Days of Freedom, Nights of Campfires

The first time we looked upon great waters together, I was far too young to comprehend their immensity. In fact, the event precedes my memory. But looking at the black-and-white photograph my mother took of us—my dad squatting down to support me, a toddler of 15 months, standing on the rocky banks of the Nipigon River—I can’t help but wonder about the significance of that moment.

Dim as my awareness of the world then, did something powerful and profound there, on the North shore of Lake Superior, move my human spirit? Did some pounding of surf on the rocky coast, or a melody of a Wood Thrush inland, or a heady aroma of balsam and cedar imprint its beauty on me?

Truly, that first family vacation in September 1961 was a great way to begin a life of adventure and enjoyment of natural beauty. It makes a quaint picture in the mind – Mom (six months pregnant with my sister Rene) and Dad in the front seat of the Dodge Rambler station wagon; me in the back, sleeping, or fussing, or playing happily – stopping at cafes, overnighting in motels, picnicking at scenic overlooks along the coast of Lake Superior on Ontario Highway 17.

That was the start of a long line of family vacations to come, classic American road trips through the wide-open spaces of the American West, the Great Smoky Mountains, the Blue Ridge, and the Ozarks. So, my sister and I had the great fortune to see a good deal of America through the large side and rear windows of a succession of Chevrolet sedans, as well as from the tables of many small-town cafes, and from the veranda of the now almost extinct motel, the kind where you back your car up to your own private door.

A father and son project: Full Scribe Scandinavian log cabin built by Ralph and Randall Schwalbach.

PHOTO CREDIT RANDALL P. SCHWALBACH

Yes, we loved those trips. We saw great natural beauty in the very best of America’s National Parks. We hiked trails, rested at scenic overlooks, and one time we rode horses for five days in the Flat Tops Wilderness in Colorado. I recall miles of smiles during those great family times.

But of all the things that meant so much to me as a boy and young man, the greatest was our own cabin in the woods!

I was seven years old, my sister was six, when Mom and Dad embarked on this truly personal and enduring project. Actually, I believe the seed was planted when my father was ten years old, when he stayed with his parents in a cabin on a little lake near Wild Rose, Wisconsin. Twenty years later, he found 80 acres for sale nearby, and the day he drove that two-rut sand road to the future site of our cabin, I can only imagine his excitement and the beautiful thoughts swirling in his mind of the new possibilities for his family there.

Indeed, we had crossed a threshold, ready to fall into a beautiful rhythm of days of freedom and nights of campfires.

As Mom and Dad labored at cabin building, Rene and I spent jubilant hours romping around, twirling on a tire swing, chasing chipmunks, shooting BB guns and bows, collecting pine cones and spreading parachute seeds from the pods of milkweed in the front field. Some days we pedaled our bikes to the nearby trading post for treats and toys. Rene liked to play pioneer at the hand pump, and she fashioned her own little “kitchen” at the cement block washstand, where she crushed the fragrant stems of grasses gone to seed. We did our best to stay out of the way of the serious work of our parents, who we knew would soon take a break to join us in a fun adventure.

We eagerly anticipated the daily swims at nearby little lakes and the scavenger hunts for fieldstones in the ditches. Mom would get so excited when we found ones that were the perfect size and shape for the fence she took on as her pet project. Evenings, we drove the backroads to look for deer. Mom offered a nickel to the first one to spot a deer, a dime for a buck! Normally, she had to pay herself; she was a real ace at deer spotting. In the back seat, windows rolled down, Rene and I loved the air rushing in, refreshing us after the long, warm day.

Young Mara Steven learned camp re building from her grandfather, Ralph Schwalbach.

PHOTO CREDIT RANDALL P SCHWALBACH

And all day long we had prepared for the great event: the campfire. I really liked helping build these. In fact, Rene and I specialized in collecting the tinder and kindling throughout the day. So, when Dad struck the match, and the smoke rose from the sputtering tinder, the sparks flew, and flames began to lick the larger fuel, we took great pride.

Yes, as good as the warm summer days can be, they don’t compare to the nights, especially when it cools off a bit, and bats swoop and dip, and fireflies flash, and crickets chant. If the bugs weren’t too bad, we would walk up the hill to look at the stars and constellations. It almost seemed a shame to go to bed. We’d come back to the campfire and squat down like mountain men or cowboys and stare at the glowing embers, in awe of it all.

Finally, we’d all surrender to exhaustion and go inside to prepare our beds. We could hear the sound of moths bumping into the window screens as we climbed into our flannel-lined summer sleeping bags. The sound quit as Dad turned off the lights. I loved how safe I felt up in the loft with Dad. It smelled so good up there, too, with the sweet scent of new lumber. There just was no place I’d rather be. It was Heaven.

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Many folks understand that the point of having a cabin is to spend as little time as possible inside it. You need it for shelter and sleep, naturally, but you live outdoors. The cabin launches you into a world of possibilities, which often includes a pathway into the silent sports. And nothing complements a cabin in the woods better than a canoe ready for action!

Dad kept his 15-foot Grumman canoe ready for action any ice-free day of the year, and anytime that aluminum hull rode atop a car, I knew we were in for another adventure. I knew that canoe from even before the cabin days, as a very little boy learning how to fish. I have almost no memory of fishing from shore, as most kids do. Going fishing meant going canoeing!

Mom was never as keen on water sports as Dad, but she acclimated to day trips on gentle rivers, becoming quite competent in the bow. She developed a unique style, enabling her to mostly handle the canoe while Dad fished or hunted in the stern. In fact, Dad would bow hunt deer from the stern with his Bear “Grizzly” recurve while Mom guided the 15-foot Grumman slowly around the luscious green alder-studded bends.

Dad introduced me to stream fishing for trout when I was thirteen. We did this from the canoe. And one magic afternoon on the Little Wolf River, we heard the siren of fast water, dancing water that bathed us in its own mist. That was it. We joined in the dance.

Without any formal instruction, we plunged ahead, literally. We wore out the binding of the guidebook “Whitewater, Quietwater” as we looked for the best rivers in Wisconsin. We punched holes in the hulls of two Grumman canoes, repaired them, had a custom spray cover sewn for the 17-footer, got wetsuits, helmets, and even a 125cc Yamaha motorcycle for a shuttle vehicle.

We ventured to Canada with the canoe right after my high school graduation. For six magical weeks, we paddled rivers in Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta. For normal people, that probably would have been enough, but for us it just seemed to whet our appetites for more – for wilder country and longer trips. Two years later, we made a fabulous 98-day quest to Alaska and the Yukon. Everything we did there, we self-outfitted. We paddled, hiked mountains, fished, and hunted to our hearts’ content.

And Mom was always behind us 100 percent.

During the following two decades, Dad and I continued our search for great waters and far horizons. In all, we made eight more long river trips in Ontario and Manitoba— just the two of us, self-outfitted as usual. Plus, we spent a delightful month in the Everglades and the Okefenokee Swamp one winter.

Dad was 65 years old when we made our final long Canadian canoe trip. Then we sailed Lake Superior for five summers in a 27-foot Catalina. In the meantime, he became a volunteer instructor for the Milwaukee Community Sailing Center. He did that for 25 years, finally retiring at the end of last summer, at age 90. He still rides a bicycle. Recently, we rode twelve miles together through Neenah and Menasha.

Speaking of retirement, Dad retired from professional life as a municipal building code enforcement officer at age 59. Mom was an executive assistant, retiring at 62. They used their new freedom to pass the torch to their two grandchildren and, more recently, to their four great-grandchildren.

Ralph Schwalbach, age 91, hiking the Ice Age Trail in Waushara County, WI.

PHOTO CREDIT RANDALL P. SCHWALBACH

Perhaps you have seen them somewhere along the Ice Age Trail, on a ski slope in Michigan, at a Scout campout, riding their bikes on a Wisconsin state trail, exploring a National Park, or even out on the polka dance floor. What is their secret to success?

I think it’s this: Whatever you do, do it heartily, never in moderation, always giving thanks to God. Never stop enjoying your days of freedom or nights of campfires!