was lots of room
for everything.

Not a cluttered look at all.

Five inches of foam rubber
on my new bunk

will make it just about right.

I can hear Hope Creek real plain.

That will be
a pleasant sound to go to sleep by.

And the view from my window isn't too bad, either.

Best sleep in a long time.

The sound of the waves
lapping the gravel beach--

--and the never ending rustle of
Hope Creek. No better sleeping pill!

The woodpile needs attention.

I must drop a few spruce nags
and buck them into the sections.

Dry standing timber makes the best firewood.

There is a rhythm to the saw

as its teeth eat back and forth
into the deepening cut.

But I must admit, I enjoy the splitting more.

I heard a plane. It was Babe at last with supplies.

He had brought in some fresh groceries
that needed refrigeration.

I had dug down a foot
into the moss just yesterday,

and found frost, and lined the hole
with a gas-can box.

The thermometer in the cooler box
under the moss reads 40�,

and here it is close to 80� today.

While cultivating the garden,

I rolled out a few potatoes
that looked like walnuts.

Not record breakers for size,
but they had real smooth skins!

The crops to grow at Twin Lakes
are potatoes, rhubarb, lettuce,

onions and radishes. My green onions
looked pretty respectable.

I am getting hungry for a fish.

After many casts at the mouth
of Hope Creek, I was onto one.

I worked him in easy,

for I was fish hungry
and didn't want to lose this lake trout.

I could see him browning in the pan
as I dressed him out,

and I left his entrails for the birds.

Fried potatoes, onions and fish. You can't beat that!

Time to take a break away from the cabin.
I would go up high today.

There were many sheep and ram
scattered here and there.

I spotted six big rams on Black Mountain.

Two had better than a full curl.

A man could lose himself up here.

One bad step and I would
keep on going right down the mountain.

But risk now and then is good for a man.

One mis-step here, and a man
would have to settle with the Lord,

right here on the mountain.

Close at hand, the mosses and grasses
were full of tiny flowers.

It is another world of beauty.

The more I see as I sit
here among the rocks,

the more I wonder about
what I am not seeing.

A flickering movement to my left.

The stone seemed to move, and turned
into a mother ptarmigan and a brood.

The young was just as camouflaged as the mother.

They were feeding.

Huddled like chickens
as they walked along the slope.

Not too far away I spotted a mother brown bear with two cubs.

It was probably the same family I had
seen at different times during the spring.

She was rounded out like a cask. Must be
lots of vitamins along those slopes.

It was getting late and a little chilly,
and it was time to leave.

I had taken a long look into the heart of the high places.

It's September 6. 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.

The sound of geese heading north

made me even more anxious
to get the project underway.

The lake was moon-still. A good morning
to haul some sand. Four loads of sand.

I won't cut the hole on
the back of the cabin too high

until I find out how this
rock laying is gonna go.

Today is spent on the outside. The
chimney is a good 12" high and 9" thick.

I hated cutting into those logs I had fit
with such care, but it had to be done.

It's September 8. I roughed out
my arch today with my axe,

and then finished it off with the jack-plane.

I set it in place and spiked it to the post.

All my stones in front of the 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.

Today, while it was still frosty, I cut
a notch in the rear overhang of the roof

to let the chimney through.

My collapsable form
couldn't have worked better.

I'm glad I took the time to make it.

By tomorrow evening
I had better be done,

since the last cement sack will be empty.

After two weeks, with
fingertips worn thin and tender,

I am ready for the cold weather.

This new day is clear, calm and 28 degrees.

There is white frost on the brush,
and on the gravel of the beach.

The lake is like a huge puddle,

grinning with the reflections of the
fall colors well along on the mountains.

Today was meant for canoe travel.

I would go to the lower end
of the lower lake

where the Chilikadrotna River
begins its long swift journey

to merge with the Molchotna
and Chuchigak.

It would be a paddle of 8.5 miles, one way.

It was a joy to travel the flat lake.

I dug the paddle deep
and the canoe slid along easily,

throwing ripples to either side.

Near the lower end of the lake,
I spotted a fine caribou bull.

He was acting strangely.
When I saw him wade into the lake,

it dawned on me. He wanted
to cross to the other side!

The race was on. He would show me
how fast a bull caribou could swim!

I didn't wanna get too close
in case he'd turn on me.

He could overturn my canoe
with no trouble.

Maybe he figured he couldn't
get rid of me on land,

so he did what he would have done
with a wolf in pursuit.

Take to the lake, swim, and lose the enemy!

The caribou is an animal of the open country.

It seems like he likes
to get up on the high ridges,

where the breeze blows
to keep the insects away.

The bull moose, which I haven't seen
much of all summer long,

doesn't seem to fear me,
or much of anything, now.

After several hours of thrashing
and destroying a patch of willow bushes,

the bull was free from the blood covered, velvet-like material.

It seems this time of year,

the bulls lose all good sense
and come right out in the open.

Afraid of nobody, and that's when hunting season opens.

And that's the end of the hill.

I woke up this morning surprised to see
four inches of snow on the ground.

Looks like I finished my fireplace just in time.

It's a frosty morning at 23�.
35� in my cooler box.

And the lake water at 42�.

But the pressure is off.
The fireplace is built,

and what little there is yet to do
can be done regardless of the weather.

It's the end of September now,

and if I was gonna stay the winter
I would need more meat.

Today was the last day of sheep season.

And the sight of four good rams in a bunch
convinced me.

Although this handsome bull
makes it tempting,

lucky for him I like sheep meat
better than caribou.

I open and close the hunting season with
one shot. The search for meat is over.

I hated to see the big ram end like this,

but I suppose he could have died
a lot harder than he did.

The pelt must have weighed
a hundred pounds

when I dragged it from the water.

Nearly all blood was soaked out of the beautiful white hide.

I put my smoker into operation,
and I kept it going all day.

Sheep liver and onions for supper.
A satisfying day.

September 23. Clear, calm and a frosty 20 degrees.

Hope Creek is beginning to ice up.

I put the thermometer
into the creek mouth. 31 degrees.

If the creek stopped moving
it would freeze up in no time.

Today I would cut up wood
to build up my supplies.

This business of taking wood
out of the savings bank

and putting none back
has been bothering me to no end.

Plenty of meat hanging
from the meat tree.

Plenty of wood.
My cabin tight and warm.

I looked forward to freeze-up.

It is November now,

and in preparing for freeze-up,
I made a sled out of spruce poles.

Using the spruce runners,
I had put in traction.

The frame was held together with pegs,
and short pole bracings.

I plained the runner smooth and
painted them with a film of woodglue.

With its deck poles, handles and crossbars,

it would be a vehicle in which I could push
a good-sized load.

Too bad I didn't have a caribou to pull it.

Dead calm and zero degrees.
The wind and snow died during the night.

It's important that I keep my pathway to the lake open.

I chipped through three inches of ice to fill my water bucket.

In a short time I will have a safe
highway for miles in each direction.

Freeze-up has arrived.

It's warm inside my cabin. A toasty forty degrees.

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

It's got everything in it
but the kitchen sponge.

Dead calm and zero degrees.

The lake ice has increased
one inch in 24 hours.

It took one hour to the gravel bank of
the connecting stream.

Not quite as fast as paddling.

I saw big wolf tracks in the drifted snow.
Then I saw many more wolf tracks.

A bad sign.

About a hundred yards further on,
a dead calf, on the bank.

They had not fed on the carcass at all.

I butchered it up into sections.
There was frozen blood on his hind legs.

Evidently one of the wolves killed him

while the rest of the pack
held his attention.

Had they done it just for sport?

Suddenly the wolves lost
a few points with me.

I loaded up the sled and headed for home.

I chopped off a chunk
of moose hindquarter.

The meat shattered like ice.

The magpie soon took command.
But there would be plenty for all.

December 31.

32 degrees below zero
during the heat of the day.

Today I hiked a couple
miles down the lake.

I do believe winter at Twin Lakes
is better than summer.

I crossed a wolverine track
that was headed for Low Pass Creek.

I must be on the lookout for that character.

On such a trip, snowshoes are a must.

With no wind I could travel all day
in -45�F, and be comfortable.

It is warmer on top of the pass
than it is along the lake.

Moisture must make the difference.

My face and fingers
felt the bite and the cold

as soon as I reached lake level.

It was good to be back at the cabin.

January 2. 45 below zero. A land without motion.

In the dead of winter,
nothing seems to move.

Not even a twig on the willows.

The thickness of the ice is now a strong 28 inches.

In this cold weather, the hole
gradually closes in from the sides,

until it is a hole no longer.

January 9. What do you know?
Here comes Babe in the T-craft on skis!

He brought a burlap sack
half full of beans,

50 pounds of sugar,
and a big box of dried apples.

Also, some mail.

He also brought me
two pairs of heavy socks

that his wife Mary had knitted for me.

It was just like Christmas.

February 21. Plus 26 degrees.
Snowing and blowing.

27 inches of snow on the ground.

My snowshovel works well.

My paths are beginning to look like
small canyons with steep white walls.

I wish brother Jake could be up here to see this.

February is almost gone,
and that didn't take long.

Snow depth still stays at 27 inches
at my checking station.

It settles between snows.

On the way back to the cabin,
I cut across the wolverine track.

The one that's been eluding me for so long.

And then, there he was. The one with the
ferocious reputation.

He didn't look so ferocious to me.

It was very warm in the sun, but cool
in the shadow of the mountain

as I snowshoed back to the cabin.

The end of march. The sun
was warm and the eave dripped.

I do believe the days of snow and ice are numbered.

On one of my trips I had noticed
a huge burrow on a dead spruce tree.

Today I would go back and salvage it.

I slapped it with a four-inch cut next to the tree.

The cap would be about 7 inches deep,
and perhaps from that I'd carve a bowl.

Two slabs on the packboard,
and in for lunch.

The slabs will make interesting table tops.

After lunch I dumped the two-pound
coffee can of cranberries I had picked,

into a pan to cook them in their own juice.

A fistful of sugar was next,
followed with a shot of corn syrup.

When the mixture cooled, I poured it off into empty bottles.

Now those sourdough pancakes

would have an elegant topping
in the morning.

April 22. It is good to
see bears on the mountain again-

-a mother and two fine looking cubs.
Good company for a man out here.

Most people would think of bear den to be a smelly place.

On the contrary, I have
found them to be clean and fresh.

As if the bear walked in,
laid down, got up, and walked out.

With the receding snow, the caribou
are starting to show themselves again.

And I'm sure the wolves are not too far behind.

There are many ptarmigan in the willowflats.

The roosters are full of cackle,

and they are fast coming
out of their winter plumage.

I have made it through my first winter at Twin Lakes.

With the arrival of spring,

it feels good to get back to work
on the projects that have been on hold.

And the new cache will keep bears and
other critters out of my food supplies.

Dick Proenneke would spend the next
35 years alone in the wilderness-

-carefully documenting life at Twin Lakes until 1998.

At the age of 82, Dick decided
that the minus fifty below winters

were becoming too much of a chore--

--and it was time to leave this
One Man's Wilderness.

Dick has since formally
entrusted his homestead

to the Park Service
of Lake Clark National Park.

His cabin will be maintained as a historic site.

And he may return to stay in it at any time he wishes.

And while he may not make the trip physically again--

--his spirit will always linger
in the perfect notches of his logs.

Published 09/03/2013
@ www.podnapisi.net