It’s late June, and after endless emails, Grizzly bear warnings, phone calls, gear checks, and numerous logistical hurdles, I’m in a tiny floatplane in the middle-of-nowhere Alaska, on a quest to visit a beloved, rustic cabin about the size of a single-car garage.

Most passengers would be scanning Lake Clark National Park’s vast wilderness for caribou or moose. I’m looking for a gabled sod-and-moss roof. When the pilot descends, he dips a wing, and there it is out of a tiny window: the flagpole, the elevated food cache, and that beautiful cover. I can almost taste the sourdough biscuits.

“Well, there’s Dick’s cabin,” the pilot says.

Millions have seen self-educated naturalist Richard Proenneke’s 192-square-foot Alaskan bush-style cabin on television and YouTube, but few have set foot in it. Lake Clark National Park is one of America’s least-visited national parks. There are no roads to get there and, according to park officials, only about 1,400 people visited the cabin last year, up about 300 from the previous year. “It’s a tough place to get to,” says Chelsea Niles, Lake Clark’s visitor services program manager. “It’s a testament that people make an effort and find a way to get there.”

I’ve found people either haven’t heard of Proenneke, or they are devotees, like me, enthralled by Alone in the Wilderness, the documentary that started airing on PBS in 2004. The National Park Service had previously produced a short documentary about Proenneke, featuring footage he’d taken to send to his family, called One Man’s Alaska. Later, a man named Bob Swerer obtained the original footage from Proenneke and made Alone in the Wilderness, along with a sequel.

Like a modern-day social media influencer, Pronneke filmed chunks of his life to send to his family, setting up a 16-millimeter camera on a tripod. Today, the YouTube videos, showing him crafting the cabin’s iconic Dutch door with wooden hinges or feeding birds by hand, have garnered millions of views. On the fan-run @proennekenature TikTok channel, almost 46,000 people have watched him carve a spoon. “This man lived every man’s dream,” one comment on YouTube reads.

I owned the DVD—it’s like ASMR for outdoorsy types—and, later, One Man’s Wilderness: An Alaskan Odyssey, the 1973 book based on the journals he kept there. An Iowa native, Proenneke was a U.S. Navy veteran, master diesel mechanic, and photographer, and, perhaps, accidentally, a modern transcendental philosopher. “I have found that some of the simplest things have given me the most pleasure,” Proenneke wrote in One Man’s Wilderness. “They didn’t cost me a lot of money either. They just worked on my senses. Did you ever pick very large blueberries after a summer rain, walk through a grove of cottonwoods, open like a park, and see the blue sky beyond the shimmering gold of the leaves? Pull on dry woolen socks after you’ve peeled off the wet ones? Come in out of the subzero and shiver yourself warm in front of a wood fire? The world is full of such things.”

I wanted to feel those simple pleasures, even if getting there wasn’t so easy. I wanted to wear the wool socks.

A cabin is like a dream, a simple place where you can become the best version of yourself. You might whittle a walking stick by the fire or cook bacon on a skillet while your new buddy, a red fox, waits for scraps. Maybe you’ll finish your novel or unplug from social media forever, or at least for a long weekend.

My first cabin was the Polish Ponderosa, a log home my aunt and uncle built on a sandy patch of pines in New Jersey in the 1970s after a trip to New Mexico. Decades later, it’s still owned by my family, a beloved anachronism encircled by newer, Sopranos-esque mansions.

On sleepless nights, I scroll cabin listings all over the world. I message real estate agents in Maine and the Adirondacks (Are there loons on the lake? Are you sure I couldn’t access it in the winter?), but I don’t answer their calls. Some argue that the cabin obsession is part of a conservative fantasy, or an “escape from late capitalism’s ceaseless demands of labor and attention.” I admit to the latter, but most of my fantasies aren’t fiscally conservative. Last year, a vast compound with three vintage cabins built by the Gumbel Brothers of Pennsylvania on Lake Wallenpaupack broke my heart. It was selling for about $4 million, and I played the lottery a few times, desperate to own it.

What about Proenneke’s simple, tiny, off-grid design? Earlier this year, I posted on the r/cabins SubReddit, asking if anyone had blueprints for it. It couldn’t be too pricey to build if I found the land. But you can’t grab free waterfront parcels with mountain views in modern America anymore. Coincidentally, though, in February, Alaska Governor Mike Dunleavy proposed a bill that would allow residents to build “dream cabins on state land” via purchase or lease of up to 10 acres. Dunleavy told me it’s a way to own a piece of the “last frontier.”

“We have lots of land and we want to get it into the hands of people,” he says.

On Zillow, “cabin” was the fourth most popular feature search in 2024, behind “ranch style,” “lake,” and “duplex.” What constitutes a cabin, though? Are logs a must? Does a gas fireplace ruin the vibe? Could a cabin exist in the city? I asked people who’ve seen their fair share, like Lindsay Bro, a Southern California writer who founded the @cabinlove Instagram page in 2013. Today, with almost half a million followers, Bro’s visited hundreds of cabins, and she’s open-minded about the definition.

“For me, it’s a small space, set far away,” she says. “When you say the word ‘cabin,’ everyone immediately has some version of it they jump to. Their summer camp when they were a kid; their aunt and uncle’s place; or that one spot they’ve always been dreaming of going.”

Dean Rosnau, a custom builder and Search and Rescue expert who lives in Northwestern Montana, has built enormous homes, including the 16,500-square-foot “Victory Lodge” located in June Lake, California. His projects are often made of logs, yes, but they’re not small, and he’s surprised when others describe them as “cabins.”

“To the owner, that was a cabin,” says Rosnau, who owns DR MasterWorks, a home construction company. “The word obviously has different meanings to different people. A lot of my clients have modern homes along the coast, and they see these as something different. They want something different than what they’re used to.”

Around the time I asked about Proenneke’s blueprints, I traveled to Southwestern Pennsylvania to write a story about a restoration project at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater. An employee told me the family who commissioned Wright originally wanted a view of the falls of Bear Run, but the architect convinced them to build on it. I kind of agreed with the family. People told me Fallingwater was America’s most iconic home, as much a piece of art as a place to live, but in my mind, Proenneke’s cabin—which was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 2007—deserved some consideration, too.

After a quick search, I learned the cabin was maintained by the National Park Service and volunteers and was open to summer visitors. I was bummed you couldn’t sleep there, but still hatched a fanciful plan to make a pilgrimage and, shockingly, made it happen. After some travel nightmares in Philadelphia and a brief meltdown over lost luggage, I wound up in Port Alsworth, a tiny, picturesque depot of cabins on Lake Clark that’s only accessible by boat or plane, about 140 miles west of Anchorage.

My bush pilot, Caleb Alsworth, is the great-grandson of Babe Alsworth—the man who’d often flown Proenneke into the backcountry. We climbed into Babe’s Cessna 180 for my fourth flight in 24 hours, bound for Upper Twin Lake, where I’ll meet up with my guides from Anchorage-based Alaska Alpine Adventures, who’d waived all my fees. Dan Oberlatz, the company’s founder, spent time with Proenneke while working for the NPS and marveled at his ingenuity.

“The guy was meticulous,” Oberlatz recalls. “He made due with what he had out there.”

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one dreaming of a pilgrimage: Oberlatz tells me clients specifically book the Lake Clark trip just for the Proenneke cabin. In July, Rust’s Flying Service, one of Alaska’s largest outback flying services, announced day trips to the cabin from Anchorage. It costs $1,295 for the 90-minute flight and the same amount of time at the cabin. “Over the last couple of years, we found more and more people were asking for it,” says Nicole Alton, Rust’s customer service manager.

Midway through my final flight to the cabin, Caleb shares a little-known Proenneke anecdote: in exchange for flights out of Port Alsworth, Proenneke had built Babe a chicken coop. I vow to follow up when we return later that week.

My guides, Alex and Dom, are cooking dinner for the group when I step onto shore. Proenneke’s cabin was across Hope Creek, which is flowing hard from snowmelt. In the half-light of an Alaskan summer, the creek’s gentle white noise lulls me to sleep.

Proenneke had his sea change in 1965. He was helping a welder pour molten lead into a bearing when it exploded, damaging his eyesight. When he recovered, he decided to quit the “racket” and head to Twin Lakes to “build me a cabin.” He had first visited in 1962, and spent plenty of time there over the years. So, in the summer of 1967, he began cutting spruce logs at Upper Twin Lake. He was in his early 50s when he started and stayed for 30 years. Proenneke never married or had children, and gifted the cabin to the National Park Service in 1999, dying in California in 2003.

A gifted craftsman, Proenneke had an eye for aesthetics you won’t find in most trapper cabins. He realized, in hindsight, that his stone fireplace wasn’t efficient, but it’s a focal point. Nothing was wasted: gas cans became pots and plates, even a snow shovel. He made most tools and repaired them too, having an outsize love for his trusty, sharp ax.

In the morning, we put on waders and paddle kayaks to the cabin, where park ranger Oliver Dunn urges us to stay on the gravel trails Proenneke created decades earlier. Most of the visitors tell Dunn they’d read the Proenneke book; a few of us have a copy in our tents.

“Living in a cabin in Alaska is not what makes Dick’s story unique,” Dunn tells us. “It’s the incredible craftsmanship.”

Opening the tiny Dutch door and stepping into the dark interior, I’m struck by how short the ceiling is. Heat rises, and Proenneke wasn’t tall. No sense heating more than you need. Today, the cabin windows are glass, but Proenneke wound up using mylar sheeting. “He did put in a glass window, but found that in winter it iced up too much, so he switched to plastic,” Dunn says. “He was very practical.”

Monroe Robinson, author of The Handcrafted Life of Dick Proenneke, is the foremost expert on the cabin. He spent nearly 20 years living there and maintaining it for the National Park Service, recreating Proenneke’s tools, like the snow shovel, so real items could be preserved. Robinson, a builder and woodworker, spent time with Proenneke and marveled at his skills. “Most trapper cabins don’t have a rock fireplace. They don’t have a Dutch door with wood hinges,” he tells me. “Dick took pride in his craftsmanship, and it’s evident in those two pieces. He didn’t have anybody holding his hand, either, or anyone to consult with. He had never done stone work before.”

Proenneke used a woodstove for heat and cooking his sourdough biscuits. He had a double bunk. Dunn explains that he probably used the top bunk for storage until winter, when he’d take advantage of rising heat.

Robinson, who first met Proennelke when he hiked into Upper Twin Lake, says he was no recluse and welcomed visitors, even carving walking sticks of various lengths for guests to use. Still, Proenneke enjoyed solitude. He liked when people came to visit,” Robinson says, “and he also liked when they left.”

Dunn takes us to Proenneke’s woodshed, his outhouse, and the tall food cache he built to keep food away from bears. Proenneke fended off at least one grizzly, and there’s still claw marks on the exterior.

Before our brief visit ends, I sit at the writing desk and chair Proenneke built for inspiration. I wonder if I could stay in a place like Twin Lakes forever, like he did, but I already know the answer. I have kids and responsibilities, so my cabin is a dream deferred. I still long for the “small space, set far away” Bro mentioned—but not too far away.

We paddle back to camp after the visit, and I spend the next couple of days taking in the places Proenneke cherished at Twin Lakes. I see black bears, eagles, and a common loon, my favorite bird, on Upper Twin Lake. When we fly back to Port Alsworth, passing over the cabin one last time, I track down Glen Alsworth Jr., Caleb’s dad, to talk about Proenneke and that chicken coop. Everyone, he says, should be inspired by Proenneke, no matter their dream. “Instead of thinking he was too old to do it, he went out and did it,” Alsworth Jr. says. “He followed that dream.”

The chicken coop bears a strong resemblance to Proenneke’s cabin, with split logs painted red and the same sod-and-grass roof. He couldn’t help but make it solid. It’s not historic or art, I suppose, but it might be America’s most iconic chicken coop.

Travel and accommodations for this story were provided by the Alaska Travel Industry Association and Alaska Alpine Adventures.

Top photo by Richard Proenneke, courtesy National Park Service.

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