William Hartwell first saw the lake in September 1917. He had just returned from France, carrying more weariness than wounds. Chicago's catering business had thrived in his absence, but the city felt different now - smaller, more constraining. He needed a refuge with some distance.
He came north with three business partners. They took the train to Duluth, then another train west through cutover land to Remer. The stumps stood in rows between the tracks. Some still smoked from fires that burned underground in the root systems.
From Remer they hired a guide named Gustafson with a Model T truck modified for rough country. Chains on the rear wheels, boards bolted to the running boards for traction in mud. They drove south on logging roads cut through jack pine and spruce. The roads were two ruts with grass growing between them. Where streams crossed, corduroy bridges of logs laid side by side rattled under the truck's weight.
The country was low and rolling. Stands of birch grew where fires had cleared the pine. The birch leaves were turning yellow, trembling in the light wind. Between the trees, bracken fern covered the ground in brown masses. They passed beaver ponds where dead trees stood silver in the water. Hawks sat on the snags and watched the truck pass.
They fished three lakes the first day. The water was dark with tannin from the bogs. Pike hit their spoons near weed beds with satisfying violence. The men kept enough for supper and released the rest. They made camp on a hill where the wind kept mosquitoes down. Gustafson cooked the pike over a fire of dead pine. The fish was good with salt and the bread they had brought from town.
They came to the lake at midday. Gustafson stopped where the road ended at an old logging landing. Logs had been piled here once, dragged across the ice in winter. Now young aspens grew in the disturbed soil, their leaves catching light like coins. Beyond the aspens, the lake stretched north and south—a corridor of water between dark walls of forest.