Alone in the Wilderness: Dick Proenneke

We had an interesting discussion/debate in Psychology class last month about whether it's the big things or the small things in life that lead to happiness. Does attaching your self-worth to your job, or your religious institution, or your large item purchases lead more directly to happiness than taking pleasures in the smaller things? I, of course, not being any kind of an institution man, came down on the side of appreciation for the thousands of smaller gems.

As Nick Hornby explained:

A couple of times a year I make myself a tape to play in the car, a tape full of all the new songs I've loved over the previous few months, and every time I finish one I can't believe there'll be another. Yet there always is, and I can't wait for the next one; you need only a few hundred more things like that, and you've got a life worth living.

I've never been crazy about Sports Illustrated's Rick Reilly though I acknowledge that he's one of the true snow leopards of his profession. He's simply not my style. Nevertheless, this column from back in 1999 knocks it out of the ball park. I remember thinking at the time that Reilly must have channeled the spirit of the then recently deceased grand poobah of sports journalism, Jim Murray. This may have been the final article from the clip-and-save period of my life, and it's certainly on point here:

"We're here to pound the steering wheel and scream as we listen to the game on the radio, 20 minutes after we pulled into the garage. We're here to look all over, give up and then find the ball in the hole.

"We're here to watch, at least once, as the pocket collapses around John Elway, and it's fourth-and-never. Or as the count goes to 3 and 1 on Mark McGwire with bases loaded, and the pitcher begins wishing he'd gone on to med school. Or as a little hole you couldn't get a skateboard through suddenly opens in front of Jeff Gordon with a lap to go.

"We're here to shoot a six-point elk and finally get the f-stop right, or to tie the perfect fly, make the perfect cast, catch absolutely nothing and still call it a perfect morning.

"I don't think the meaning of life is gnashing our bicuspids over what comes after death but tasting all the tiny moments that come before it. We're here to be the coach when Wendell, the one whose glasses always fog up, finally makes the only perfect backdoor pass all season. We're here to be there when our kid has three goals and an assist. And especially when he doesn't.

"I don't think we're here to make SportsCenter. The really good stuff never does. Like leaving Wrigley at 4:15 on a perfect summer afternoon and walking straight into Murphy's with half of section 503. Or finding ourselves with a free afternoon, a little red 327 fuel-injected 1962 Corvette convertible and an unopened map of Vermont's backroads.

"We're here to get the triple-Dagwood sandwich made, the perfectly frosted malted-beverage mug filled and the football kicked off at the very second your sister begins tying up the phone until Tuesday.

"None of us are going to find ourselves on our deathbeds saying, 'Dang, I wish I'd spent more time on the Hibbings account.' We're going to say, 'That scar? I got that scar stealing a home run from Consolidated Plumbers!'

"See, grown-ups spend so much time doggedly slaving toward the better car, the perfect house, the big day that will finally make them happy when happy just walked by wearing a bicycle helmet two sizes too big for him. We're not here to find a way to heaven. The way is heaven.

Reilly nailed it. And anybody who has ever caught Alone in the Wilderness on public television realizes we're here to appreciate the peaceful dignity of a man like Dick Proenneke. Do yourself a favor and sit down for the full 60 minute documentary next time your local PBS is running a fund-drive (or purchase it online here). I guarantee it will be one of the most fulfilling hours of your life. Fr. Paul Ruwe put it sagely, "Just watching that guy carve a spoon gets you excited about life." Meanwhile, Tybee Island Surfer/Mayor Jason Buelterman flipped out his greatest compliment, "Dick Proenneke? Now that guy is a Great American!"