Sam Campbell

PHILOSOPHER OF THE FOREST

by Shandelle Marie Henson

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

© 2000 by Three Lakes Historical Society

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

Shandelle M. Henson

Acknowledgements

I wrote this book over a period of several years while in graduate school. There were times when I doubted it would ever be completed. I wish to thank all of those whose help and encouragment motivated me to finish this manuscript.

When I first decided to research the life of Sam Campbell, I called the home of his friend Sigurd Olson in Ely, Minnesota. I didn't realize Mr. Olson had recently passed away, but his wife Elizabeth Olson graciously answered my questions and suggested I call Walter Goldsworthy of Three Lakes, Wisconsin.

When I contacted Walt Goldsworthy, I realized I had hit the jackpot of Sam Campbell information and enthusiasm! John "Walt" Goldsworthy is administrator of the Three Lakes Museum and one of the founders of the Three Lakes Historical Society. He is also a writer, philosopher, environmentalist, and former forest service naturalist. In the tradition of Sam Campbell, he has been a wise mentor for many young people, and is the prime motivator behind most of the major community projects launched in the Three Lakes area. "Uncle Walt" was a friend of Sam Campbell's during Sam's later years. He, along with Jean Brewster, have contributed the bulk of the information in this book. Without Uncle Walt, I would have never started this book, and certainly would have never finished it!

Walt Goldsworthy introduced me to Jean Cunningham Brewster of Three Lakes. Jean grew up around Sam Campbell, who had been "adopted" by the Cunninghams as part of the family. Jean and her sister Beth appeared in Sam's books as the composite character "June." Sam always described June as a beautiful, dark-haired, athletic girl. I first met Jean Brewster when Michael J. Battistone and I attended the dedication of the Sam Campbell Memorial Trail Complex in Three Lakes on June 29, 1989. I immediately knew who she was without even being introduced. She is a dark-eyed, beautiful, energetic lady--just the way I had pictured a grown-up June. She warmly and graciously answered our questions, and has added a host of details from her tremendous memory.

I also wish to thank Doris Goldsworthy for her help with historical details, her excellent proof reading, and her hospitality. Norman Brewster also helped with historical details and contributed anecdotes. Doris and Walt Goldsworthy, and Jean and Norm Brewster read the manuscript, as did my parents John and Audrey Henson, and my friend David Banks.

Michael J. Battistone helped with the initial research and wrote part of Chapter One (see Appendix One). He generated a lot of the early enthusiasm for the project.

Further thanks are due to the Three Lakes Historical Society, The Watseka Historical Society, Evelyn Frandsen, Robert Gentry, Norman Hallock, Jan Haluska, Judy Hanson, Henry Haskell, H. Lyle Hinz, Dorothy Hoelter, Doug Jordan, Diedre Kieckhefer, Robert M. Kieckhefer, Doris and George Koller, Betty Lamon, Ralph Leatzow, Art Meyers, Violet Olkowski, Elizabeth Olson, Sigurd T. Olson, Jr., Jim Pascoe, Gertrude Puelicher, John Sanstead, Janet Wolfe, and Ruth Yeager; also to Julie du Mars and Constance Wilson, archivists at The First Church of Christ, Scientist in Boston, and to many others.

The photographs are courtesy of Jean Brewster and the Three Lakes Museum. The origin of a few of the photographs is unknown; I regret any cases in which I have been unable to give proper credit.

I have endeavored to blend the sometimes conflicting written records and oral accounts into a factual life story. I regret any errors.

Introduction

My parents were students at Collegedale Academy and Southern Missionary College in Collegedale, Tennessee during the late 1940's and early 1950's. Like many young people of the day, they became acquainted with Sam Campbell through their school's lyceum programs. Sam Campbell was a favorite on the lecture circuit all over the country. He would come to speak on conservation and narrate his interesting and often hilarious movies of north woods animal life.

My parents bought our family's first Sam Campbell books in 1969. They were the green hardcover first editions published by Bobbs-Merrill Company. I was too young to enjoy the books, and they sat on our bookshelves by the fireplace, patiently waiting.

When I was a few years older, WSMC-FM, the local radio station, hosted a children's program every Sunday night called "Just For Kids." Joyce Dick, who was later my high school English teacher, did an excellent job reading children's books for this program. Her renditions of Sam Campbell's stories especially stirred my imagination, and before long I discovered the exciting green books by the fireplace.

At first I read the books for their story content, and skipped over the descriptive prose and philosophy. I loved the books so much, however, that I read them over and over, each time reading more of the "boring" parts. These passages had a profound influence on my young mind. By the time I reached the seventh grade, I had become sensitive to the beauty of nature, I had a deep interest in philosophy and spiritual matters, and I was already a conservationist.

I also had a severe case of wanderlust. Sam wrote in one of his books that as a youngster, he sometimes became literally ill with his desire for wilderness. I knew exactly what he meant! I longed for backpacking and canoeing trips; I dreamed of far-off places like Lake Louise, the Grand Canyon, and Canadian canoe country. I fretted to see panthers, moose, beaver, and river otters in the wild. Sometimes as a child, I too felt quite ill with these longings.

A childhood friend named Greg Phillips was also a big Sam Campbell fan. He and I used to quote long passages of the books by memory, and interminably go through that crazy "Squoip" routine from A Tippy Canoe and Canada Too. We ordered maps from Minnesota's Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness and pored over them for hours, retracing Sam Campbell's routes through the maze of lakes. We were determined to locate the mysterious "Sanctuary Lake" and go there someday. Greg and I carefully planned many canoe trips to the area, but we were too young to do more than dream.

As a young adult, I suddenly realized I was at last in a position to begin indulging my dreams of wilderness. Since then, I have spent nearly every spare moment backpacking or hiking. I was finally able to make those long-anticipated canoe trips into Boundary Waters!

In June of 1989, I camped for a week with two friends on the north shore of Four Mile Lake near Three Lakes, Wisconsin. This campsite, now in Nicolet National Forest, at one time lay in Campbell's Sanctuary of Wegimind. We could see Sam Campbell's island from our camp! We met many friends of the Campbells', and visited all the special places familiar to Campbell readers such as Vanishing Lake, Four Mile Creek, and Franklin Lake. Two years later, I returned to Three Lakes to do some more research. Incidentally, throughout all the excitement of these trips, one general impression has remained in my mind. I had been warned not to be disappointed when the places described in Sam Campbell's books turned out to be different from the way I imagined them. The startling thing is that the places look very much like what I have imagined for all these years!

Sam Campbell, naturalist, lecturer, photographer, author and philosopher, was one of the early pioneers in the environmental movement. Campbell's unique approach to conservation was two-fold. First, it was grounded in a philosophy of absolute values. I'll say more about this in a moment. Second, his efforts were aimed at educating and entertaining people (especially children) in hopes of raising their consciousness. Sam Campbell respected the emerging breed of politically active conservationists, and acknowledged a great need for them. However, he found that his own personality was much better suited to low-key, friendly efforts to help people appreciate nature and thus lift their thoughts to more lofty values.

A secular reader may be surprised by the spiritual themes in this story. To understand Sam Campbell, it is essential to recognize that his whole life, including his dedication to conservation, was consistently based on the absolutes of his beliefs about God. Today it is no longer fashionable for forward-thinking people to put their arguments on spiritual foundations. Environmentalists have strong feelings about the morality of protecting the earth, but our arguments are often reduced to pragmatism and utilitarianism. In this account of Campbell's life, I have tried to be faithful to his philosophy as I understand it.

Sam Campbell wrote twelve story books which are still reprinted by Pacific Press Publishing Association of Boise, Idaho. Lesser known are his first book The Conquest of Grief and his collection of essays Nature's Messages. He also wrote many freelance articles and essays, some of which have been compiled in various sources.

This is the story of Sam Campbell's life, not a comprehensive biography. There is, however, an appendix for each chapter. These appendices (1) separate the chapter's facts from speculation or mere fictional story devices; (2) acknowledge the sources and references for the chapter; and (3) give additional information of interest. I welcome any corrections, comments, and information from readers. Please send correspondence to:

I have not attempted to detail those years of Sam Campbell's life which are well known to his readers through the twelve story books. Instead, I have concentrated on his early life and on those forces which formed him into the well-loved character known to millions as "The Philosopher of the Forest."

Sam Campbell died unexpectedly in 1962, two years before I was born. He influenced my life only through his books. A set of twelve story books may seem a small thing, but it is impossible to overestimate the influence Sam Campbell had on my life. He taught me to value faith, the Still Small Voice, solitude, wilderness, and friendship. I have met hundreds of others, from grade school children to the very elderly, who have been similarly enriched. How we thank God for the humble, joyful, hilarious naturalist, his pet animals, and his wonderful books!

Foreword


Sam Campbell, the "Philosopher of the Forest," was a legend of the North Country. Once met, he was never forgotten, for he was a fountain of inspiration and buoyant enthusiasm. He enriched and inspired man's appreciation for the power and glory of God manifested in all of creation.

I first met Sam some 40 years ago in 1948. I have never forgotten the moment.

It was an evening in early December. The Three Lakes Rotary Club was gathered to present him with a new toboggan to haul supplies from the mainland to his island home.

Snowflakes drifted inÊ behind him as he entered the lighted hall where he was to be special guest of the evening dinner. A red Hudson Bay jacket and a fur cap accented his ruddy face wreathed in smiles of happiness as he greeted old friends.

I was a new comer. We had never met. He took my hand, and the firmness of his grip assured me here indeed was a fellow lover of the great outdoors. There was an aura of almost mystical charm about Sam, an inspiring, joyful nature that captivated his listeners as he shared their companionship.

Over the years, as our acquaintanceship grew and developed into deeper friendship, many new avenues into the realm of nature opened up to me. Heretofore my value of nature had been more utilitarian -- that of the hunter and trapper. I was a challenger of the natural law and oftentimes the civil law that attempted to favor the creatures of the forest.

Sam taught me compassion for the lesser creatures of creation. He led me to realize that the forest was, as Bryant has said, "God's ancient sanctuaries;" and that in the halls of these verdant temples, the soul of man is refreshed, and a thinking man is filled with wonderment.

Because of Sam, I came to be conscious of the depths of creation, for Sam once wrote, "What more fitting place to worship than the forest where there is such multiform evidence of Him whose name is Love!" I came to learn that here in the depths of these ancient cathedrals, all life moves to laws not of its own, but to those which attest to the infinite power and intelligence of the Creator of all.

Sam fostered within me a richer appreciation for the fog-filled sunrises along these northern waterways, the haunting cries of loons, the glow of a campfire, the calls of owls, music of the coyotes, the splash of beaver in the nighttime waters. Each took on a mantle of spiritual refreshment as the years unfolded. From Sam I learned of the stellar constellation Capella, "Queen of the North." Sam called her the guardian of the wilderness nights, for Capella never sets, but circles the northern skies. My moments as a sojourner in far places are always brightened when I seek out the friendly glitter of this Queen.

The doors of wilderness joy and wisdom which Sam opened for me, he opened for millions of others who were exposed to his films, lectures and books.

Now, as I have lived my three score and ten years and have embarked on the four score mark of time, I can only hope and pray that all those who come to walk the Sam Campbell Trail Complex which winds through the timbered highlands north of Four Mile Lake, the locale of Sam's Island home Wegimind, will catch that golden spirit of Sam's philosophy as they explore the shadowy avenues of the virgin forest and catch the enchantment of Vanishing Lake, that jewel of Sam Campbell Country.

Katherine "Kittie" Campbell dozed in the shade of an ancient White Pine, her back against its enormous trunk. Bees buzzed in and out of nearby flowers. A family of ducks splashed and dove near the shore of the sky blue waters of Four Mile Lake. A gentle breeze strummed the tops of the trees. The tranquility and laziness of the northwoods summer flowed through her being in a healing flood, soothing away the cares of the city far away. Her pulse slowed; the unnatural race of Chicago life ebbed in her veins as her heart adopted the measured rhythm of the vast forest around her.

Sam and his brother had been the first to introduce this region of northern Wisconsin to the family. They had visited in the summer of 1909, when Sam was 14 years old. Their Uncle Bill Sloan of Chicago, who knew the area, had taken the boys by train to the northwoods for a camping trip. Sam later wrote that he felt he had "someway slipped into Heaven. The far-flung forests, the myriad lakes, the rushing streams and particularly the animal life, all added up to a dream come true."

Sam and his brother Don soon had to return to school in the city, but for many months they talked almost constantly about their wondrous adventures in the northwoods! Their electric enthusiasm for that far off paradise crackled and sparked daily through the classrooms and halls of school, and in the Campbell home. In order to keep the peace, their parents had to make many vague promises that, yes, maybe they could go up there "some day."

Actually, Sam's parents were interested in going to the northwoods for a camping trip. Kittie and her husband Arthur, whom everyone called "Dad," were great nature enthusiasts. They loved to camp, hike, fish and canoe, and taught their children to enjoy these sports. Kittie, especially, loved the wilderness and seemed to actually be a part of it. It was because of this affinity that young Sam began calling her Wegimind, the Ojibway Indian word for "mother."

When Sam's Grandfather Lyman died in March of 1912, the Campbell family, often accompanied by the Sloans, began spending their summers camping in this area of northern Wisconsin, near the logging settlement called Three Lakes.

Their favorite camping spot was on the remote shores of a medium sized, clear lake known as Four Mile Lake. The Campbells with their three children Don, Sam, and Lucille would ride the train from Chicago on the Chicago and Northwestern Railway each summer to Three Lakes. After buying supplies in town and greeting old friends, they would have someone drive them as far as the roads permitted towards their camp site. At the roads' end, a mile or so of water still separated them from their camp in the stand of virgin timber on the east shore of Four Mile Lake. They would traverse this exciting last leg of their journey by rowboat.

Sam was by now in his late teens, a rather bowlegged, stocky youth of great strength. Although he stood only about 5'4" tall, no one thought of him as short because he had a charisma about him of capability and gentle strength. His brown hair framed a rugged, square-jawed face, with thick dark brows that accented a pair of remarkably bright blue-gray eyes. His mouth was usually set in a big friendly smile which revealed a row of perfect white teeth.

Kittie opened her eyes at the sound of youthful laughter coming from the direction of camp. She smiled to herself as she recognized Sam's enthusiastic voice. She was glad to see him so relaxed and happy. Sometimes, during the long city winters, she grew worried about her younger son. He would sit for hours and read philosophy, poetry, and tales of untamed wilderness. Don loved the outdoors, too, but he was a practical, thoroughly conventional boy. Sam, on the other hand, brooded so much over these books about unspoiled wild places that he sometimes became physically ill with his intense longing to go there. Of course, Kittie loved Don dearly, but she understood her son Sam; they were so very much alike. Perhaps this knowledge was what worried Kittie most of all.

As Kittie approached the canvas tent and the stone fireplace, she heard Sam telling Don, "Ha, you should have seen it! James and I tracked that deer for two miles before I suddenly caught sight of him feeding in a small clearing! I was sighting down the barrel, when all of the sudden there was this snorting sound off to one side in the trees, and the buck jerked up his head to run! I held my breath and squeezed the trigger. Of course, all of this happened almost at once! Anyway, I couldn't believe it, the buck fell! I've never seen such a..." As Sam saw his mother his voice trailed away into a guilty silence.

Sam felt a stab of intense pain at the sad expression which passed involuntarily over his mother's face. He knew how she felt about hunting and trapping, about killing anything. It hurt Kittie Campbell deeply to see any creature in pain. The rest of her family didn't quite understand this extreme twist to sweet Wegimind's personality. Her father had been a hunter and trapper as well as a farmer, and her husband and boys hunted for sport. Sam had thought nothing of joining his pal James, a boy from the village, in a hunting expedition.

Kittie had always tried to keep her opinions on the subject from being abrasive to others, for she realized that to most people of her time, killing animals for food and sport was simply a way of life, part of normal culture. She recognized in Sam, however, the deep tenderness and sensitivity of her own personality. She wondered how he would eventually deal with these traits.

Don surveyed the tension in the air, and conveniently headed down to the lake to scoop up a pail of fresh drinking water. When they were alone, Sam looked at his mother but said nothing. They were unusually close, always sharing every joy and disappointment with each other, laughing together, simply enjoying each other's company; but now Sam stood silent.

Kittie smiled understandingly at her downcast son, put her slender arm around his waist, and hugged him close. "Oh, Sam, it's ok. Go ahead and have your boyish fun out in the woods hunting. Have a good time. There may come a day when you will no longer wish to hunt, but you shouldn't stop just because I don't care for the sport myself. It takes a lot of time and maturity to know oneself, Sam."

She looked into the eyes of her son, her normally teasing, joyous demeanor suddenly serious. "And Sam, when you finally come to know your own unique philosophy of life, then conduct your life as though you were the model after which all mankind is sculptured."

She smiled again and gave him a little push. "Now, quit lollygaggin', and go get some wood for tonight's cooking fire. We're having good old beans, so they'll need to cook for a while. And how about playing your guitar after supper so we can sing around the campfire?"

Sam smiled back gratefully, and turned with a lighter heart to the forest to look for downed wood.

The cold wind howled in off Lake Michigan with a bone-piercing cold. The sky hung heavy with dark gray clouds. Tiny snowflakes, driven before the blast, whirled with the dust and bits of trash down the dirty city streets.

Sam sat at his writing desk, worriedly watching his mother as she stood, pensively looking out the window at the dreary Chicago afternoon. Was it his imagination, or had Mom seemed tired and thin lately? Was she doing too much for others? Almost every day, some poor soul needing food, advice, or solace would come to her door. She never turned them away without help.

That's all, she is just tired, Sam told himself. I'll try to help her more, do more of the housework. Surely when spring comes and we go north, the woods will revive her.

Dad and Don worked long hours every day at Chicago's Sloan Valve Company, which was owned and managed by Sam's "Uncle Bill," William Sloan. Sam had taught guitar, banjo, and mandolin lessons from his own studio on Michigan Avenue, and for a time had sold industrial real estate. Lately, he had stayed home much of the time with his mother and worked on his writing.

Sam's last years of high school had been difficult. He wasn't interested in business, or law, or trades, or any of the careers his friends had decided to pursue. When he imagined himself cooped up day after day in some dark, dingy office or plant, his whole being rebelled; he became sick to his stomach, and sometimes actually ill. He attended Northwestern University and the University of Chicago for a while. He tried selling real estate, and even taught music. It was rewarding and a great deal of fun, but wasn't satisfying. He wanted to be outdoors, devoting all of his time and talent to nature study.

Teachers and friends tried time and again to advise Sam that life is composed mostly of unpleasant work, not relaxing romps in the woods. He felt trapped; he knew intuitively that giving in to these practical demands would somehow pronounce a death sentence on his soul.

Sam considered going back to Watseka to be a farmer like his grandfather, and his grandfather's grandfather. That would be better; at least he could be outside most of the time. But it wasn't really what he wanted. The flat midwestern farmland simply did not convey the mystery of the forests of the north.

Of course, he could be really adventurous and go out west, or to the Yukon to look for gold. But no, that was not what he wanted. It was appealing to think about, but Sam knew he could never be so far from his beloved family.

The one option Sam could imagine was to become a writer. He could go on wilderness outings and then write about them. What a perfect life! And so, Sam had begun to write up the adventures he had during his summers in the north woods. Several of his articles were published in various outdoor magazines, and although Sam was proud and delighted, he was beginning to really worry about the future. He was in his twenties, without a real career, and still living at home. He simply wasn't making nearly enough money to live on his own, and he was becoming embarrassed about letting Don and Dad help support him.

"Mom." Sam pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. "Please go lie down and rest. I'll finish dusting the furniture."

"I'm OK," Kittie assured him. "I was just thinking about poor Mrs. Helfrich down the street. Her husband just passed away, you know, and now she has to run the store as well as raise those two girls alone." The sympathetic pain in her eyes turned suddenly to a mischievous gleam as she regarded Sam. "By the way, Sam, I told her you'd be calling on her daughter Sarah. She's a nice girl, very domestic and delicate. It would be lovely if you married her, because your great-grandfather's wife's name was Sarah, too..."

Kittie began to laugh uproariously as she saw the frustration flood Sam's handsome young face. "Mother," he sputtered, "You know I'm not interested in getting married! Sarah is a nice girl, I remember her from grammar school, but she would want to be in the house all the time! She wouldn't go canoeing or hiking; she'd say it was unladylike! I..." He paused as he realized his mother was teasing, and laughed sheepishly. "Mother!"

At this moment the door slammed shut behind Dad and Don as they came in from work. Dad was singing at the top of his lungs and Don was grinning as he beat time on his leg to the music. Kittie's face lit up at the sight of her husband and older son, and she began at once to spread supper on the round oak table.

Disengaging himself momentarily from the happy chatter around the supper table, Sam glanced at Wegimind. She was laughing and talking animatedly. Perhaps she wasn't paler than usual. Surely she was all right. Oh, of course she was! With renewed assurance in his heart, Sam joined in the discussion with enthusiasm; and the happy family sat there in the unbroken circle, talking and joking until long after the food had disappeared.

The golden rays of the early morning sun slanted through the sitting room window in dusty shafts, warming Sam's back as he sat at his writing desk. Smells of baking buttermilk biscuits and frying bacon drifted in from the kitchen, pleasantly teasing his empty stomach.

Sam heard footsteps. Before turning, he typed the date, June 17, 1927, on the cover letter for the article he had just finished.

Sam looked up. The doctor with his black bag soberly emerged from Mother's room and closed the door behind him. Dad and Don rose from the sofa, and Lucille came into the sitting room from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

Sam knew in his heart that everything would be fine; Mom would be her old self again in a few days. Even though she was ill, she had seemed cheerful, happy, and serene. True, she had made a few attempts to speak to Sam about the possibility of her death, but Sam had immediately shushed these conversations with, "Oh, Mom, you'll be fine."

The doctor stepped up to Sam's father and stood regarding his old friend for a moment. "I'm sorry, Art. Kittie is dead."

Sam stood for a moment, unbelieving. Everything in his world disappeared; time stopped. He stood alone in a vast dark space, alone except for the beloved presence in the other room. He walked in a dream towards the bedroom door. Every step in the enormous darkness rang hideously in his ears, like a hammer on steel. He opened the door. The whining of the hinges as it swung open threatened to burst his eardrums. He looked down where his mother lay. Suddenly, he was alone, terribly alone, in the vast dark space, standing beside the bed. He did not know the person, or thing, on the bed. It was not Wegimind. Wegimind was gone, and with her, half of his soul.

He turned to flee the dark cavern with its horrible bed, but as he ran, the darkness stretched on and on.

Dad watched numbly as his younger son ran from the house. Even in his own shocked state, he felt himself worry about Sam. The young man had the capacity to hurt so deeply, and this was his first personal experience with death. How would he deal with the loss of his mother, whom he adored and idolized so much?

Sam ran until his breath was ragged and gasping. As he slowed to a walk, he began to recognize the streets and buildings around him. They looked different, somehow -- as though he were seeing them through the eyes of a stranger. He was the stranger. Was he Sam Campbell? He felt different, the same but different, like an evil twin.

Evil, he thought. That's what causes death. I have seen evil face to face. His carefree and joyous spirit seemed to have been wiped away by the darkness, and his being filled with black bitterness and despair. Ugly emotions which had been mere abstractions for him until now suddenly appeared as intimate pieces of his soul. At his shocked recognition, they mocked him.

Some time later, Sam turned back toward the house. His heart was a cold weight in his chest. He knew what he must do. He had been deceived, Wegimind had been deceived. Life was not a happy, cheerful game. It was not the delicate scent of spring flowers, or the waters of a pristine lake sparkling in the summer sun. These were the pretty wrappings on the gift, but when the wrappings were happily torn away and the box opened, it was full of moldering decay and demonic laughter.

Sam knew he could not live in such a world. There was, after all his struggling to find his purpose in life, no purpose in life. He would refuse to live, to play this grotesque game, any longer.

Chapter Three

Bind Up the Broken-hearted

Oh, that I might spread this divine revelation over the grief-stricken hearts of the world!...The FATHER careth for us!

Weak kneed, chests heaving with grief and despair, Sam and his father leaned against each other for support. The weeping cascades of a willow tree, quivering in the warm summer breeze, encircled the two men in an emerald canopy.

"I guess Wegimind would be pleased with this lot," Dad finally managed. His voice sounded old and hopeless. "Come on, Sam, let's buy this one and go home." He turned, suddenly a tired, bent old man, and began shuffling toward the car.

Home. The word stabbed Sam's chest like a dagger. There was no home; there would never again be a home, for Wegimind had died today. Waves of vertigo and nausea slammed against his body. He sank onto the thick green carpet of grass with a tortured gasp of fresh anguish. The azure sky, the golden sun warm on his face, the verdant green of growing things; all were horrible shades of gray to Sam, and the darkness pressed close about him as he lay on the ground in a fetal position, his arms convulsively encircling his knees.

Dad turned. The stark fear he suddenly felt for his son immediately cleared his own grief stricken, numbed brain. Although his own heart felt completely broken, his own eyes were full of bitter tears, and he only wished to live in order to care for his children, he recognized, in a sort of detached way, that his reactions were normal. Sam's pain, on the other hand, seemed impossibly horrible, as though all the griefs of the universe had been poured into his young soul. How could anyone, except characters in melodramatic paperback fiction, have the capacity to feel such anguish? He gently pulled his son to his feet and circled one of Sam's limp arms around his own neck, supporting the blindly staggering young man all the way back to their car.

Dad helped Sam into the passenger seat, then slid behind the wheel. As the car pulled out of the little country churchyard and began the drive back to the city, Sam's blinding, wrenching pain eased in a bittersweet haze of utter exhaustion. With a seeming clarity of thought, he recalled his resolution to end his own life. A sort of fateful sense of peace seemed to drug his senses as he stared out the window at the hypnotizing march of the roadside fences.

What! What could be happening? A sudden, glowing golden light appeared to radiate throughout the car! It penetrated Sam's darkened, numbed mind, and he snapped completely alert. His nightmarish state dissolved as Reality with its secure warmth seemed to flood his soul.

We were silent, almost sullen, in our inward battle against grief and bitterness.

Suddenly the car in which we were driving, the road, and the countryside seemed to light with a most heavenly glow! It was as though the very weight of grief had cracked the confining walls of materiality, and a healing ray of Heaven burst through. I saw no vision, heard no voice, but felt myself inundated with a deluge of happiness, totally unlike that which comes from even the highest, worldly pleasures...

Oh, what words can I find that will tell the wild ecstasy of that precious moment? I think I did not breathe during the experience. I actually felt concern as to my sanity -- then found immediate assurance that this, and this alone, was sane!

I looked about me. The world seemed to have stood still. The car lacked motion. The wayside trees possessed a new lustre which was apart from color. Marvelous beauty adorned the landscape, surpassing anything I have ever before seen. Particularly was I impressed with the beauty of one little bird which flew up from the road and lit on the fence. Though he was some distance off, and I had only a fleeting glimpse of him, it seemed as though he was right before my eyes, and stayed there indefinitely. I remember the brilliant marking of his plumage, which I might have called sombre under other circumstances. How conscious I felt of the omnipresence of LIFE! It was as though the WORD had been carved in my heart, so that I knew and saw nothing else. All this was outside of myself, and the experience seemed to hinge on my looking away and outward, for I had the sense that down somewhere within my own, erroneous thinking was all that which grieved me, and that it was my own creation!

How long this lasted I cannot say. All time seemed suspended and this vision of Reality bore no relationship to it. There was a sense of comfort in it which was supreme. Somehow it suggested a cool refreshing breeze on a torrid day, though the metaphor is woefully inadequate. It was then I saw that "death" is a deception, and grief was as impossible that moment with me as sin was with the MASTER!

I glanced at Father: then came the greatest joy! His face beamed with happiness! He, too, was living this sublime experience! I shall never forget the heavenly expression of his countenance. I wondered if the happiness I felt was as apparent. We could not speak at the time, and later spoke only with difficulty, for human language offered no names for our experience. But we had the joy of corroboration, and by the slightest reference knew that our experiences had been the same. One outstanding fact was that in no way did this savor of the mysterious -- it seemed divinely natural, as though this moment were predestined in creation.

Dad and Sam soon reached the house, still elated by their marvelous experience. Relatives had already begun pouring in. One of Sam's first cousins who lived a day's drive from Chicago had just arrived. He had loved Wegimind dearly, but his face was strangely guarded. Sam wondered abstractly why his cousin's eyes did not betray the deep pain he must feel.

As Sam stepped forward to greet his cousin, he wondered with some trepidation if anyone noticed his own dry eyes and peaceful expression. He was half afraid the radiant joy in his heart would spill over onto his face and offend a mourner who did not understand. Sam hesitated as he came face to face with his cousin and recognized an unusual expression in his relatives's eyes.

The cousin must have seen something in Sam's face, too, because after a silent moment, he said, "Sam, come over here where we can talk. I have something I'd like to discuss. I have had an experience,--" He looked hesitantly at Sam, who was nodding knowingly, then went on to describe the very event which had happened to Sam and Dad! The cousin had had the same experience at the same time of day.

No sooner had his cousin gone on to talk with someone else than Sam's sister approached him with the same story! She had been doing housework at the time when the wonderful encounter occurred. Don also corroborated the experience.

The long day drew to a close. Sam sought out an empty room and sat down in an easy chair beside a window. He smiled as he heard laughter in the other room. Strange how the events of the day permitted laughter, and the lightheartedness of his own soul. The empty horror of the morning, his cold resolution to end his life, the glorious Presence he had felt in the car -- all these scenes swirled through his mind as he tried to sort out the events of the day.

A strange shuffling, scratching noise intruded itself into Sam's thoughts. He looked down at the hardwood floor, and to his great astonishment saw the neighbor's dog, Count, crawling along the floor on his stomach toward the chair. The little mongrel had found an open door, and had come looking for his friend Sam. Count whined as he crawled right up to Sam's feet and began licking his shoes.

Sam lifted the flop-eared dog into his lap. Count pressed his hairy head with all his might against Sam's neck, and remained in that position for fully half an hour. Somehow the dog had empathically known his friend needed emotional support at this time.

Sam stroked the dog's wirey coat and stared out the window into the cold Chicago night. The stars were dimly visible. The wind whined mournfully through the window screen and rattled the glass. He turned from the dark scene and impulsively hugged the little brown dog.

"Count, with such love as this in the world, no sorrow can last long!"

Soon after Wegimind's death, Don, Dad, Lucille and Sam left for Three Lakes, Wisconsin. After camping on Four Mile Lake for several summers, the Campbell family had eventually purchased a tidy cabin and some land along the west shore. Here the four now retreated to immerse themselves in creation, letting the summer sun bake, the wind scour, the rain rinse from their souls the tragedy of June.

The small cabin blending into the trees was full of happy memories. Sam could hear the laughter and singing, and could see his mother's smiling face at every turn. He half expected to feel a constant sorrow when faced with these phantoms from better days, but the roughly comfortable cabin, the woods and the lake, even the memories, comforted him.

Sam did feel the need to rest, but he mostly wished to isolate himself from the world for a time so he could think. He did not feel satisfied accepting the comfort of his spiritual encounter without vigorously pursuing a knowledge of the One he had encountered.

The Campbell family, though Christian, had not belonged to any particular denomination; they worshiped God under the deeply spiritual leadership of Wegimind, who was not comfortable with often divisive sectarianism. Although Sam had learned from his mother a deep awe of the majesty, beauty and goodness of God, he didn't have many theological roots.

Sam felt he must consolidate his spiritual experience with a coherent philosophy of life. He decided to withdraw from the working world for several months in order to spend many hours each day meditating, praying, and studying what the wise ones through the ages had written concerning the meaning of life. He would spend most of this time of solitude on the property up at Three Lakes. During these months, Sam read nearly all the great classics -- the Bible, Emerson, Tolstoy, Whitman, Bergson, Tennyson, Dante, William James -- looking for descriptions of spiritual experiences such as his.

A strange transformation had come over Sam as he read about the love and manly gentleness of Jesus of Nazareth. He enjoyed the outdoors more than ever, but he began to see in nature certain revelations of God's character, and began to think of the wilderness as a house of worship. He not only lost his interest in hunting and trapping; he became repulsed by the thought of killing or injuring any living thing. Each life was a miracle to be marveled at and adored. He banned hunting and trapping on his land, and encouraged others to do the same.

Sam was sociable and extremely likable, but in some sense he had always been a bit of a loner, dreaming his own dreams and going his own ways. But now, even though he continued to cherish solitude and individuality, he began to see his fellow human beings in the same light he was seeing nature. Although he had always been a sensitive young man, he now felt new interest in the lives and cares of others.

As he learned more and more about God, he began to feel a mission to tell others, especially those in sorrow who had just lost a loved one, about the God of love and the healing He brings. The same spiritual leadership qualities so dominant in the character of Wegimind began to evidence themselves in Sam. He began to invite people over for hikes and campfire suppers. There was plenty of laughter and silliness at these gatherings, but Sam always endeavored to promote an overall atmosphere of spirituality and peace, and people always left his woodland home refreshed and blessed.

In honor of his mother, Sam decided to call the property on Four Mile Lake "The Sanctuary of Wegimind," for it had become a sanctuary for the worship of God, a sanctuary of protection for wildlife, and a sanctuary free from stress for the healing of tired and troubled human souls.

Sam soon began writing private and public letters of hope and encouragement which he sent to grieving people all over the world. His Letters from the Sanctuary became so well known and sought after that a friend offered to print them in book form for wider distribution. This was the first of Sam Campbell's books, The Conquest of Grief.

Also during this time, Sam wrote a series of philosophical nature essays known as the Sanctuary Letters. His friend printed these in individual booklets, each beautifully bound in richly-coloured velvet. The Sanctuary of Wegimind, The Finding of Vanishing Lake, Ebony Mansions, Naturalness, and Frozen Memories were full of rich descriptions of the north woods, and reflected Sam's growing philosophical convictions. These booklets were eventually included in Sam Campbell's book of essays, Nature's Messages.

Sam was still frustrated and confused about his career, or lack thereof, but he had at last found something he believed to be more fundamental than even a career; a philosophy of life, strong convictions, and a growing faith in God. And although wistful thoughts of his mother frequently brought tears to his eyes, no longer did death, destruction, and the power of evil bind his soaring soul.

Chapter Four

Scars of Our Folly

Everywhere we see the scars of our folly. Nor can we say that what our race did yesterday was foolish, but today we are wise. There seems to be only one wisdom and that is to interfere as little as possible with the natural order of things.

It was late in the summer of 1929.

A lone birchbark canoe moved silently along the north shore of Four Mile Lake in the early morning light. A family of loons watched from the protective shadows of a small island a few hundred yards away. Occasionally one of the parent birds would lift its head and call out its haunting wail.

To the loons, the canoe appeared to be a log floating along the far bank, partially obscured by the mists rising from the warm water into the chilly morning air. The electric blue chamois shirt worn by the man who guided the craft seemed to the loons a piece of the sky come down to get a morning drink from the lake. They did not see the silent j-strokes, nor the little whirling vortices left behind by the broad blade of his paddle in the silky water.

The man's heavy khaki britches were tucked into high moccasin boots laced up to his knees. His prematurely graying, thinning brown hair ruffled in the slight breeze caused by the forward motion of the canoe. The movements of his powerful arms and broad chest were fluid and unhurried; he and his bark craft formed a perfectly natural part of the wild surroundings.

Sam felt the peace of the morning fill his soul. He nudged the bow of his canoe onto a short sandy beach, and lay back in the gently rocking craft, his face turned up towards the deepening blue of the morning sky. His eyes closed.

He could see himself standing there behind the lectern to one side of the wide, darkened stage. He could smell the varnish on the wooden flooring, the musty odor of the heavy velvet drapery cloaking the wings, the dust burning on the small light bulb which cast his typed narration notes in dim yellow light. He could see children in the front rows of the auditorium, their excited faces varying hues in the light reflected from the screen. Further back were dark outlines of more people, adults, unfamiliar presences filling the entire room. Over their heads hung a cone of light emanating from the projector far to the back of the auditorium. The beam was a collage of shifting colors filtering through lazily drifting motes of dust. He could hear the soothing hum of the projector, the clicking of the reels. He could hear his own voice, amplified by the narration microphone into strange resonances and cadences, filling every corner of the room.

A fat porcupine waddled onto the flickering screen. "Here's an old porcupine, his quills swaying back and forth like a load of hay as he walks. He has about 30,000 quills which he uses to protect himself. His tail can lash out with terrific speed, almost instantly embedding quills in an aggressor. Perhaps this gives rise to the false myth that porkies throw their quills.

"He's actually a fine, intelligent creature, but if one doesn't respect his unique prowess, he will prove the wisdom of that ancient adage: 'He who sitteth on a porcupine...'" Sam paused for effect, "'shall rise again!'" Loud laughter filled the hall. Sam could see the delighted faces of the children as they squealed out in raucous laughter. He could see careworn adult faces near the front splitting into happy grins. That simple little porcupine was for a few precious moments single handedly holding back the gloom of hard life in a big city.

"People haven't liked porkies very much because they are bark-eaters. They will sometimes live on a tree until they've girdled it completely -- and then, of course, the tree dies. We must preserve porcupines, however, because they play their own unique and necessary role in nature. They actually thin out the forest so the remaining trees will be even stronger and healthier.

"We must preserve all these wild places and creatures which bring us so much pleasure. There must be places of great natural beauty where our young people can go to clear their heads of the world's meanness. We must protect wilderness, not only in order to preserve the physical conditions necessary for human life, but also in order to preserve the quiet sanctuaries necessary for the life of the human soul.

"It has been a great pleasure to be with you this evening. God bless you, and good night."

Applause rose in an almost deafening crescendo, but to Sam it seemed far away. His eyes were riveted on the children in the front rows, their eyes flashing with excitement as they jumped up and down, pointed at the now blank screen, and chattered to each other.

He stood there behind the lectern as the house lights came on and continued to watch the children as they rushed toward the stage, holding out their printed programs for autographs. Here lies the future of the conservation movement, the future of the wilderness, the future of our world. If these little people are taught today how to love nature, what a difference it will make tomorrow!

Sam sat up in the canoe, his blue eyes blinking in the bright morning light, but his mind was still far away in that darkened, dusty auditorium. He pushed away from the beach with his paddle, and began stroking along the shore once again.

Sam had spent the time since the death of his mother here at their cabin, reading, writing, studying nature, and learning how to operate the new moving picture equipment he had purchased. During this time, his developing philosophy of life had heavily influenced the way in which he saw the natural world. Nature had become a source of spiritual inspiration to him, and his new understanding of God's regard for every living thing had caused him to show new respect for the earth. He no longer hunted, littered, or thoughtlessly uprooted plants. As far as possible, he traveled through the wilderness without a trace, leaving everything in nature just as he had found it. He stepped around the tiny violets growing on the trail, and avoided trampling anthills. A half-joking rumor spread along the distant lakeshore cabins that Sam Campbell provided cotton for the mice in his house to use for nests! The neighbors would laugh fondly -- they loved the humorous, kind man on Four Mile Lake -- but they also shook their heads in wonder at his apparent eccentricity.

Sam had also joined the infant conservation movement, along with other far-sighted individuals who could see the terrible end result of human greed and exploitation of the planet. At that time in the "roaring twenties," conservation was hardly a popular notion; it would not become widely recognized until the ecology movement of the sixties, and even then would not become a vital concern of the general public until much later.

Concern for the future of his beloved wilderness and even the future of the planet encouraged Sam to produce a film of the flora and fauna of northern Wisconsin and a script to raise public awareness. He had shown his film in the Chicago area several times during the previous winter.

To Sam's surprise, these first nature lectures on the forests of northern Wisconsin had been a huge success. He had even attracted the attention of the Chicago and Northwestern Railway, who had contacted him about filming vacation advertisements for their northern rail destinations such as Eagle River and Three Lakes. Later, they hired him to lead tours through national parks.

Sam was beginning to realize that his writings would not, at least for some time, provide him with an adequate income. These lectures, on the other hand, could provide the bulk of an income... A plan was forming in Sam's mind; a vision of an exciting future of travel, wilderness exploration, nature study, writing, and lecturing. He would spend each summer in nature, filming his adventures and writing a story book about them, then he would travel about the country each winter showing his films, lecturing on nature and conservation, and selling his books.

The thought of such a life filled Sam's adventurous heart with joy! What a wonderful way to spend a happy life, and yet at the same time help protect the wilderness and be a service to others by providing them with wholesome entertainment and education.

Now that school had begun, the lecture season was fast approaching. Sam's summer days at the Sanctuary had come to a close. He recalled with a touch of apprehension that he was scheduled to give his first lecture of the season on the following Monday for a Chicago high school lyceum. He felt sure his new moving picture of wildlife antics was a good one, but the delicate balance of his finances and the lack of a steady income had given him a few sleepless nights lately, his excitement about his new career notwithstanding. Would he really be able to make ends meet?

Sam rounded a point of land, and headed for the homey brown and green cabin standing among the stately white pines along the shore. The morning mist was dissipating in the heat of the sun, now high over the eastern shoreline. The other-worldly mystery of the morning evaporated along with the fog as Sam's head filled with down-to-earth visions of a hearty breakfast of bacon and coffee. His dreams of the future, along with its nagging doubts and fears, vanished as he anticipated with pleasure the rugged work planned for the day.

Chapter Five

Think on These Things

For I am sure that beauty, power, balance, evenness are truly fundamental in nature. And I am equally sure that brotherly love, service, and Christian principles are basic with man. Human inventions inject all disturbances into both nature and man. "God hath made man upright; but they have sought out many inventions."

Right after breakfast, Sam headed in to town to buy some groceries for the campfire supper he was planning with friends that evening.

By now the sun was high overhead and the sky had become a deep azure blue. A lazy breeze ruffled the surface of the lake as Sam rowed slowly toward the channel leading to Big Fork Lake. He had taken the comparatively sluggish rowboat instead of his sleek canoe because he knew he had to transport groceries back to the cabin.

He did not propel his craft with any great sense of purpose; in fact, a casual observer would not have guessed his ultimate destination to be the grocery store! He moved in a relaxed, unhurried way, as if he were determined to let the beauty of his surroundings soak into his very soul. His senses were alive with the movement and sound and color on every side.

His sharp eyes noticed the tall, narrow form of a great blue heron posing rigidly among the reeds along the western shoreline. He smiled delightedly at the mighty whoosh from the wings of a loon which flew close overhead on its way down the lake. He saw a large fish jump and watched the ring on the surface of the water expanding away toward shore.

In those days, no road led to the Campbell cabin. To reach town, Sam had to row down the length of Four Mile Lake, then turn southwest into the narrow channel which opened into neighboring Big Fork Lake. He kept his car parked at the public lake access on the eastern shore of Big Fork, right off Four Mile Creek Road.

The Thunder Lake Store on Highway 32 was about half way between Virgin and Whitefish Lakes, approximately four miles south of the landing where Sam kept his car. In the days when Sam and his family had first begun coming up from Chicago, the area was being heavily logged. This store belonged to Thunder Lake Lumber Company of Rhinelander, and was situated along a narrow gauge railroad which transported the felled timber. It was built as a depot to supply the logging camps to the north. As more people moved into the area, however, and as the logging of the region slowed, most of the store's business came from the local residents. The store was managed by a Three Lakes man named Cunningham. Sam knew who he was, of course, and had spoken to him many times when in his store for groceries.

Sam drove slowly along the winding, dusty track. He startled several deer, which darted across the road, white tails held high. A crow-sized pileated woodpecker flew its undulating path down the road in front of the car, looking for all the world like some prehistoric creature with its elevated red crest.

Sam turned left onto Highway 32 and drove past Virgin Lake. Soon the narrow road straightened, and a group of frame houses came into view. These were the homes built by the railroad for its employees. The midday sun shone down warmly as Sam parked the Buick in the dusty lot by the lumber yard and boarding house, and walked across the road to the large two-story frame building beside the railroad tracks. The supply warehouses were in the back of this building, and the front was occupied by the grocery store.

He opened the front door of the store and stepped inside. The pleasantly cool interior seemed dim in contrast to the bright glare outside, and it smelled of spices and fresh vegetables.

Sam was greeted by a friendly man behind the counter. "Hello there! How are things over at Four Mile Lake?" the tall, trim man asked with a warm smile.

As Sam stood talking, three remarkably beautiful children trooped energetically through the door carrying school books and talking excitedly. The energy level of the room rose so dramatically, Sam wondered if he had suddenly been transported to the center of a hurricane or earthquake. The two little girls were of grade school age, slender, with lovely dark hair and eyes. The boy was a handsome, strong-looking lad in his early teens. "I'll bet there are Indians still living out there!" The older of the two girls looked very confident as she spoke.

"Oh, Jean, don't be silly! There are not." The boy rolled his eyes tolerantly at his sister's folly.

"Are there still Indians living out by Four Mile Lake, Daddy?" the younger girl called out. "One of our friends at school said so." Three pairs of expectant eyes turned to the man.

"This gentleman lives on Four Mile. Why don't you ask him?" The grocer turned mischievous eyes on his smiling customer.

Sam squatted down to the younger childrens' level, and smiled broadly. The children felt drawn to this stranger's open, kind face and friendly manner. Their expectant eyes fixed on his.

To give himself time to think, Sam said "Well, I'm sure you know of the Potawatomi Indian John Shabodock who lives near here. He's a real chief. Sometimes he comes into town." The children nodded, but were still waiting for the answer to their question.

"But are there Indians still living out at Four Mile Lake?" Sam paused, noting the bated breath and hopeful expressions. Even the boy looked hopeful! "You know, I feel very sad when I think about how we white people took away all their land and cut down their ancient trees." Sam's face had become solemn. He felt he should take the opportunity to inject a note of reality. The children looked distressed. Sam continued more cheerfully:

"Well, I do know that not so long ago a real Indian named Ben lived in a small shack in that little clearing on the north shore. In fact, I've spoken to Ben. He told me stories about a wolverine that used to visit his cabin. So, I guess if an Indian lived there just a few years ago, it is possible that there may be another Indian still living in the area."

It was the right thing to say! The children were looking at Sam as if he were the Indian from Four Mile Lake! Sam recognized in the childrens' rapt expressions the awe and longing for adventure and wilderness which he had felt at their age, and which he admittedly still felt. Sometimes as a boy he had wished so much for wilderness that he had literally become sick.

"I'm Sam. What are your names?"

The older girl smiled with importance. "I'm Jean Cunningham, this is my little sister Beth, and this is my brother Howard. My Dad runs this place."

The father proffered his hand to Sam. "You know, we've known of each other for several years, but we never have really introduced ourselves. I'm Roy, and you've just met the children."

"I'm Sam Campbell. Our family has come up here pretty much every summer to vacation for the last 17 years. But I'm going to be living here from now on except for a few of the winter months."

They stood there talking easily for a long time. LeRoy Cunningham knew a lot about the history of the area. He had been a railroad dispatcher in Wausau and Antigo before moving with his family to Three Lakes in 1920 to manage the supply depot.

When there was a natural lull in the conversation, Roy Cunningham said, "Say, Sam, why don't you come over to the house and meet my wife Ida? It's just down the road from here. Howard, would you watch the store for a few minutes? I'll be right back."

Sam quickly collected his groceries, and went with Roy and the two girls to the Cunningham home. Ida Cunningham was gracious and kind, and Sam had an overwhelming sense that he already knew these sweet people as close friends. He was surprised at how comfortable and at ease he felt in their presence.

"We hear you've banned hunting and trapping on your land." Ida spoke up.

Sam nodded. "Yes, I've come to the place where I don't get any joy out of hunting or trapping anymore. In fact, it's becoming difficult for me to understand how I ever considered it 'sport' to kill defenseless animals." Sam spoke frankly, without any tone of condemnation. "Besides, I'm a wildlife photographer, and I want word to get around in animal society that my land is a safe place." For a moment Sam wondered if these people might find his aversion to hunting offensive, as did many of the locals. But he thought he read approval in their eyes.

As Sam was getting ready to leave, it felt completely natural to invite these new friends over to the Sanctuary that evening for the campfire supper. The Cunninghams seemed delighted by the invitation, and when all the necessary arrangements had been made, Sam returned with his groceries to Four Mile Lake to finish the day's work and prepare for his guests.

The sun went down that evening in a brilliant array of colors. The glassy surface of Four Mile Lake was stained with shifting shades of gold, baby blue, pink, purple, and forest green. A thin, vertical column of smoke rose like a flag, welcoming the four canoes entering the far end of the lake. As they approached, they could make out the leaping orange flames of the campfire along the shore, and the form of Sam Campbell as he stacked a load of wood near the fire pit.

As soon as Sam noticed the canoes floating on the colored tapestry of the lake, he waved happily and called out to them. Sam Campbell's guests always felt welcomed. The way he focused all his attention on the one he was greeting made that person feel like the most important person in the world.

The campfire supper was a huge success, and everyone seemed to have a genuinely good time. There was lots of good food and easy conversation, and certainly no lack of entertainment. The three Campbell men made sure of that! The Cunninghams could see how Dad, Don and Sam Campbell had gotten their reputation for crazy jokes, teasing, and hilarious conversation.

The giggling of the Cunningham children repeatedly punctuated the happy babble as Sam took every opportunity to tease them. Most adults have a way of ignoring children when they are with other adult friends, but Sam Campbell made the children feel like members of the circle as he listened to their comments and frequently addressed remarks to them.

When the baked beans, hotdogs, popcorn, and cake had all disappeared and everyone was lounging comfortably in the warm circle of firelight, Sam produced his guitar.

"This guitar has been around Hunter Island, you know," Sam said as he fondly patted the slightly battered instrument.

At this announcement, several of the guests looked up with interest. The Cunningham children looked especially curious. They were clearly waiting to hear more.

"Way up in Minnesota," Sam began, his eyes sparkling with excitement, "on the very border of the United States and Canada, lies a vast roadless wilderness called the Quetico-Superior 'canoe country.' There is nearly more water there than land, and the only efficient way to travel in the summer is by canoe. Canoe country is the land made famous by the travels of the French-Canadian Voyageur fur traders, who paddled with their merchandise along those lake and river 'highways.'

"In those days, one of the main routes lay along what is today the international boundary. Another main route was farther north, going from Saganaga, through Kawnipiminicock and Sturgeon Lakes, and into Lac La Croix. The area in between these two major waterways is called 'Hunter Island.' I'll be going there again, soon, I hope. You can really find solitude up there!

"Let me teach you a Voyageur chanson," Sam continued. "The voyageurs sang as they paddled, and they sang around their campfires at night. They were rugged, carefree, and loved to sing."

Sam strummed a few introductory chords on his guitar, then he, Dad and Don began singing vigorously in French,

The rollicking melody of "A-rolling My Ball" was easy to learn and fun to sing, and soon the group was confidently learning another verse.

They sang other songs, too. "There Is a Long, Long Trail Awinding," "O Danny Boy," "Tenting Tonight," and "Open Mine Eyes" floated over the water. For over an hour, their songs echoed across the black lake, mingling with the sounds of the night. Finally, they sang,

When the last chords had faded away, the small group sat in comfortable silence for several long minutes, staring into the orange flames.

A young man finally broke the reverie in low tones. "Sam, how can we explain all the pain and suffering in the world? What about hatred and meanness and war? How can a loving God permit these things?"

Sam reflected quietly for a moment before he spoke. This perceptive young friend had just verbalized the question which had sent Sam to the depths of despair, and then on a redemptive spiritual journey, scarcely two years before.

"Well," Sam began slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I cannot explain why living creatures feel pain. Nor can I explain why the plants and even the inanimate natural beauties of this earth suffer destruction and ruin, often from the hand of man. I do, however, believe that destruction, pain, meanness and hatred are not the truly natural order of things. In the truly natural universe, the truly real universe, order, harmony, peace, and happiness are the rule, because these are the traits of the Creator."

Sam paused. A barred owl called its distinctive eight hoots from somewhere in the region of Four Mile Creek.

"This appears to leave something of a contradiction, I know," he continued slowly. "I can only conclude that the world as we perceive it is unnatural and, in some sense, unreal. We are not seeing the entire picture."

The young questioner looked up at Sam for a moment before turning his gaze back to the fire. His brow furrowed in thought as he stared into the depths of the dancing flames. "So how can we cope with this day-to-day, unnatural world?"

Sam nodded to show he understood the question. "My sweet mother died two years ago last June. I thought I would die from the grief." He paused, remembering. "Then I was blessed to be given a very real encounter with the presence of the Divine. In His presence, the darkness fled from my soul. I still didn't understand the pain, but God's presence was enough. It was the true Reality.

"In the biblical story of Job, Job's wife and friends all discussed the subject of suffering and gave the popular answers of the day. They said that since Job was suffering so terribly, he must have done something wrong, and God was punishing him.

"But at the end of the story, God Himself showed up and rebuked the friends for their false portrayal of His character. He reminded Job that human vision of life is very limited and distorted, and reminded him of the power and enormity of God. In the end, Job found the true reality of life to be in God's presence.

"So when we have the divine Presence with us, we learn to live by the truly natural rules of the universe. Scripture counsels us to dwell on things that are true, honest, just, pure, lovely, and of good report. 'If there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.'"

Sam spoke earnestly, without any hint of embarrassment. "I believe that faith means a conviction, a trust deep down in the heart, that God is completely good and loving, and that His universe runs on the law of kindness. When we allow love to rule in our hearts as Jesus Christ did, we begin to enter into Reality as citizens of the heavenly kingdom."

The group sat for some time in reflective silence. The diamond stars shining through black arms of fir and spruce, the gentle lapping of wavelets onto the beach, and the distant wail of a loon added spiritual power to Sam's words.

Although it was time to leave, no one wished to interrupt the powerful mood of the night. One by one, the guests said soft goodbyes and slipped quietly away into the darkness. The Cunninghams lingered for a while around the fire after the others had gone.

"Sam," Roy Cunningham said earnestly, "the things you said tonight were insightful. Do you belong to a particular church?"

Sam shook his head. "Not yet, but I've looked into several, and have found one which seems to most closely match my own convictions." He named a small but vigorous denomination. "I've been going to the local church near my home in Chicago. Do you happen to know if there's one in this area?"

Roy and Ida looked surprised, then glanced at each other and smiled. Ida said warmly, "Why, yes, we do; there's one in Eagle River. That happens to be our home church! Would you like to go with us this Sunday?"

Sam Campbell didn't fully realize it that evening around the campfire, but he had entered a new era of fulfillment in his life. He would find a fellowship of Christians, a church home, in the little white frame building on the corner of 3rd and Pine in the nearby town of Eagle River. And in the Cunninghams, he would find another home; true, lifelong friends who became as beloved as family.

Chapter Six

Land of the Voyaguers!

The larger lesson of a world depression is that we should make a distinction between financial values and real values...Spiritual values are the real ones, and life conducted on any other basis is as a "house built upon the sands." The presence of fabulous wealth has never given happiness where it has been gained at the sacrifice of character. Ultimately, investment will be judged from only one standpoint: its contribution to mental progress and peace of mind.

"Sam!" Bobby grabbed his friend's shoulders and shook them with enthusiastic abandon. "Hello in there! Let's get the stuff in the car! Let's GO!"

Sam smiled warmly at his young companion, then closed his eyes and briefly shook his head. "Well, Bobby old pal, I guess you could say I'm getting cold feet." He surveyed the mound of gear still piled in the rowboat. "Do you realize I've spent my last cent on this trip? We barely have enough money to buy gas for the car on the way up and back. By the time we get back, if we get back," he cast Bobby an amused glance, "I won't have a penny to my name."

It was summertime, early 1930's. The "Roaring Twenties" had collapsed on Black Thursday, October 24, 1929, into the Great Depression. Times were hard, and fear of the future lined every face. Chicago was gloomy and full of pessimism. Even the town of Three Lakes, deep in the magical wooded northlands, felt economic hardship. "Moonshining" was rampant and tolerated, and there were fights in the streets.

But here in the forest Sanctuary where Sam lived and worked, life went on much as usual. The uncounted lakes and streams, the trees swaying in the wind, the fishing raccoons and diving loons, the snorting deer and lumbering bear -- all these were oblivious to the financial disaster. As was a certain excitable young man.

"Come on, Sam, you're a worry wart. You're smart enough to figure the money out later." He pretended to look at Sam critically. "Well, maybe you're not that smart...but at least you know enough about edible wild plants to live off the land. Sam, if we don't leave soon, we won't reach Ely before the boarding house closes for the night!"

"OK, let's go, Bobby." Sam shrugged, and rolled his eyes in mock resignation at Dad and Don, who stood nearby on the dock. As he finished lashing the canoe to the roof of the car, and loaded the gear from the rowboat into the trunk and backseat, he muttered, "Go ahead and send me to the poor house. You can come visit me there sometimes..."

"Huh?" Bobby poked his head out of the back seat where he was arranging the packs. "What did you say, Sam?"

"I said it's about time we got on the road! Why don't you hurry up? You're making us late!" Sam grabbed the steering wheel and swung into the driver's seat. Bobby jumped into the passenger seat and slammed the door with unnecessary vigor, his face glowing with excitement.

"'Bye Dad, 'bye Don! We'll see you in about a month!" Sam and Bobby waved their arms through the open windows of the Buick as Sam smoothly let in the clutch and headed the car down Four Mile Lake Road towards the town of Three Lakes.

Bobby Kostka was a young man in his late teens, tall and thin, with wavy light brown hair and laughing blue eyes. He was a member of the Octagon Club, the study group for teenagers at Sam's church. Sam was one of sponsors of this group, and Bobby was one of several young people in the Club who became involved in helping with Sam's nature work.

Early on, Sam recognized this bright, enthusiastic young man as a potentially talented naturalist. Bobby became Sam's assistant, helping with photography, working with the animals, and accompanying Sam on some of his lecture tours. When Sam decided to go back to the Quetico to gather material for a new lecture film, he invited this young man along on whose help he had come to rely.

Sam and Bobby drove north from Three Lakes on U.S. Highway 45 for about forty miles to Watersmeet in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. From here, U.S. Highway 2 winds west just south of Lake Superior for about 180 miles to Duluth, Minnesota.

It was early afternoon by the time Sam and Bobby reached Duluth. They drove up the steep coastal incline and stopped the car for a moment to look down on the cities of Duluth and Superior where they perched along the side of the blue freshwater sea stretching away into the horizon.

"How much further to Ely?" Bobby leaned back against the car in the warm sunshine and stretched contentedly.

"Oh, about 125 more miles, I'd say. About three hours away. They're expecting us at the boardinghouse for supper."

"By the way, exactly what is this boardinghouse? Who lives there, just tourists to the area?"

Sam's cheerful face took on a faraway look. "No, actually it's a boardinghouse for the lumberjacks who are logging that country."

"Logging the canoe country? You mean the trees will all be cut down where we're going?" Sam felt a secret satisfaction at the alarmed look on his young friend's face. No, he had not misjudged Bobby as an outdoor companion. Not only was the lad a good woodsman; he was also truly in love with nature.

As Sam was beginning to realize, the blessing one receives from an outdoor journey depends a great deal on one's companions. People who complain about rain, mud, hunger, plain food, mosquitoes, biting flies, and all the other discomforts of wilderness travel have a way of spoiling nature's compensations of rainbows, hearty appetites, and quiet evenings around the campfire. On the other hand, cheerful companions who enjoy the challenge of hardship without complaint, who always point out the interesting and the beautiful, who love all of nature's moods, make an outing a glorious adventure.

It's easiest to travel through such country with an even number of people, so that each canoe has someone at bow and stern. Sam knew it would be safer to go in a party of at least four so the group would have two canoes, but he was longing for a deeper solitude. He had decided that he and Bobby would go alone on this trip. Besides, the two of them would have to spend a lot of their time on photography.

"Sam!" Sam jerked out of his revelry to find Bobby's face glaring at him, inches from his own. "You better fork up some grub if you don't wanna get rubbed out." The imitation of a Chicago mafia boss was laughable coming from the thin faced, blue-eyed young man with the perpetual smile.

Sam's face lit with amusement as though he had just thought of something funny. "Well, there's a hotdog stand over there, my friend, but I advise temperance."

"What do you mean? Aren't they safe to eat?" Bobby looked suddenly alarmed at the prospect of going hungry.

"Oh, yes, I'm quite sure they're fine hotdogs, maybe the best of their breed. But as your friend, I must warn you not to..."

But Bobby had already walked over to the stand, and was handing money over in exchange for a huge bag of fat, beefy hotdogs, each smothered in ketchup, mustard, and onions, and encased in a large whole wheat bun.

"Here, Sam. You can have one if you promise to speed up and get us there in time for supper."

"No, thanks. I'll just wait 'til we get to Ely. And I really doubt you will want me to speed up any." Sam was starting the engine, and Bobby flopped into the passenger seat with his precious bag of hotdogs, eying Sam suspiciously. Why was he being so mysterious, and what had happened to that legendary Campbell appetite?

They left Duluth driving northeast on U.S. Highway 61, which follows the rugged, hilly northern coast of Lake Superior. They continued on Highway 61 until just past the town of Silver Bay, where they took State Highway 1 northwest toward the tiny logging settlement of Ely, Minnesota. Sam wrote, "Through hours we wrestled with its twists and turns, its hills and valleys, as though it were a great serpent which we must bring into subjection."

Bobby had wolfed down all the sandwiches before they even left Duluth's city limits, despite Sam's continued mysterious warnings. Whenever Bobby would demand to know the reason why he should go hungry, he would only get a solemn shake of the head, and the admonition, "Just trust me, my friend."

"Well, Bobby, old buddy." Sam yawned and stretched behind the wheel. "I guess we're finally on the 'long, winding road to Ely.' By the way, how's your stomach?"

Bobby's face was pale, and there was a sheen of moisture on his forehead. "My stomach's OK. Why, what do you mean?" Bobby gave Sam a weak smile. "You didn't think I'd get car sick, did you?"

"Hmmm. I guess you wanted me to hurry, didn't you, so we would get to supper on time." Sam bore down harder on the gas pedal, and the Buick sped around the tight curves with unnecessary speed.

"Sam!" Bobby's voice was desperate. "Stop! I need to stop!"

Anyone who has ever felt the griping nausea of car sickness will understand how Bobby felt, and will know just exactly what he did when Sam stopped the car.

Sam stood by with concern; he hadn't really expected his friend to get so sick.

"I'll get you back for this one, friend Sam." Bobby clearly felt much better after having gotten rid of the offending hotdogs, and was goodnaturedly taking advantage of Sam's obvious repentance. When I'm the cook in camp, I won't bother to call you when the chow's ready. I'll make you forage for mushrooms and berries."

"Are you feeling well enough to ride again?" Sam inquired worriedly.

"No, I think I'll just walk for a while, thank you."

During the remainder of the drive, Bobby often had to get out and walk, much to his chagrin. He really did wish he hadn't eaten those hotdogs, and by the time they reached the boardinghouse at Ely late in the afternoon, he had no interest at all in eating the hearty supper which the landlady spread out for them.

Early the next morning before sunrise, Sam awakened Bobby, and they drove a little further north to the tiny town of Winton. Winton was a settlement of a few hundred Finnish lumberjacks, perched precariously on the border of civilization and wilderness. It was as far north as one could drive an automobile in this part of the country.

The morning's destination was the four year old Border Lakes Outfitting Company on Fall Lake, partly owned by Sigurd F. Olson of Ely. Sam had met the Olson family when he first came to canoe country several years before. Sig Olson was well-known nationally as a writer, teacher, geologist and eloquent conservationist, besides being a famous guide of the Quetico. He and Sam had struck up an immediate friendship, and had taken some memorable trips together through the vast wilderness to the north.

Before long, Sam and Bobby pulled up in front of the large, roughly hewn frame warehouse. Sam felt a deep excitement stir within himself as he got out of the car and surveyed the view. Fall Lake, sparkling in the first rays of the rising sun, filled the background of the scene with a bold wash of blue. They pushed open the door of the warehouse and stepped inside.

The large room was cool and dim on the inside, and smelled of canvas and varnish. Scores of canoes rested on racks hung from the rafters. Packsacks, paddles, and lifejackets hung on the wall. Cooksets, fire grates, canteens; everything a canoe camper needed were stacked neatly on shelves. Sam watched Bobby's face light up with excitement. This was the kind of place which always made Sam's heart beat fast.

"Sam Campbell!", yelled two teenage boys in unison from across the warehouse. "Dad, Sam Campbell is here!" Sigurd, Jr, and Robert Olson, Sig's sons, were sandy haired, rugged youths. Sam knew these boys were already excellent outdoorsmen in the tradition of their father. They had taken a great liking to Sam on his previous visits, and the affection was mutual.

"Hello, Sig! Hello Bob! My goodness, you two have really grown up!" Sam wrapped the boys in a quick bear hug. "I want you to meet my friend Bobby Kostka. Well, if it isn't the bourgeois himself!"

A tall man had appeared from behind a rack of canoes. He was a Scandinavian, lean and darkly tanned. His face was alight with a big smile of welcome. "Welcome, Sam! How are you?" He gripped Sam's hand firmly.

Sig Olson was known in these parts as the bourgeois. The designation was high praise indeed, for it was the name the Voyageurs gave their leaders.

"We have everything you requested all ready to go, Sam," Sig Olson said. "A Duluth pack and raingear for Bobby, a fire grate, and this waterproof packsack for your camera equipment. You remember John Sanstead, one of our guides? He's going to tow you up Fall Lake and Basswood Lake to the Canadian ranger station, where you'll have to stop to go through customs. Then he'll take you on up to Bayley Bay and drop you off. OK? Let's look over your route before you go."

Sam and Sig spread a large map out on Sig's desk, and began discussing the various pros and cons of the route Sam had tentatively planned. Sig's intimate knowledge of the region was invaluable: this lake had better fishing, that lake was more likely to have moose, such and such portage was completely overgrown, on a certain cliff were prehistoric Indian pictographs, this river was now blocked by beaver dams.

While the two men pored over the map, Bobby and the Olson boys packed Bobby's gear into the Duluth pack, and carefully packed the camera equipment. Then they carried all the gear and Sam's canoe out to the dock where the tow launch bobbed up and down on incoming wavelets.

Sam and the guide soon came out of the warehouse and down to the dock. Sam mentally checked off the list of things they needed. Sam's pack, Bobby's pack, camera pack, food and cookware (distributed in Sam and Bobby's packs), tent (strapped to the top of Sam's pack), fire grate, sleeping bags, fishing gear, maps, tarpaulin (strapped to the top of Bobby's pack), Sam's guitar -- everything was in order.

"Taking your guitar again, I see," commented the guide as he began tying the canoe to the launch.

"Sure, I never leave home without it." Sam smiled somewhat guardedly. He was used to being ridiculed for this flagrant departure from the tradition of traveling light.

"Well, I used to would have said it was crazy, you taking that bulky guitar, especially when you are having to take all that heavy camera stuff. But I remember how nice it was to have along." John Sanstead looked at Bobby Kostka and the Olson boys.

"I guided Sam a few years ago on that trip he took up to Kahnipiminanikok. We had to portage around a whole string of falls on the way up, and I remember just dreading having to carry that guitar around each one. But I was won over pretty quickly; singing around the campfire every night was a real treat. I'll never forget that trip. It was one of the best I've ever guided."

When the mound of luggage was secured on the launch, the guide coaxed the sputtering engine to life and loosed the moorings. They were off! The guide took them up the length of Fall Lake, over Long Portage, the four mile truck portage, and into Hoist Bay.

Hoist Bay is the southern most reach of huge Basswood Lake. The Voyageurs called this lake Lac du Bois Blanc, or "Whitewood Lake," using the French word for the basswood tree.

Large rollers, driven by a stiff breeze, marched down the east arm of Basswood as the trio headed up the lake toward the Canadian Ranger Cabin. The air was filled with flying foam and spray as the launch cut through the oncoming waves.

"I sure am glad you're towing us up Basswood today," Sam shouted over the gale. "We might have been windbound in Hoist Bay, otherwise. In fact, I haven't seen any canoes out on Basswood so far today."

John Santead nodded. "You certainly wouldn't want to paddle upwind on Basswood today. The waves can get pretty big out here. You know, I got caught out here one day when a bigger wind than this came up. I was guiding a party of two canoes up to some of the best fishing spots in Hunter Island. A man and his wife, both college professors, were in one canoe, and the other man, a carpenter as I remember, was in the bow of my canoe. Fortunately, all three of them were experienced canoeists.

"Anyway, we were quartering the waves as best we could, and our canoes were separated by maybe a hundred feet. People don't believe me when I tell them this next part, but it's true. I'll never forget looking over where the other canoe was supposed to be, and not seeing it! I was afraid they had capsized, but in a moment I saw their canoe climb up on the next wave, then we went down in a trough, and I lost sight of them again! When the waves are so high you lose sight of a canoe right next to you, you shouldn't be out there!" The guide shook his head in wonder at the experience.

About half way up the lake, they stopped at a small island on the Canadian border and checked through customs at the ranger station. By the time the launch reached Bayley Bay at the northern end of this arm of Basswood, the sun had long since passed its zenith. Sam decided they should go ahead and make camp on Basswood Lake that night, then portage out first thing in the morning.

The guide dropped Sam and Bobby off with their gear at a nice campsite in the bay, and headed back at high speed in order to reach Border Lakes Outfitting Company by dark.

Sam and Bobby filmed the departing launch, then set about making their first camp. The last party had thoughtfully left their tentpoles leaning against a tree, and had covered a stack of firewood with birchbark to keep it dry. Bobby filmed Sam pitching the canvas tent and doing other camp chores.

Before they had left Winton, Sam had gone down to the lakeshore and rigged up a scene for a special film segment. He tied several lengths of clear line to the bow, stern, and gunwales of the canoe, then ran the line through carefully placed pulleys in the trees overhead. While the Olson boys pulled on the lines, Bobby filmed a hilarious segment of Sam and his canoe dancing with joy in the shallow water! This film would later be spliced in between scenes of the departing launch and the sequence of setting up camp.

Even though the rigged celebratory dance had already taken place, Sam couldn't help whirling around the stone fireplace a few times with unrestrained joy.

"We're here, Bobby! We're really here!" panted Sam as he dropped to the ground beside the blaze and began setting out supper. He grinned widely at Bobby, who grinned right back with equal enthusiasm. In fact, Bobby hadn't stopped grinning since he had awakened that morning. "And tomorrow we will portage into the Quetico. No more motors, very few people, just wilderness!"

Early the next morning, they portaged into Burke Lake, then around the falls at the northern end of Burke into the North Bay of Basswood Lake, where they stopped for lunch.

By early afternoon, they had reached long, narrow Isabella Lake, where they were to make camp.

That night when they had crawled into their sleeping bags in the tent, Sam was wakeful. He lay there staring at the canvas ceiling, listening to the night sounds and wondering what strange events might be transpiring in the forest. Bobby fell asleep quickly, and his loud snoring soon filled the air, drowning out most of the forest symphony.

Unable to fall asleep, Sam finally got dressed and quietly slipped out of the tent. He followed a path through the moonlit forest, stopping every so often to listen to the night. The path stopped at the margin of a beaver pond. Sam sat down on a log to watch.

The beavers, ignoring the extra shadow which had appeared on shore, industriously swam back and forth in the moonlight carrying their loads of sticks.

Sam watched this wilderness performance in awe for some time. Suddenly, he heard a movement in the brush nearby. He turned. To his astonishment, a large beaver was walking purposefully toward him!

Sam froze. He expected that at any moment the beaver would see him and run away, but the beaver kept coming. It was soon apparent to Sam that not only did the beaver see him, it was intent on walking right up to him!

Sam felt as if he were in another world as that citizen of the wilderness stopped right at his feet and looked up calmly into his face. Sam was sure the experience could not possibly become more intense, when suddenly the beaver raised up and rested his front feet on Sam's knee! In this position he stood for several minutes, looking intently into Sam's face as though he were trying to communicate.

Finally, the beaver lowered himself to the ground, and unhurriedly walked to the pond, where he slipped quietly into the black water and swam away.

Sam had never been so excited! He knew he wouldn't be sleeping at all that night. After returning to camp, he built a small fire in the rock fireplace, and sat looking out over Isabella Lake. Why had nature decided to initiate him into her secret society? He felt the beaver experience had some deep significance for his life, if only he could pinpoint it.

Although by far his most remarkable experience, this was not the first time he had been the recipient of friendly gestures from wild creatures of late. In the last few years, he had felt a dramatic change in his relationship with the wilderness. As he sat there on the banks of Isabella, he struggled to understand.

Attitude, he finally realized as the first rose of dawn streaked the sky. My attitude has changed. When I hunted and destroyed animals, they did not trust me. I did not have experiences like this. Now that my attitude is no longer threatening, I am gaining the confidence of wild creatures.

The days passed in happy succession, each with its own extraordinary joys. They spent several days in beautiful Sarah Lake, one of Sam's favorites, explored the shores of McIntyre Lake, passed through Brent and Conmee Lakes, and slogged across the long portages into large Pooh Bay Lake during a downpour. Two more portages brought them to the Malign River, on the northern perimeter of Hunter Island.

They filmed bear on Sturgeon Lake, and moose on the Malign river. They fished the waters of Lac La Croix while windbound there for several days, and filmed the roaring cataract of Curtain Falls. They examined the ancient Indian pictographs on Picture Rock of Crooked Lake, and portaged around the treacherous falls of the Basswood River, where so many of the Vogageurs' canoes were lost.

On their last night in the Quetico, Bobby and Sam sat in front of a friendly, crackling campfire on the west arm of Basswood Lake. Their conversation turned to the mystery of the beaver experience, and to all the other magical moments of the journey.

"These are the real values, Bobby," said Sam with conviction. "Peace, progress in understanding spiritual truths, recognition and love of beauty, a natural lifestyle, honest friendship, an apprehension of God's presence. During these last few weeks, we have been in touch with what is real. All the woes of the stock market, all the disasters of the financial world, cannot take these things from us. We spent nearly our last penny to make this trip, but it will be one of the best and most productive investments ever made."

Chapter Seven

Spirit of the Wilderness

(After my first visit to this area as a boy), never could I forget the effect that vast forest had on my thought...The forest exceeded anything I had pictured in my dreams. It was ancient, immense, mysterious, captivating. I felt as if there were some all-pervading force encompassing it. This I named the Spirit of the Wilderness, referring to the unbroken, primitive atmosphere.

Long before white people arrived to carve their scars into the wilderness of upper Wisconsin, Ojibway, Chippewa, and Potawatomi Indians lived and hunted inconspicuously in the primeval forests. Like the people of all human civilizations, their lives were shaped by births, deaths, love, family, and friendships, by industry and survival, and by religion, patriotism, war, diplomacy, and community. They did differ, however, in a few important ways from the white newcomers which would eventually drive them from the land of their ancestors.

In general, possessions, wealth, and greed did not motivate these people. They appreciated the things the earth gave them, and took only what they needed from the land. Although they built villages and in general lived comfortably, they did not feel the white people's fear of wilderness, and felt no need to conquer, subdue, and banish it from their daily lives. The Indians did not insulate themselves from the outdoors; they became intimate with it. They lived in harmony with wilderness, knew its every mood, understood its secrets, traveled its vast, trackless halls.

Long ago, some of these native peoples settled in a particularly rich hunting and fishing ground along the shores of a certain chain of crystal lakes, near what is today Nicolet National Forest. Their villages and camps along the shores of these waters were filled daily with laughing children and industrious activity. Could the Indians have observed their homes from the air, they would have seen a sprawling necklace of sparkling jewels nestled in a dark velvet expanse of vast, dense forests.

This ancient waterway consisted of twenty-eight medium sized lakes, all connected by navigable channels, with myriad peripheral lakes and flowages. Immense conifer forests of huge trees covered the surrounding low, gently rolling hills. Dank muskegs shivered in the valley floors, vanishing remnants of ancient lakes left behind by the retreating glaciers. In some valleys, diminutive patches of open water ringed by encroaching sphagnum still looked up from the centers of soggy tarns as if to gaze one last time upon the sky above before disappearing forever.

Roving packs of wolves watched shyly from the brush as the graceful birchbark canoes of the Indians moved silently along these shores in the morning mists. Huge bull moose with their great racks of horns, and cows with gangly calves grazed the marshy shallows. At dusk, shrieks of mountain lions echoed through the deep woods, paralyzing the denizens of those dark shades.

By the 1860's, white settlers had established trading posts in the Eagle River and Three Lakes areas. Daniel Gagen and Hiram "Hi" Polar were well known white traders who bartered with the local Indians in those days. A village of several hundred Chippewa Indians and a handful of white families quickly grew up around the flourishing trading center which would eventually become the town of Three Lakes. The government of the United States began granting land in the area to homesteaders during the mid 1880's.

In 1881, the Milwaukee, Lakeshore and Western Railway (later the Chicago and Northwestern Railway) tried to run a line north through the area, but the surveyor found a lake in the way on each of his three attempts. Most of the area was still a dense wilderness, and the surveyor did not know of the scores of other lakes dotting the landscape. Because of these three lakes (Maple, Townline, and Rangeline Lakes) encountered by the surveyor, the town was named Three Lakes.

One of the more isolated lakes of the chain was known as Four Mile Lake. This lake lay to the east of the main waterway. Its only connection to the chain was a navigable channel leading to Big Fork Lake, which in turn opened into one of the main lakes of the chain. Four Mile Lake had no other outlet, and thus had no through traffic.

Although tinted slightly brown by tannin, the waters of Four Mile Lake were delightfully transparent, and its shores varied through a rich continuum of plant and animal habitats. The lake did have two inlets. One was a small stream which drained a soggy spruce bog into the northwest bay. The other was Four Mile Creek, a wide flowage choked with cattails and reeds which meandered its way from nearby Spring Lake into the southeast corner. Much of the rest of the shore was high and covered by large white pines.

The land around Four Mile Lake was eventually granted to a homesteader, who built a cabin on Brown's Point.

During the late 1800's, the logging industry moved steadily up the Wisconsin River. By the 1870's, there were seven logging camps in the Three Lakes area. Spruce bogs and cedar swamps, their protective canopies gone, lay open to the drying heat of the summer sun. The torn landscape was often swept by fire. The cry of the mountain lion no longer echoed through the wilderness.

The timber harvesting moved northward, leaving behind a devastated landscape. Once isolated and pristine Four Mile Lake did not escape the woodsman's axe. During the early stages of this logging boom, the homesteader on Four Mile Lake sold the timber on his land to the Woodruff-Maguire Lumber Company, which cut most of the large pines.

One summer day in 1902, an asthmatic old steam launch puffed and coughed through the channel from Big Fork Lake into the waters of Four Mile. Mr. and Mrs. Leo Bishop and their friends Ernest and Ida Wise were on a camping trip, headed for a surviving stand of virgin timber on the distant eastern shore.

Camping in 1902 was not the lightweight affair of nylon and aluminum that it is today. The campers which ventured into the blue waters of Four Mile Lake that sunny day carried heavy iron kettles and skillets, and heavy, bulky canvas tents.

Furthermore, because there was lots of open land and very few people camping for sport, nature enthusiasts of those days knew little of the modern wilderness ethic. The Indians possessed the skills of traceless camping, of course, but few whites saw the need for such measures. These ethics would come some sixty years later to nature enthusiasts as wilderness dwindled and overuse became a serious problem.

In the meantime, sport campers happily honed their skills in the now disappearing art of campcraft. On their arrival at the selected camp site, the Bishops and the Wises busily set to work building a stone fireplace and a rock "icebox" in the lake along shore. They cut tent poles, split logs for a rough-hewn table, dug rain trenches around the tent, and excavated a latrine away from camp, complete with a sanded seat and a screen of freshly-cut hemlock branches! They even cut blocks of sod and hemlock boughs to use as springy mattresses. These heavy handed camping techniques make the sensitive modern backpacker cringe, but it was all very much a part of the wilderness experience in those days.

For several lazy, sunny days the four friends swam in the warm waters of the lake, hiked for hours along intriguing trails, fished from the old steam launch, and cooked delicious fried fish dinners on the stone fireplace.

The Wises enjoyed this trip immensely, and often spoke of it after they had returned to their home in Greenville, Illinois. In the fall of 1903, they decided to again take the train north to Three Lakes, and return to the same camping spot.

Sometime before the shores of Four Mile Lake were logged, the homesteader had moved north to the nearby town of Eagle River. His cabin on Brown's Point was occupied by the only resident of Four Mile Lake, a hermit named Bierbrauer. While the Wises were camping on the lake in 1903, Mr. Bierbrauer approached Ernest Wise and suggested he buy some of the land.

The Wises had fallen deeply in love with Four Mile Lake, and the hermit's words filled them with intense excitement. They lost no time in hiring a one-horse wagon to take them to the homesteader in Eagle River, where they were able to immediately purchase the land. The Wises allowed Bierbrauer to remain on as caretaker, and after a year gave him a piece of the land as a gift.

The rest of the tale of the hermit Bierbrauer is incidental to our story, but is legend in the town of Three Lakes even today. According to a 1949 letter from Ernest Wise to Sam Campbell, "as soon as he (Bierbrauer) received the deed, he sold...(the land), moved down to Planting Ground Lake and returned to his drunken ways, which soon cost him his life." Regional historian Catherine Ralph in The Pine, the Plow, and the Pioneer, a history of Three Lakes, tells how in 1908 a man named "Mr. Beerbower" caught a forty pound fighting muskelunge with his bare hands in Planting Ground Lake. The book also records that circa 1910, this same man was fatally shot on Townline Lake by one Black Mike, in a drunken argument over a woman.

Starting about 1912, the Campbell family began coming up regularly from Chicago to spend their summers near the town of Three Lakes. The campsite in the virgin stand of pines along the eastern shore of Four Mile Lake became their favorite retreat, and they eventually purchased a cabin and some land along the western shore.

When Ernest Wise had bought Lot One on the west bank, he had also acquired the small 1.3 acre island just off shore. Before Long Lake Dam (now Burnt Rollways Dam) was built on the lake chain circa 1910 and raised the water level, this island had actually been part of the mainland, and so was considered part of Lot One. In 1923, the Wises built a cabin, a storehouse, a boathouse, and sunk a well on the island.

When Ernest Wise's health began to deteriorate, the Wises sold their land on Four Mile Lake, including the island, to Sam Campbell in 1937.

When Sam bought the island, he was in his early forties, and was well into his career of animal photography and lecturing. The family's mainland properties also passed to Sam and his brother Don upon the death of the beloved "Dad" Campbell.

Dad Campbell was a kind man with a famous sense of humor. He was often known by the silly nickname "Do-dad," a name Sam invented when he once overheard Ida Cunningham say, "Oh, do, Dad!" The Cunninghams, who regarded the Campbell men as family, grieved with Sam and Don over the loss of their father, and were a great source of comfort.

The Cunningham children were quite grown up by now. They had graduated from the local high school, and Jean and Howard had attended business college in Oshkosh. Beth and Jean still enjoyed spending time at the Sanctuary, but Sam noticed with understanding and amusement that their primary interests were elsewhere. Jean was spending a lot of time with a local young man named Norman Brewster. Beth seemed to be finding a lot in common with Grant Halliday, a young photographer from Chicago who had come up to meet Sam.

The land had changed as well over the ensuing years. Slowly, the northland was beginning to heal itself of the wounds left by the logging era. By the time Sam moved onto the island, the Sanctuary was again a densely wooded paradise, teeming with wildlife. Once again the sense of wilderness prevailed.

Even so, some things would never again be the same. The Native Americans had been displaced from their own country, and their birchbark canoes no longer floated along the shores in the morning mist. The large predators and the moose were gone, too, perhaps never to return. Sam made the small cabin on "Campbell's Island" his summer home, and it became the headquarters for the whole wildlife Sanctuary. A sign hanging over the boathouse proudly proclaimed "The Sanctuary of Wegimind," and indeed, this was the island home which has captured the imagination of so many through the years.

Chapter Eight

Giny

In her heart glows a love for the living and growing things of nature.

"Come on Bobby and Howard," Sam called. "Let's go get some lunch!"

Bobby Kostka and Howard Cunningham looked up as Sam stepped out of the darkroom. They were on the island helping Sam Campbell prepare his latest moving picture, and were learning all the details of film developing, splicing, and editing.

When Sam had moved onto the island, he had converted Ernest Wise's storehouse into his workroom where he prepared his motion pictures.

The boys happily followed Sam out of the workroom. The weather had changed dramatically while they had been inside. Low, gray clouds hung low over the treetops, and a fine, chilly drizzle misted down across the north land. It was good weather for the indoor portion of Sam's work. It was also the kind of weather made for cozy cabins, warm fireplaces and good books, Sam thought as he anticipated the afternoon.

The cabin was only a short distance away from the workroom. As they came in the front door into the family room, the young lady sitting at Sam's semi-circular workdesk looked up with a smile and said, "Well, hello there, you three. Are you giving up for the day?"

"Hello, Dodie," said Sam. "How's your work coming? We decided it's time to take a lunch break. Hungry?"

Sam had employed Dorothy "Dodie" Sheets to help with the burgeoning correspondence of his business. She was another of the young people in the Octagon Club who enjoyed the outdoors and to whom Sam had given the chance to help with his outdoor work.

"Yes, I'm hungry," Dodie declared emphatically. "And I believe you deliberately left that pot of stew on the stove just to torture me all morning!" Everyone knew Sam was a good cook, and the pot of beef stew had been simmering deliciously.

As the four sat down to eat the soup, Dodie looked up with a perfectly straight and businesslike expression on her face. "Oh, by the way Sam, one of your fan letters today is from a young lady living in Chicago who heard one of your lectures last summer. She's the secretary for one of the schools where you showed your film for a lyceum. She was very, what should I say, complimentary, I guess is the word. Her name is Virginia Adams."

Sam looked up from his lunch with a quizzical expression on his face. Dodie's words made him want to laugh, but she didn't seem to be teasing. "OK, sure, I'll look at it later," he said casually.

After lunch, the three young people took their rowboat and headed back to the landing at Four Mile Lake, their work done for the day.

Sam noticed the cabin seemed awfully quiet without them. He had been looking forward to the cozy solitude of the rainy afternoon, but a strange restlessness stirred in his soul. He decided he'd better do some more work, and see if the activity wouldn't cure his restlessness. He sat down at his desk, unsure what work he should do for the rest of the day. He idly picked up the letter from the lady in Chicago and began reading it.

The wind rattled the windows of the cabin, and Sam could still hear water gurgling in the downspout. When he looked out the window at the lake, however, the rain seemed to