One man’s wilderness (20 page)

August 3rd
. Not the breath of a breeze. Just the kind of day I need to put the polyethylene on the roof. Even the trace of a breeze makes it want to float.

A few minor details in preparing the felt paper, then I unrolled the polyethylene and tucked the edges to get at least four thicknesses to tack through, and I fastened her down.

Next I built a carrying rack for the moss. Made it out of poles in a frame two feet by three feet. I filed the blade of my round-point shovel and I was ready for the moss-cutting detail. I had a good moss bed all picked out. I cut out rectangles about eighteen inches by thirty-six inches, and eight inches thick. Two chunks double-decked on the rack made a good load. Once around the edge of the roof, and the cabin took on a new look. Before it seemed as though the windows were too close under the eaves, but the thick roof fixes that now.

By late afternoon I finished the lake side of the roof. I got to thinking of blueberries for dessert. Thirty-five minutes later my picking can was full.

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

August 4th
. A surprise last evening just as it was getting a bit on the dark side—Babe in the old Stinson. As soon as the prop stopped, out he bounced from his little door up forward.

“Man, am I ever tired,” he said. “Been flying for ten hours. Moved the prospectors’ camp to Farewell. Moved everything. Coming back it got so dark I couldn’t see the gas gauge, and the last time I saw it, the needle was on the wrong side of the glass.”

He had some gas cached here. He would stay the night and gas up in the morning.

I had the fire going the next morning when Babe said, “Sure don’t take long to stay all night here.”

Suspenders hanging, Babe washed up. I could hear him sputtering water through his moustache. After hotcakes and bacon we hauled the gas that was cached in the brush and poured the fuel into the tank of the Stinson, which looked like a Greyhound bus compared to the T-Craft. Big doors, big windows, and room inside for five fifty-gallon barrels.

The old girl was balky at first. She had made many starts yesterday. The 120 oil made her stiff. A primer line had broken and, even after some repair work, still didn’t prime too well. Finally she stuttered and shuddered into life. I
watched her taxi out into the lake. She lifted easily. I wondered what they were thinking back in Port Alsworth when Babe didn’t return last night.

Back to the roof job. It seems I have cleared two acres of moss and still the roof isn’t covered.

Hard to believe, but I have all the moss in place at last. The cabin suddenly has even more character. This roof has helped more than any one thing to give the cabin a finished look. Now for the poles to hold down the moss. Four poles on a side will look better than three, I figure.

Babe brought in some fresh groceries that needed refrigeration. I had dug down a foot into the moss yesterday and found frost. Why not dig a hole and put in a gas-can box, then use my moss-carrying rack loaded with moss for a cover? I think that will do the job. I must put the thermometer in there to find out the temperature.

Clouding up down country. May bring rain tomorrow. I’ll never hear it with all the moss on the roof to deaden the drops when they hit.

August 5th
. No rain.

I finished mossing the woodshed roof. Then I cut and notched the poles to lay over the moss and fastened them down. The woodshed is now complete and looks it.

I need more poles for the cabin roof and also to make a long ladder for a meat tree. Only one place to find poles like that: the upper end of the lake, a four-mile paddle each way.

Found the poles easy enough. Took me an hour and a half to paddle home against a light breeze. It was after nine before I got my supper dishes done. A real productive day.

August 6th
. Clear and calm. Almost too warm. I would like to see some rain. The waterfall across the lake is about to run dry.

Today would be a small detail day. Window-closing handles and latches. Hinges to make and put up a ten-inch by twelve-inch shelf on the wall for my
water bucket. Many wooden pegs to replace nails to hang things on. The poles to peel that I hauled yesterday.

Thinking ahead for the winter season, I found three trees spaced about right and put two green spruce poles in traction among them to get the proper curved shape for sled runners in case I decided to build a sled.

In and out of the cabin all day. A kettle of red beans on the fire. Put in bacon rind and bacon chunks and onions and all my favorite seasonings. That’s the kind of cooking to do in the wilderness, something that cooks while you do something else and don’t have to stand over.

The thermometer in my cooler box under the moss reads forty degrees. Under the really deep moss I am sure the temperature would read even lower. And here it is close to eighty degrees today.

August 7th
. The sun is getting up later.

Lots of mountains to climb over before it strikes the cabin.

Today I put the poles on the cabin roof to hold the moss in place until it grows together. I converted the three-legged stool to a four-legger. A near fall convinced me this had to be done. Then I built a three-shelf open rack for outside the door to set butter, blueberries, and such away from the heat of the cabin.

Really warm today, too warm. I ran a check on temperatures. Forty degrees in my cooler box, seventy-eight degrees in the cabin, ninety-four degrees in the sun, and the lake water sixty-six degrees in the shallows. That last reading really surprised me, and I promptly went for a swim. The surface water was almost comfortable, but I could feel the iciness that lurked just below.

I glued corrugated cardboard to my wooden place mats. They look rustic and are good insulation for hot pots.

Small planes beginning to appear, flying the peaks and those high pastures looking for game. The season will open on the tenth. I wonder what that meat costs a pound?

This is the warmest day I have ever seen here at the lakes. I didn’t even build a fire.

August 8th
. Really had a time here this afternoon. I looked up from my letter-writing to chew on my pen end and peer down the lake through the big window. For a moment I thought I was having hallucinations. Lots of motion and here comes a brown bear up my path.

He was nosing the gravel as he shuffled toward me, getting bigger all the time. He looked somewhat small for a brown, but he would have been big for a black. Abruptly he stopped and flipped his muzzle at the wind currents. I waited for him to wince as the man-scent struck him, and bolt with a crashing into the brush.

No such reaction at all. He just ambled unconcerned past my big window in the direction of the rear of the cabin. No more had he gone out of sight when I heard sounds that brought me right up out of the chair. That character was trying to climb up the corner of the cabin and onto my new roof!

This would never do. I slid the .
357
magnum from its holster on the wall and stepped out the door. No bear could I see on the roof, so I yelled and touched off a round that exploded like a thunderclap.

It didn’t have the expected result. Around the corner came the bear in four-paw drive. I scrambled for the door, pulled it shut and gripped a fist down hard on the handle. The bear came slamming against the planks. I felt his weight bulging the upper door and heard the rake of his claws.

What kind of a bear was this? The noises he was making didn’t sound friendly at all. In fact, they sounded downright psychopathic. His guttural complaints trailed off and I knew he was moving away. Through the small window I watched him poke toward the woodshed. He explored the area thoroughly, standing on his hind legs, teetering and snuffling along the front eave. He was one curious bruin.