The car doors burst open and we tumbled out. Even in the moonlight, we could see the beam of each other’s smiles. Fragrant pine air greeted us with its cool, welcoming balm. We scrambled to find that one lost shoe, then gave up in our hurry to get into the cabin.
“Don’t slam the car doors!” our father admonished.
Too late. In our rush of enthusiasm, we carelessly banged them shut.
Down the fern-lined stone-and-log steps we laughed, racing to be the first to open the leaf-strewn back door. Piling into the narrow hallway, we stood in a row in the darkness as our father searched for his key. Standing in silent unity, we breathed deeply of the musty log scent, our hearts filling with happiness.
Finally, we were here.
And then the door swung open, and we rushed into the cabin’s dim darkness.
“We get the boys’ room!” my brothers yelled.
“We get the porch!” my sister and I answered.
Spanning out, we took in all our beloved details: the green breadbox with its colorful little painted maiden dancing amid her flowers; the kitchen table tacked with its red-checkered oil cloth; the white-and-black enamel stove with its antique copper kettle and tin coffeepot waiting on the back burners for a hot brew. We peeked into the bedroom to the left with the green metal double bed and matching dresser and mirror and then skipped over to the bedroom on the right with its twin beds and twigged curtain rods draped with our grandmother’s original wooden-ringed cotton curtains.
Satiating our curiosity that all was as we had left it, on we flowed like a troop of ants into the living room, where the eight-point buck seemed to wink a welcoming smile from his mount high over the mantle. One of us slipped the leather tong latch from the heavy wooden door’s iron holder, and we streamed into the porch’s lovely dampness.
Below us glistened the moonlit waters of Big Spider Lake. From our porch perch on the hill, we heard the gentle break of waves on the shoreline calling to us with its midnight splendor.
“Can we go down to the lake?” we asked our mother.
“If you go quietly,” she said.
“Take this flashlight and watch each other,” our father added. “I’ll plug in the fuses and the lights will be on in a few minutes.”
Leaving baby Mary back with our mother, the four of us joyfully stumbled down the log steps, the leader occasionally remembering to shine the flashlight forward and backward so that we all might see and not fall. Spilling out onto our dock, we surveyed the beauty of the night. By now, the moon had climbed high into the sky, outlining the magnificence of the lovely long island stretched out in front of us; to the north rested the clear silhouette of the tiny island we’d named Sunrise Island, and far across the shore blinked the yard light from Hans Roost Resort.
Most of the cabins were sleeping quietly in the dark, so we could only wonder which lake friends might be up. As we peered intently into the moonlit water, we were reassured to see the brawny boulders that served as our stepping-stones for swimming still in their rightful place.
We always relished the chance to sail on Big Spider Lake on the Enterprise after our 450-mile drive to Wake Robin. Here we are, left to right, in the early 1960s: Nancy, Mary, me, David, and Tom.
Standing side by side in a shared sense of camaraderie, we gazed out at the dancing path of moonlight that crossed the lake to exactly where we stood on the dock, as though it were a straight link from heaven above. Tilting our heads back, we drank in the majesty of the twinkling stars sparkling against the backdrop of black velvet sky, a million times brighter than we ever saw them back home. A soft lake breeze brushed our cheeks like angel wings.
Suddenly, the lights winked on in the cabin, and our father switched on the outside light to guide our way back up.
“Come on up now,” he gently called. “It’s past 2 o’clock. We’ll unpack the car in the morning.”
Racing up the steps to our awaiting beds, we recognized even as young children, how blessed we were to be back again. Abounding gratefulness was our prayer as we climbed into chilly sheets under wool World War II blankets. Soon the quiet calm of the forest enfolded us, and the steamy cornfields that initiated our long odyssey vaporized like a dream into the cool night air.
A loon’s lullaby filled the night. As we drifted off to sleep, we knew a peace like none other.
Moody’s Camp Changes Hands
The Dick and Lucile Seitz Era, 1955–1967
“To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.”
—Henry David Thoreau
It was their dance.
Like two shimmering dragonflies, they swirled with ease around the makeshift dining room dance floor to the lilt of a lively waltz.
The scent of the fresh pine boughs that graced the ceiling’s log beams drifted through the warm, moist air as square-dancing guests from the resort and neighbors from around the lake settled into clustered hickory-backed chairs hoping to catch their breath and be cooled by lake air drifting through the open windows.
Gradually, the chatter of these onlookers subsided as they became mesmerized by the lone couple on the floor. Within a few moments, the only sound was the strumming of the band—accordion, guitar, and drums—and the soft slide of the dancers’ shoes.
Tall and lean, he held her firmly in his arms, his gentle blue eyes locked into hers as they glided effortlessly around the room. Her pleated petticoat skirts swirled and swished with each graceful step. Occasionally they both glanced away to smile at their guests, but mostly they looked at each other.
Even this ten-year-old girl recognized something special was happening, for as the two dancers floated across the maple wood floor to the accordion melody, they emanated a sense of love and delight that would be hard to miss in this Northwoods setting.
For them, such intimate moments must have been all too brief. For tomorrow they would be up with the sunrise’s first golden light, facing the daunting demands of running a resort.
But tonight they danced.
It would not be far-fetched to claim that joy awaited all who journeyed to Moody’s Camp. When Dick and Lucile Seitz bought the camp from the Moodys in 1955, they carried on the treasured traditions that Ted and Myrtle had created.
On went the scrumptious American meal plan—served on white linen tablecloths with wildflower centerpieces—that would rival a five-star restaurant; the bounteous Sunday Swedish smorgasbord with tables laden with a symphony of foods including lutefisk, ham, rice pudding, and an endless array of mouthwatering salads and desserts; the hearty Saturday night prime rib dinner that welcomed arriving guests after a wearying day of travel; the Friday night fish dinner that, unlike the fish fry of today, boasted fried shrimp or butter-drenched lobster tail.
On went the Wednesday night square dances with their joyful music; the highly successful fishing guide services; and the Saturday noon cookouts that sent the smoky scent of burgers on the fieldstone grill wafting through the woods and across the water, drawing salivating guests in from the lake and forest to picnic tables bedecked in red-checked cloths and topped with enough potato salad, deviled eggs, baked beans, and chocolate cake to feed an army.
Lucile and Dick Seitz present one of their fine Sunday smorgasbords at Moody’s Camp, circa 1950s.
Courtesy of Dick Seitz
And on went the same personal service that guaranteed guests a restful or adventurous stay, depending on each individual’s desires.
Only thirty-two years old when he made the leap from engineer at an Ohio firm to Northwoods resort owner, Dick Seitz, along with his beautiful wife, Lucile, brought an energetic youthfulness to the camp. Dick possessed a serene demeanor, while Lucile, who my grandmother Clara thought looked exactly like the actress Rita Hayworth, added a dash of glamour with her good looks and engaging smile. Together they made the perfect Northwoods hosts.
No one would have guessed they were novices.
When Dick heard about Moody’s from a coworker who frequently vacationed there, he and Lucile
decided to check it out. It was the fall of 1954. Shortly thereafter, they learned Moody’s was for sale.
“We had been looking at several properties in the Hayward area,” Dick explained. “But Moody’s came closest to what we wanted.” They took the bait.
“We found it all very appealing, especially the musky fishing. We thought we could run the resort and just musky fish at our leisure,” he continued. “It didn’t work out that way.”
Leaving Ohio with no regrets, the Seitzes blew into the resort business on the blustering winds of March along with their three young children, Sharon, eleven, Kay, eight, and Doug, five. With only two months to learn the ropes before the forest floor exchanged its melting snows for carpets of white trillium and the first fishermen of musky season arrived, they plunged in.
“I had no knowledge of running a resort,” Dick admitted.
Their guests and the private cabin owners who tapped into their services and hospitality would never know it. The Seitzes seamlessly transferred their gifts of organization, efficiency, and charm to the already successful establishment that the Moodys had created.
In addition to all her resort duties, Lucile Seitz occasionally found time for fishing. Here she proudly displays her trophy-sized musky, circa late 1950s.
Courtesy of Dick Seitz
There was only one major tradition that Lucile nixed early on.
“She switched Ted’s T-bones for the Wednesday night steak fry to New York strip steaks because she thought there was too much waste,” Dick explained. “She and Ted had a falling out over it.”
Even though Ted had agreed to help out with the transition that first year, Dick said the steak dispute put a wedge between them, and the Seitzes were mostly on their own.
It didn’t matter. Like all the other obstacles they would encounter in running a resort, the Seitzes were up to the challenge. To all who knew them, it seemed there was nothing Dick and Lucile couldn’t do.
Did you want to fish? Dick made sure the bait tanks were stocked, sold fishing gear and licenses from the corner office, and arranged for guide service.
Did you want to go canoeing down the Namekagon River? Lucile packed a scrumptious picnic fit for royalty drifting down the Nile: fresh sandwiches; sweet, dribble-down-the-chin peaches; hard-boiled eggs; homemade chocolate chip cookie bars; and thermoses filled with cold lemonade went along for the ride.
Need a pickup from the overnight train coming in from Chicago to the Stanberry train station 25 miles away at 5:00 a.m.? No problem. Long before the train’s early morning whistle announced its approach, Dick was there waiting in the camp’s station wagon. You could count on it.
No matter the need, Dick and Lucile met it with a graciousness that camouflaged the myriad responsibilities already on their to-do list. Top of that list was to create a haven of delight for all who visited, and a lot of times that involved carrying on through the unexpected.
“When we had big storms, the power would go out, which meant there was no cooking or water available,” Dick said. “And sometimes guests would let me know late at night that there were bats flying around in the cabins, and I had to attend to that.”
Despite the surprises, Dick and Lucile kept the camp running efficiently for their guests. In addition, they were often on call for the unanticipated needs of the neighboring private cabin owners. Take, for example, the phone call Dick received late one night from a saloon in the town of Winter.
It was Woody, my mother.
When our car broke down on one of our twelve-hour driving odysseys to the cabin, my mother, alone at the wheel, knew exactly whom to call.
Stranded with the five of us kids ages twelve through two plus a sixteen-year-old babysitter, Woody politely refused the offer of several of the bar’s patrons to drive us in their separate cars to our cabin more than 30 miles away. Unwilling to split us up, she called Dick instead.
“Woody, what are you doing in Winter at this time of night?” he asked in sleepy amazement.
It was his only response. He assured her he’d be there as soon as he could.
Under the curious stares of the barstool strangers, we kids waited in the saloon’s smoky darkness quietly playing cards in a sticky booth to hide our unease. Thankfully, within the hour Dick was there. A man of few words, he calmly heaved the luggage of seven people from our station wagon into his. By the time we had stashed all the necessities that the backend could hold and squished all eight of us into the remaining space, it was well past midnight. Riding sleepily on each other’s laps down dark forest roads, we silently gave a prayer of deep thanks for the familiar face of our rescuer. With Dick at the wheel, we knew we were safe.
Of course, mixed in with all these unforeseen events were the ongoing chores of the camp’s daily maintenance. When it was cold, Dick kept fires—the only heat for the lodge—burning continuously in the lodge’s two fireplaces. When it rained, which it frequently did, he saw to the huge chore of bailing the camp’s fifteen wooden Hayward-made Peterson Brothers boats. They either had to be bailed by hand using an old coffee can or dragged, waterlogged, onto a sling-type harness, cranked up, and then flipped over to dump the water out.
When the hot sun shone, he patiently pulled an endless slew of excited kids behind the camp’s 35-horsepower ski boat down to the end of the lake and back for the bargain fee of a dollar a ride.
And for the fishing guests, of whom there were plenty, he saw to it daily that the boats and motors were always in top-notch running condition.
“Every spring the boats had to be painted,” Dick explained. “We then sank them in the lake to make them swell so they wouldn’t leak.
“We started out with 3½-horsepower motors, eventually upgraded to 5 horsepower, and finally ended up with 7½ horsepower, which was considered a big motor at the time.”
In between these duties, he oversaw the camp’s office, selling an assortment of candy, pop, beer, bait, resort gear, and fishing licenses; managed the resort’s billing accounts; and attended to the maintenance of the buildings and grounds.
Although Lucile had some experience in the restaurant business, she had her hands full running the kitchen and overseeing a staff that included a main cook, a pastry cook, four waitresses, an office person who subbed as a hostess, and one or two chore boys. In addition, she arranged for the cleaning of the thirteen cabins, oversaw the laundry, and on Wednesday nights did the cooking herself.
Supplies had to be constantly replenished: meats ordered from Sylas Products, dairy goods purchased from the Russell Creamery Dairy, and fresh produce fetched from Hayward farmers.
Help was often hard to find and keep. All three Seitz children joined in the work; Sharon and Kay, young as they were, waitressed from day one, announcing the daily specials and taking all orders from memory. Doug filled in as chore boy—his signal being two rings from the kitchen’s cast-iron bell—doing miscellaneous jobs that included swatting at lodge bats with a badminton racket for a nickel per success.
Lucile hired college girls or local Ojibwe girls to clean the cabins but frequently found herself short of help. Late one summer, when desperate, she even approached my sister Nancy and me, then seventeen and fourteen, to fill in for a three-week stint. We jumped at the chance. Dick often had to take over the cleaning in the fall when the college girls went back to school.
With no rest for the weary, the Seitzes kept this ongoing service and hospitality running from March to mid-October, when the last of the musky fishermen headed home.
“We just hoped the pipes didn’t freeze before the season’s end,” Dick said.
Over various falls and winters, Dick built a number of additions to the lodge, including the screened-in-porch and the dining room buffets. Every spring, he tapped trees on Sugar Bush Lane and boiled the sap over an open fire in a big cast-iron cooker down to more than 60 gallons of maple syrup.
It’s no wonder that with the combination of such an elegant Northwoods setting and the Seitzes’s gracious service
and engaging personalities, the resort boasted a return rate of 85 percent. At the height of the season, the Seitzes were serving one hundred people dinner every night.
Despite such success, running a resort was not a huge money-maker.
For $12.50 a day or $84 a week per person, guests received a daily cabin cleaning, three outstanding meals, and laundry services. Boats rented for $1 a day; $3 included the gas and oil.
Dick and Lucile’s Wednesday noon cookouts prepared over the fieldstone fireplace by the resort’s tennis courts were among the highlights of the summer in the 1950s and ’60s.
Courtesy of Dick Seitz
“I could have made more money in war bonds,” Dick concluded.
Looking back, it should have come as no surprise that such a workload over a twelve-year period would eventually become overwhelming. In addition to the resort work, during the 1960s Dick and Lucile took on the running of the Telemark ski shop in the winter, with duties that included flying to New York as buyers.
“It all got to be too much,” Dick said. “We were operating thirteen months a year doing double duty, and then Lucile had a heart attack.”
Yet, no one could have predicted the news that greeted us on that sunny spring morning in 1967 as we exited our church in Aurora, Illinois.
“Did you hear the Seitzes sold the resort?” asked Vera and Franklin Hobart, my parents’ lifelong friends whose family cabin was on Big Spider Lake as well.
I felt like a wave of cold water had just slapped me in the face. How could that be? What happened? Who bought it? We all were shocked beyond words.
Never in our wildest imagination had we envisioned that the Seitzes would ever leave. They were the embodiment of all that resort owners should be: consistent, loyal, kind, good, dependable, and, most especially, fun. Beyond the great fishing, the beautiful scenery, the wonderful meals, it was their friendship that made the resort the paradise it was.
In my mind’s eye, it is still one of those unexpected moments in time that are never forgotten. And even though I was only seventeen, I knew instinctively it would never be the same.
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