Return to Wake Robin Read online

  Return to Wake Robin

  The memories float back to me

  In the cool scent of water on the breeze

  In the shadows and sifting sunlight on the lake bottom sand

  In the sound of the waves as they softly kiss the shore

  In the rhythmic ping of a sailboat’s bobbing

  In the whisper of the wind through the pines

  In the call of a loon’s lonely lyrics

  In the white, sunlit feathers of an eagle’s flight

  These are those memories …

  Published by the Wisconsin Historical Society Press

  Publishers since 1855

  © 2012 by Marnie O. Mamminga

  E-book edition 2012

  For permission to reuse material from Return to Wake Robin (ISBN 978-0-87020-491-3, e-book ISBN 978-0-87020-595-8), please access www.copyright.com or contact the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. (CCC), 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, 978-750-8400. CCC is a not-for-profit organization that provides licenses and registration for a variety of users.

  wisconsinhistory.org

  All photos are from the Oatman family collection unless otherwise indicated.

  ADDITIONAL PHOTOS:

  Page iii, the author enjoying a quiet moment, with writing pad and pencil, during her birthday picnic at No-Pi-Ming, circa 1955; page v: trillium illustration, from Dictionary of Gardening, vol. 4, 1951; page vii, Moody’s Camp, circa 1920s and ’30s: a fleet of wooden rowboats used for fishing or pleasure waits at the camp’s boat dock along the north shore of Big Spider Lake; page viii, Spider Chain of Lakes map, 1965, courtesy of Dick Seitz; page 185, the author and her mother, circa 1955; page 186, the author, 2011.

  16 15 14 13 12 1 2 3 4 5

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

  Mamminga, Marnie O.

  Return to Wake Robin : one cabin in the heyday of Northwoods Resorts / Marnie O. Mamminga.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-87020-491-3 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Camps—Wisconsin—History. 2. Resorts—Wisconsin—History. I. Title.

  GV194.W6M35 2012

  796.5409775—dc23

  2011030177

  To

  My sons

  John, Bob, and Tom

  For sharing their kind and joyful spirits

  My daughters-in-law

  Lara and Jennifer

  For embracing the lake, the cabin, and us

  My grandchildren

  Lily, Amber, Joy, Elena, Ryan, and those to come …

  That their happy hearts might know the story

  But especially

  To Dave

  Sweetheart, buddy, husband—

  For believing in me

  Contents

  Preface ix

  Prologue xiii

  Passing the Torch 1

  Ted and Myrtle Moody Create Their Camp

  1922–1955 5

  Erle T. Oatman Rediscovers an Old Friend

  1922–1938 13

  Clara and the Cabin She Designed

  1923–1957 21

  Sourdough Sam Sails On

  1923–1975 31

  Wake Robin Welcomes Woody

  1938–2008 41

  Heading Up North: A Journey in Five Acts

  Circa 1959 55

  Moody’s Camp Changes Hands

  The Dick and Lucile Seitz Era, 1955–1967 79

  The Lodge Beckons

  1923–1967 89

  The Fishing Guides Cast Their Charms

  1940s–1960s 99

  The Square Dance

  A Song of Summer, Circa 1959 121

  Dock Day Delight

  1920s–1960s 129

  Bring on the Rain

  1950s–1960s 139

  Cabin Girls Catch the Cleaning Spirit

  1964 145

  Born to a Northwoods Birthday

  August 15, 1949 155

  Romance in the Woods

  A Summer Sweetheart Finally Arrives, 1965 165

  Lake Lights 173

  Leaving the Lake 177

  Epilogue 179

  Preface

  The log cabins are disappearing.

  The camps are nearly gone as well. Like the early morning mist slowly vaporizing on the water, so, too, have vanished the ribbed wooden rowboats, the sound of squeaking oar locks, the red-and-white bobbers bobbing off lines at sunset, the call of square dances, the warm glow of kerosene lanterns, the putzing purr of 3-horsepower motors, the ring of the lodge bell, the combined laughter of chore boys and cabin girls.

  The remaining relics symbolic of this era, these quaint log cabins are swiftly being replaced by large, suburban-style homes along the shorelines of Northwoods lakes. Sadly, with these teardowns a valuable history of a time, place, and culture is vanishing.

  Return to Wake Robin is a series of vignettes reflecting on the golden years of Northwoods resorts through the history of one camp and cabin from the 1920s through the 1960s: my family’s 1929 log cabin, Wake Robin, and the former neighboring resort, Moody’s Camp, both located on Big Spider Lake—part of a chain of five lakes connected by beguiling thoroughfares—near Hayward, Wisconsin. This time frame represents the historical high point of camps and cabins, sandwiched between the turn-of-the-last-century logging era and the 1970s right-angle turn toward modernized lake homes, condo associations, and Jet Skis.

  By all accounts, the 1920s through 1960s was a time vacationers went to the woods because it was different from home and offered a change from the urban lifestyle. Through these more primitive log camps and cabins, life became freer and less restrictive. These retreats were the essence of simplicity. Like Thoreau, all one needed were the basics and a boat.

  Covering a broad range of topics, these essays focus on representative elements of life in the Northwoods: the fishing guides, resort owners, square dances, camp and cabin activities. They follow a chronological pattern from the beginning of Moody’s Camp in the 1920s to the late 1960s, when the second owners, the Seitzes, sold the resort and the camp community basically ended. A collection of vintage photos provides visual documentation of this world.

  A vintage postcard offers an aerial view of Big Spider and its connecting chain of lakes.

  The people and events I chose to highlight in Return to Wake Robin are representative of the interwoven history shared by Wake Robin and Moody’s Camp. Founded in the early 1920s by Ted Moody, a local legend and early Northwoods entrepreneur, Moody’s Camp was a destination for many Midwesterners seeking the clear air, pristine water, and rejuvenating beauty of the Northwoods. The juxtaposition of the camp’s rustic simplicity with its elegant charms lured a host of eager vacationers to the resort’s stunning shoreline, great fishing, and scrumptious meals graciously served three times a day.

  My grandparents, Erle and Clara Oatman, like many of the 1920s era, were two of those from Illinois who were smitten with their initial discovery of the Northwoods and all that it had to offer. Having chanced upon Moody’s Camp around 1924 while vacationing nearby, they soon started spending summer vacations there. It didn’t take them long to fall in love with the lake and develop a close friendship with Ted and Myrtle Moody. And so, in a move to put down permanent roots, my grandparents decided to construct their own log cabin on the first available land next door to the resort.

  The main lodge of Moody’s Camp with its charming garden, circa 1930s, was a gathering place for guests as well as neighbors.

  In 1929 Wake Robin was built. Christened after the common name for the wildflower trillium that carpets the surrounding woodland from May to early June, its simple log-cabin charms and screened porch have now been enjoyed by five generations. Eighty-three years later little has changed. Tod
ay it stands as one of the last remnants on Big Spider Lake representing that period of Northwoods history.

  To write these essays, I drew from my sixty-two years of memories and observations of life on the lake. I also interviewed those I grew up with who lived this era and helped shape my memories, including a former fishing guide, one of the resort’s owners, and my family and friends. Special gratitude goes out to: my parents, Dave and Woody Oatman, for their fine love of history and storytelling; my siblings, Nancy, David, Tom, and Mary, for their perseverance and grace on our life journey together, and for sharing the Oatman shoebox archives; my husband, Dave, for his devoted appreciation of the Northwoods and for serving as enthusiastic first reader of my manuscript; my sons John, Bob, and Tom and my daughters-in-law Lara and Jennifer for their continual interest and encouragement; Dick Seitz and the entire Seitz family for photos and details; Franklin and Vera Hobart for their wonderful Northwoods album; and lifelong lake friends—the Mraz, Perrine, Hines, Halfvarson, Seehuetter, Wahl, and Wedding families—for their delightful reminiscing over the years. Grateful appreciation also goes out to the entire staff at the Wisconsin Historical Society Press, especially Kate Thompson and my excellent editor Laura Kearney.

  This circa 1929 photo shows Wake Robin shortly after it was completed. My father helped gather the rocks for the fieldstone fireplace, which were then individually hand chiseled by a local mason. The tamarack logs were also hand hewed and chinked, with the cornices staggered in length.

  Collectively, these remembrances and photos symbolize a culture in the heyday of its charms. In writing these vignettes, I sought not only to offer a prototype of a vanishing time and place but to speak to the depth of spirit, beloved by many, that emanated from the Northwoods during this period. My hope is that Return to Wake Robin will ring true for all those who lived this era and also offer a glimpse of a treasured time for those who did not.

  —Marnie Oatman Mamminga

  Prologue

  Sleek and silent, he sailed through the morning mist. Only the whir of his wings whispered through the still air above the shadowed, sleeping forest. His elegant, powerful body rode the rosy rays of a rising sunrise like a swift spirit sent from heaven. His journey had been long and arduous, but he knew where he was headed. He pushed onward.

  Suddenly, he sensed he was almost there. The song of his soul joyfully broke the cool quiet in an undulating wave of ancient melody. He circled only once, then floated down through the silver mist to the water below. Spotting the islands he was looking for, he stretched his wings, banked to the left and with effortless ease glided onto the still lake, leaving just a hint of a rippled wake.

  In a sweet lyrical hymn, the loon sang out his welcoming call. Across the bay, another echoed his greeting.

  A loon on Big Spider Lake

  Passing the Torch

  “This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming … each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.”

  —John Muir

  Summer 1964, a Northwoods Lake

  “Get up! Get up!” my mother whispers.

  My eyes flash open. Confusion clouds my brain. Where am I? Is something wrong? I quickly look around.

  I’m sandwiched between frayed woolen blankets and the sagging mattress of an old metal bed on the porch of our family log cabin. Looking almost exactly as it did when my grandparents built it in 1929, it sits high on a hill surrounded by the pine-and-musty fragrance of the woods.

  Through sleepy eyelids I take in the green porch swing, the birch-legged table, and the smoky glass of the kerosene lantern reflecting the stillness of the lake below.

  Having escaped the steamy cornland of my home for a few summer weeks, I believe I’m in heaven on earth. My face luxuriates in the coolness of the early morning air. I relax and curl deeper beneath the blankets’ warmth.

  “Get up!” my mother’s voice whispers again. “You must come now. The sunrise is simply glorious!”

  The sunrise? Get up to see the sunrise? Who’s she kidding? The last thing this fourteen-year-old wants to do is leave a warm bed to go see a sunrise, glorious or otherwise. It’s 5:00 a.m. and it’s freezing out there.

  “Hurry!” my mother urges.

  Being careful not to let the screen door slam, she sets off down the forty-nine log steps at a determined rate of speed to the lake below.

  In the twin bed opposite me, my seventeen-year-old sister Nancy stirs. She pushes back the covers and plops to the floor. Not to be outdone, I make a supreme effort and struggle out of bed as well. In our thin cotton nighties, we grab our father’s World War II pea-green army blankets from the ends of our beds and wrap them tightly around our shoulders.

  As our bare feet touch the cold porch floor, we are thunderbolted awake. Our pace quickens. One of us misses catching the screen door. It slams. Like a couple of water bugs hopscotching across the lake to avoid fish jaws, we gingerly pick our way over slippery rocks and prickly pine needles down the forty-nine dew-covered log steps to the shore.

  When we feel we’ve saved our feet from any horny toads or big black spiders that might be crazy enough to be up this early, we catch our breath and look up. Our mother’s silhouette is outlined against a golden dawn, the first light catching the soft red of her hair. She is right. It is a glorious sunrise.

  Across the lake a sliver of the most splendid red crests the top of the shadowed forest. Hues of lavender, rose, and amber begin to pulsate into the sky like a kaleidoscope. High above in the pale blueness, a lone star still sparkles. Silver mist rises gently from the smoothness of the lake. All is still. In the sacred silence, my mother, sister, and I stand reverently together against a backdrop of tall pine and watch the magic of dawn unfold.

  Suddenly the curve of a brilliant sun bursts through the dark forest. The world begins to awaken. We watch a blue heron lift up from a distant shore and gently fan its way over the still waters. Two ducks make a rippled landing near our dock while a black-and-white beauty—a loon—skims along the edge of a nearby island hunting for its morning meal.

  Breathing in the chill air, the three of us draw our blankets closer. The gentle hues of the sunrise turn into the brightness of a new day and the last star fades. My sister and I take one more look, race up the steps, and jump into our beds to grab a few more hours of sleep.

  My mother is more reluctant to leave the sunrise’s amphitheater. From the renewed warmth of my bed, it is a while longer before I hear her reach the top step and gently close the porch door.

  Summer 1994, a Northwoods Lake

  “Get up! Get up!” I whisper to my adolescent sons sleeping dreamily in the same old metal beds of our family cabin’s porch.

  “Come see the sunrise! It’s awesome!”

  Wake Robin’s porch screen door, bathed in the warm light of an early morning sunrise, late 1990s

  Amazingly, I watch as my fourth-generation cabin snoozers rouse themselves from their slumber. They snatch the World War II pea-green army blankets from the ends of their beds and stumble out the porch door. It slams. Gingerly they maneuver slippery rocks and prickly pine needles down forty-nine dew-covered log steps to the lakeshore.

  Their seventy-four-year-old grandmother is already there. Her red hair, now streaked with white, reflects the first light.

  She greets her grandsons with a quiet smile, gathers her blanket closer, and turns toward the east to observe once again the magic of dawn unfold.

  My sons’ faces watch intently as the rich colors of the sunrise soar into the sky like the radiant plumage of a mystical bird. It isn’t long before the flap of a blue heron’s wing and the melodic call of a loon awaken the lake with activity.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” I whisper.

  The boys nod in silent agreement. Their grandmother smiles at them. Before long, they grab the tails of their frayed blankets and race back up th
e steps to the welcome coziness of their beds.

  My mother and I stay a little longer. Standing close, we watch the swirls of pearl mist rise and the sky bloom into the shades of a morning rose. We are rewarded this day by the graceful glide of an eagle high overhead. The gentle rays of the early sun warm our faces.

  Eventually, we turn to begin our slow climb up the old log stairs. Half way up I catch my breath and look back to see how my mother is doing. But she is not there. She has changed her mind. Through the treetops I can see her, still on the lakeshore, lingering in the light.

  Ted and Myrtle Moody Create Their Camp

  1922–1955

  “Here there is no time.”

  Ted Moody was a presence.

  Whether it was his size or his personality, you always knew when he was around. And over the years, that presence evolved into a legend.

  Like the black bears that roam the northern woods of Wisconsin, Ted’s tall stature and ample girth were impressive. The charismatic Swede also had charm—and the humor to match.

  As the founder of Moody’s Camp, established in 1922–1923, he figures largely into the development of Big Spider Lake’s north shore, the surrounding private cabins, local tourism, and the sport of fishing. Along with his lovely wife, Myrtle, the two offered their clients as delightful and gracious a resort as anywhere in the Northwoods.

  Due to health problems caused by breathing in car fumes while working as an in-demand mechanic in an Elgin, Illinois, auto garage, Ted was told he didn’t have long to live. (He enjoyed a tall tale, and this might be one of them. It’s peppered with the drama that Ted loved.)