William Hartwell first saw the lake in September 1917. He had returned from France six weeks before, his left shoulder still weak where shrapnel had torn through muscle and grazed bone. At night he woke to the sound of shells that existed only in memory. The doctors said the shoulder would heal. They said nothing about the rest.
He came north with three business partners from Chicago. Men who had stayed home, who spoke of the war as opportunity missed. They took the train to Duluth, then another train west through cutover land. The stumps stood like gravestones beside the tracks. Some still smoked from fires that burned underground in the root systems. The smell reminded him of villages after bombardment.