James Oliver Curwood, Disciple of the Wilds

by Hobart Donald Swiggett

It was a grand and glorious thrill for the boy. It gave him a feeling of satisfaction and immense pride. No longer would he have to borrow a bicycle. Now he had his own, and it was the newest and best bicycle in all of Owosso.

On the very day that Jim became the proud owner of the new bicycle he began planning for a long trip. He decided, after some reflection, to travel southward.

Fortunately enough, Jim’s parents had no serious objections to his plans, so, upon completing his itinerary, he made ready to start on his travels early the following morning. His first stop would be at his cousin’s, Bert Van Ostran, seventeen miles away. Father Curwood reached down into his pocket and extracted fifty cents which he gave to his youngest boy, and then Mrs. Curwood packed him a good lunch.

After the discussion of the trip had come to an end the family prepared for bed. Jim urged his parents not to see him off in the morning, for he expected to be on his way at the first crack of dawn. The elder Curwoods doubted very strongly, however, that he would even be out of bed by dawn, let alone being well on his way peddling a bicycle. For to reach cousin Bert’s home, Jim would have to peddle over seventeen miles of the worst gravel roads. So they made no objections, slyly believing that the whole trip would come to naught.

But Mr. and Mrs. Curwood did not realize to what extent the adventure blood was surging through their son’s veins. They did not realize the yearning that Jim held in his youthful heart for the open skies where the stars shone down in glittering millions. They did not know of the love their son bore in his heart for the winding, steep trails, the blazing campfires or the countless spots along the streams where one could lie and dream upon the green turf while one’s fish pole would dangle idly in the cool green depths. No, Mr. and Mrs. Curwood did not stop to think of this. Perhaps it is better they had not known, for it might have resulted in a great and most unwelcome change in Jim Curwood. A change that might have eliminated him from the ranks of the world’s greatest adventure writers.

By the first gleams of breaking dawn as the sun awakened to start a new day, Jim Curwood was well on his way to his cousin’s home seventeen miles distant. One may only guess at the surprise that his parents must have experienced when they discovered that the boy was gone.

Jim pedaled his heart out and reached Bert’s home the same afternoon.

Hardly had he arrived than he was explaining his scheme to cousin Bert. Up until this time Jim had not spoken to anyone concerning the plan that had been hatching in his brain. From all indications it was merely to have been a short bike trip of seventeen miles and no further. Bert was in complete agreement, and that night the boys sat in Bert’s room and drew up their secret plans long after their elders had turned in for the night—plans that would open up new roads of adventure for them.

The following morning the boys were up early, and by the time the sun rose they were on their way, their bike racks loaded and their luggage tight.

As any nature lover, any adventurer or any traveler knows, there is no holding back, no barring of the path when one hears the call to nature and wildlife. There is no one to bar your path and say that you cannot go here and you cannot go there. You are free to go where you please and when you please. The passport to adventure is the love of nature.