James Oliver Curwood, Disciple of the Wilds

by Hobart Donald Swiggett

As Jim dipped his oars silently and deeply into the black waters he could not help but hear the occasional sounds of birds and wildlife about him. Yet, he was not at the place he wanted to be, the region where game was abundant. But it was part of what he was seeking. He marveled at the sounds and the scenery and was thrilled as never before.

Jim Curwood took in everything with all the awe and wonderment of youth. But soon he knew that he must stop admiring the scenery and make for his destination before nightfall caught up with him. His destination was a place where the swiftly flowing waters of the flooded Shiawassee joined those of the slow, currentless Bad. It was there that he planned to spend the night. Jim dug his oars deeper into the cold, black, silent waters of the mysterious Bad river.

As young Jim rowed along many thoughts entered his mind. He had always thought of the Bad river as an outlaw, stealing away to some dark, secret, quiet place of seclusion. In some places the longest fish poles cannot touch bottom, so deep and abysmal is it. As Jim feared it, so he loved it.

Around four o’clock in the afternoon, as the sun was beginning to set and the shadows began to drop much deeper within the thick wilderness, Jim reached the old logging cabin that he had been heading for. Upon his arrival there, he was greatly perturbed to find that only about a half an acre was above the flood waters. He landed his boat on the dry land and went ashore.

The next morning, long before the sun had made its appearance, he was well on his way. Fortunately enough for him, he did not have to go as far as he had expected, for he ran into his old friend, “Muskrat” Joe, with whom he spent that day and night.

That night Jim Curwood spent one of the merriest and most enjoyable suppers of his life as he sat by the campfire with one of the true wilderness wanderers. They laughed, and joked and told tall stories. The two spent the next five glorious days together, after which the faithful Joe invited Jim Curwood to come to his home and stay a while with him.

For four unforgettable weeks James Oliver Curwood lived the life of a swamp Indian, doing everything, and eating the same things that swamp Indians do and eat. He paddled an old dug-out canoe that had been carved from the trunk of a huge tree and ate what food the Indian offered him. Many of the dishes that the mysterious and picturesque “Muskrat” Joe cooked, most men would turn from in horror. This was not the case with Jim, however, for he ate everything. He felt that what Joe ate was good enough for him.

Perhaps the amazing part of this wilderness living with Joe was that the Indian’s home was wonderfully clean. The abode was located both on and off the river. A long, winding path covered by marsh grass led back to the actual home, if one chose to call it a home. Then, too, it could hardly be termed a cabin or shack, for it was built of tree boughs and limbs, plastered together with swamp mud and thatched over with tall, tough marsh grass. This kept the hot air out in the summer and the cold winds out in the winter.

The place itself was surrounded by an air of mystery and seclusion. It was in this wilderness outpost that Jim Curwood turned out “The Mystery Man of Kim’s Bayou.” It was here, also, that he learned more of the real heart and soul of nature, as well as the new doors opened for him in his great worship and search for nature in all of her abundance and glory.

Upon his unexpected though welcome return to Owosso, Jim told many strange and weird tales about the wilds that he had surrounded himself with during the past month or so. Upon being pressed about the material he supposedly was gathering for the editor of Golden Days Magazine, Jim merely said that he was working on it and that it would be ready in a few days.