Anatomy of Solitude
A brief history of hermits, recluses, misanthropes and petty thieves on the lam ~ The Conclusion
“A recluse without books and ink is already in life a dead man.”
I am an advocate of everyone enjoying some measure of solitude, at least occasionally. But what if every one of the 8.2 billion humans on Earth decided to be a hermit at once? Well, it would be a crowded hermitage because that would only allow 820 feet of distance between all of the hermits. That’s approximately the length of my driveway. So, let’s keep the secret of sublime solitude to ourselves. If that sounds selfish, so be it.
Rather than save the best for last, I’m going to introduce you to a hermit that has captured the imagination of millions of people. I hold Richard Proenneke in high esteem not only for his many talents and wilderness skills but also as an outstanding photographer and, of course, his dry wit and unpretentious writing style.
Richard (Dick) Proenneke, born in 1916, hailed from Primrose, Iowa. He was born to German immigrants. His father was a carpenter and a well driller. Richard attended primary school but decided that high school had little to offer, so he drove tractors and became adept at fixing them. These burgeoning skills would prove invaluable in the years ahead.
When World War II began, Proenneke joined the Navy and served as a diesel mechanic and ship’s carpenter, further cementing his reputation as a mechanical genius. His skills were called upon many times in the years ahead, including building a cabin in the wilds of Alaska without the use of power tools.
After his discharge from the Navy at the war’s end, Proenneke traveled around the northwest coast of the U.S., eventually moving to Shuyak Island in Alaska, where he worked on heavy equipment at Kodiak’s Naval Air Station.
Not content to settle down quite yet, he worked as a diesel technician and a salmon fisherman in Alaska for several years, followed by a stint at King Salmon, where he worked for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.
By this time, his skills with diesel engines and all manner of heavy equipment were exceptional to such an extent that he was able to retire and did so at Twin Lakes, Alaska. It was here that Proenneke decided to build a cabin, not as a vacation home, but for his permanent residence.
No man (or woman) is an island, and Proenneke had no shortage of friends. He attracted people because of his generous spirit and remarkable capabilities.
Although generally regarded by the outside world as a hermit, few who knew Proenneke in Alaska would label him as such. According to his friend, John Branson the National Park Service, Proenneke was reticent upon first meeting someone but soon warmed up to them and would talk freely about his years on Twin Lakes, where he built his cabin.
Twin Lakes is situated within Lake Clark National Park. It consists of a 6-mile-long upper lake and a 4-mile-long lower lake, connected by a short stream. Proenneke arrived in Upper Lake in 1976 to select the ideal spot for his cabin.
He lived in a friend’s cabin near his chosen homesite for the entire summer to prep the site and cut and debark spruce trees, allowing them to season until the following summer when he would begin the job of notching and assembling the spruce logs.
Now, there are numerous reasons why Richard Proenneke is considered an Alaskan icon, not the least of which is his consistent maintenance of journals that document his work and environment. He brought a fine German 16 mm wind-up camera to document his entire 30-year experience, including the building techniques he employed in the project, and to record wildlife in the area.
In Proenneke’s journals, he mentions why he didn’t have a dog during all those years, stating that a dog would interfere with his filming. And film he did, 30 years’ worth of film footage detailing every aspect of cabin building, as well as much of the natural beauty and wildlife that he truly loved and respected.
Proenneke hunted, fished and foraged for a good portion of his food but was resupplied regularly by a bush pilot friend. He said that he never killed any large game, such as caribou or moose, because he considered it a waste of meat. Trophy hunters sometimes leave much or most of their kill on the ground, and Proenneke would collect the leavings as a source of meat. He wrote eloquently of gathering blueberries and fishing for trout, salmon and grayling. He truly felt an affinity with all the wildlife in his paradise.
Proenneke was also known for his culinary skills, particularly considering he cooked on a wood-burning stove. His diet was not what one might expect from a man living alone in the wilderness for 30 years; it included sourdough biscuits and hotcakes, beans, wild berries and greens, as well as vegetables from a small garden and plenty of fish. According to his friends, the man could cook a meal worth savoring.
For nearly all 30 years, Proenneke made daily entries in his journals detailing his activities of the day and the things he saw or experienced. In one entry, he refers to a brown bear he calls a psychopath. The bear walked straightaway up to his cabin, investigating everything outside the cabin before attempting to break in. Fortunately, the heavy-duty door kept the bear at bay.
His capacity for generosity and friendship is legendary. John Branson recalls a 35-mile hike (one-way) that illustrates Proenneke’s willingness to help when an older couple needed help repairing a diesel engine that they relied on.
John and Proenneke set out on foot across the mountains. It took two full days of hiking to reach the couple’s home, and they spent the night sleeping on the ground. John slept in a sleeping bag, and Proenneke’s slept with only a blanket.
Upon arriving, Proenneke repaired the engine while John cut firewood for their aging friends. After helping for a few days, the duo began their return hike. And, as he is wont to do, Proenneke refused payment from the couple – that says volumes about his character.
In 1999, at the age of 83, and due to declining health, Richard Proenneke left his beloved cabin to live with his brother in California. He made one more visit back in 2000 and died of a stroke in 2003 at the age of 86.
His cabin still stands – just as it was. He left the cabin to the National Park Service, and it now attracts visitors from all over the world who wish to see where this highly respected man lived and to experience the beauty that drew him to this special spot on Earth.
His journals, all 120 pounds of them, were archived by the park service and served as the basis for a book titled “One Man’s Wilderness, 50th Anniversary Edition,” edited by his friend John Branson. The PBS film “Alone in the Wilderness” was based on Proenneke’s hundreds of hours of footage from his 30 years of living on Twin Lakes.
It’s time to move on to another type of hermit, one with vastly different motivations and ethics than Richard Proenneke. In the rarified world of those seeking solitude, it is nearly impossible to pinpoint a single motivating factor that would lead someone to willingly choose a life bereft of social interaction.
Where Richard Peoenneke lived by rules he had set for himself and were intrinsic to his character, our next “hermit” was a thief, a somewhat thoughtful burglar, but a thief nonetheless.
Christopher Knight is widely known as the Hermit of North Pond. Chris had what he called good but stoic parents, not the “touchy-feely” types. His upbringing may be a factor in his approach to life.
As we shall soon see, Chris could adhere to a strict set of rules when it came to living 27 years with only one admitted interaction with another human, and that interaction amounted to just one syllable. When spotted by a couple of hikers who waved at him, he said, “Hi.”
Chris was 20 years old in 1986 when, without warning, he walked off his job installing home alarm systems. He proceeded to drive south from his home in Maine and, upon reaching the Florida border, turned around and drove north to heavily wooded central Maine, passing his own home and family on the way.
Driving as far into the woods as he could in his 1985 Subaru Brat, he abandoned his car with the keys still in the ignition and set out to find a location where he hoped never to be seen again. Chris Knight was not particularly fond of other people, but he was not diabolical by any means; he just wanted to be left alone. (Don’t we all sometimes?)
Chris is the classic case of a recluse, although few of that ilk would find themselves in a situation where they would need to steal food. His camp consisted of items that, except for his own sleeping bag and tent, were taken from the many cabins, or “camps” that line the shores of the North Pond.
The police estimate that he burgled lakeside cabins thousands of times during his 27 years living within earshot of these buildings. He had the requisite skills to gain entrance to the cabins and always locked the door upon leaving. He did so little damage that many of the cabin owners thought the Hermit of North Pond was a legend and nothing more.
Chris was mainly after food and the occasional beer, passing up tools and other valuables. It is estimated that he broke into 40 cabins per month to ensure that he had enough food. He also pilfered tarps, clothing, buckets and propane tanks and occasionally “borrowed” a canoe to transport the stolen goods back to his camp under cover of darkness.
And, get this: Chris never started a fire for warmth in the 27 years he lived in solitude in Maine, where winter temperatures often drop way below zero. His determination to be unnoticed boggles the mind. After being apprehended, he told writer Michael Finkel* that on frigid nights, he forced himself to crawl out of his sleeping bag and walk briskly around his campsite until he warmed up.
Chris maintained good personal hygiene throughout his stay in the Maine woods by sponge baths and shaving regularly. He felt that a shaggy and dodgy-looking man might draw attention.
As far as is known, Chris did not keep a journal of his experiences, saying that writing biographically would be for the benefit of others as entertainment, something he disdained.
Philosophically, he had some admiration for other solitude seekers such as Emerson and Thomas Merton, the monastic monk who was drawn to solitude and a contemplative life, but felt that Henry David Thoreau was what he called a “dilettante.” After all, HDT only stayed at Walden’s Pond for a little over two years, and his mother did his laundry during his stay.
All good things come to an end, and Chris’ abrupt end came on April 4, 2013, when caught in the act by Maine Game Warden Terry Hughes. He spent seven months in jail and was released early for the time he had already spent in the slammer awaiting his court case.
After his release, Chris completed a court-ordered rehabilitation program concomitant with three years of probation. He now has a job and his own home.
I’ll keep trying to get our own home-grown Pocahontas County recluses to come down from their mountains and out of their hollers and have a get-together of hermits. Oh hell, who am I kidding: no one would show up, including me.
Ken Springer
The Caesar Mountain Hermit
ken1949bongo@gmail.com