But never say die to a Swede. Slamming the door on death’s knock, Ted and Myrtle stepped on the gas and hightailed it up to the crisp, pure air of the Northwoods to start a new life. Scouting for property in the Sawyer County lakes region near Hayward, Wisconsin, they eventually came across the pristine, quiet beauty of Big Spider Lake.
Despite no formal training in resort management, Ted instinctively knew the realtor’s mantra: location, location, location.
He couldn’t have chosen better.
Setting his camp on a high ridge at the north end of the lake, Ted utilized its magnificent, sweeping vistas; its scattering of majestic islands; its grand moon rise on the opposite shore; its glorious sunrises; its clear, clean waters for fishing, boating, or swimming; and its sparkling views of the Milky Way, constellations, shooting stars, and the northern lights.
The view of the islands from Moody’s Camp, circa 1920s, was one of the loveliest on the lake.
With the vision of a great winged owl, Ted wisely honed in on one of the choicest spots in the area. Bequeathed with a showman’s personality, however, Ted was not about to let Mother Nature steal the whole show.
With a keen sense of entrepreneurship, Ted put a creative spin on the term “fishing camp.” Instead of the usual rough and rustic lodgings, Ted and Myrtle’s camp had elegance and class.
To their guests, “Welcome to the Northwoods” meant dining room tables covered with starched, white linen cloths set with fine china and silverware and topped with vases of sunny wildflowers; a hand-hewn log lodge decorated with great boughs of fresh, fragrant pine; a sitting room with a baby grand piano; a welcoming roaring fire in a stately fieldstone fireplace; and a host of friendly help who served and catered to every need.
The Moody’s Camp dining room, circa 1935: decorated with white tablecloths, wildflower bouquets, and pine boughs every night for dinner
Franklin and Vera Hobart Collection
Ted was a master mechanic, but he could also boast of his building skills, and along with his well designed, spacious lodge, he constructed thirteen cozy log cabins for his guests—each cleaned and tidied daily by cabin girls, warmed by wood-burning stoves, and serviced by chore boys, who, with a ring of the lodge’s cast-iron bell, came running to answer any guest’s latest need. Most of the cabins had spectacular lake views, and a few even sported screened porches cooled by pine-scented breezes.
There was no rustic grub in this camp. Guests were served three sumptuous meals a day with rotating nightly menus that included prime rib, T-bone steaks, lobster, and, on Sunday, a Swedish smorgasbord laden with an endless array of delectable homemade dishes. Fresh pies, wild woodland berries, and locally harvested maple syrup–topped sundaes concluded the feasts.
Toss in an assortment of enticing, organized activities that included picnics, nature hikes, and square dances—all of which simply required the guests to show up—and Ted and Myrtle had one hell of a “fishing camp.”
It’s no wonder the Moodys instantly built up a strong and loyal following. Although they printed alluring brochures, word of their gracious hospitality, entwined with lake and forest fun-filled activities, spread faster than a marketer’s advertising dream.
It wasn’t long before guests began returning year after year. Some liked the place so much, they decided to stay, and soon private summer cabins began to ring either side of the resort. Erle and Clara Oatman, my grandparents, were two of the first to do so.
A vintage postcard of the lodge at Moody’s Camp shows the original building before the living area was added.
Franklin and Vera Hobart Collection
Great fishing, of course, was a given. With excellent guides, a well-stocked bait house, and boats at the ready, those who came to fish were almost always guaranteed success. For those who sought other Northwoods pleasures, Ted had a few ideas up his sleeve.
Like a well-oiled rifle, he shot out enough amusing adventures to capture even the slickest of city slickers. Besides the renowned weekly square dances, there were festive lodge costume parties; hikes under the sun-dappled branches of a nearby, still-standing virgin forest; trips to the cascading amber waters of Copper Falls; and picnics on enchanting, breeze-swept islands. Guests could choose from all of the above or just laze by the lake. When all met up for the evening meal, the lodge was a cacophony of shared tales.
Ted also possessed a certain flair for the mischievous and loved a good practical joke. Although the male and female guests always dressed up for dinner—the ladies in floral silk dresses and the men in khakis and Pendleton shirts—newly arrived gentlemen, not aware of Ted’s traditions, often showed up sporting ties.
With much ado, Ted would welcome the erring gent in front of all, and then with a flourish would whip out a hefty pair of scissors and promptly cut off his tie. The newcomer was duly embarrassed, and the dining room rocked with delighted laughter.
You had to be a good sport to be around Ted because sometimes his antics were not so hilarious. With the tiny newlywed cabin built for some odd reason just yards away from the lodge, newlyweds were frequent targets of his “jokes.” Needless to say, they did not always laugh.
In addition, he liked to flirt with the ladies. With a twinkle in his eye, he was known to greet them by intoning: “I bow to the fourth button.” The ladies were charmed. Little children were equally surprised when he scooped them up into great bear hugs. With his large and domineering personality, you never quite knew what Ted would do next.
The Wednesday night T-bone steak fries, however, were his pride and joy—and an unchanging tradition. After all had been served, Ted would stride into the dining room in his tall white chef’s hat and apron and ask in his booming voice, “Izz it gooooot?”
“Noooooo!” the guests shouted back, a sure indication that the meal was a huge success.
Myrtle was Ted’s opposite, not only in stature but in temperament. Next to his imposing frame, she was as petite as a fawn. Possessed of a refined and quiet nature, Myrtle balanced Ted’s exuberance. Besides her fine cooking, especially her homemade desserts, she was an accomplished gardener. The first thing that greeted guests when they finally arrived at the lodge’s entrance was the sight of her circular, fieldstone-rimmed garden bursting with a blaze of beautiful blooms; purple phlox, golden black-eyed Susans, white daisies, and orange Turk’s-cap lilies were the mainstays.
For some reason, her garden was also home to a sturdy log pole from which hung a well-worn fish scale and hook waiting ominously for the next large monster from the deep. When a big fish did make its appearance, which was frequently, the lodge bell rang excitedly to announce the catch. At the very least, Myrtle’s garden provided an enchanting backdrop for all the fish photos and most likely softened the fishy fragrance with the perfume of posies.
Although their roles as resort hosts involved long hours and arduous work, both Ted and Myrtle always dressed as if they were about to join the party. In the early years, Ted attired himself in the fashion of the day: knickers, wool plaid shirts, and leather high-top boots. Myrtle greeted her guests in pretty voile dresses accented with sunny aprons and sturdy, white-heeled shoes. One would never know she was the kitchen supervisor and often the cook.
Ted and Myrtle Moody in front of Myrtle’s camp garden, circa 1938
Franklin and Vera Hobart Collection
Perhaps because he chose to defy death early on and start a fishing camp enterprise, Ted prominently hung a sign in the lodge’s dining room that read: “Here there is no time.”
And it was true.
One only needed to get up with the sun to know when to fish; listen for the resonating ring of the cast-iron bell to know when to show up for meals; choose whatever activity suited the moment; and fall asleep when the moon rose and stars covered the heavens.
For most of the citified guests, their real lives back home raced from one responsibility to another, but here in this Northwoods paradise—at least for a few special weeks—time stood still.
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bsp; It was only when the big bell rang its low, mournful farewell and guests piled into their cars and swung around the curve of the dusty gravel lane to head back home that they realized time had somehow marched on. And in that moment, they hung on a hope and a prayer that time would be kind and return them soon for another glorious summer.
Understanding this, Ted and Myrtle made time count. They helped their guests relish each and every precious moment that the Northwoods had to offer. It’s not surprising that they energetically operated their resort for thirty-three successful years, leaving competitors back at the campfire.
Finally, however, it became Ted and Myrtle’s turn to retire, and they sold the resort in 1955. The Moodys chose sunny Florida for their wintering grounds. It always seemed odd to picture the towering lumberjack Swede in the land of sun and seashells, but by all accounts they loved it there. It was a time to rest.
For many years after, however, the Moodys returned each summer to the cabin Ted built just outside the camp’s entrance. There he could keep an eye on all who crossed over the thoroughfare bridge and under the “Ted Moody’s Camp” sign. In addition, it was the perfect spot for annual guests and private-cabin owners, many of whom had become lifelong friends, to stop by to visit.
The camp’s entrance sign was a welcoming sight for many over the years.
Courtesy of Dick Seitz
Ironically, when Ted died in 1968, his beloved “Ted Moody’s Camp” sign, which still hung over the entrance to the resort road, blew down in a magnificent storm. Death had finally caught up to Ted. But like a wily musky avoiding the bait, Ted had outsmarted him long enough to make dreams come true—not only his and Myrtle’s, but for the many guests who visited.
For those who lived it, it was a time to keep.
Erle T. Oatman Rediscovers an Old Friend
1922–1938
“The brightest star in the Milky Way”
He loved all things beautiful.
So in 1922, when he stepped out of his open-air Buick after an arduous, two-day drive, he brushed off his long duster coat and announced to all within earshot, “This is God’s country!”
And he was right. It was a phrase my grandfather would repeat frequently over his many trips to Sawyer County, such was the beauty that greeted him.
For a man whose dairy-business slogan was “The brightest star in the Milky Way,” Erle T. Oatman knew what he was talking about. He had a keen eye for the exquisiteness of nature and an affinity for the spiritual splendor it had to offer: peace, joy, fun, solitude, friendships, awe, and wonder.
Breathing in deeply the fragrant, cool, clean air of the wind, water, and woodlands, he discovered that a love and respect for this heaven of forested lakes grew in him, a sentiment that has flowed like a river down through five generations.
His introduction to the area came, as it did for many, by way of stress. In 1912, Erle and his younger brother William were partners in a family dairy business in Dundee, Illinois, specializing in condensed milk. When World War I came along, the demand for their product skyrocketed to meet the needs of the American troops overseas. Business boomed.
In 1918, after the war ended, the entrepreneurial brothers decided to expand the business, establishing a milk distribution plant at the south end of the Fox River Valley in Aurora, Illinois. William asked Erle to serve as president and head up their new operation: Oatman Brothers Inc.
Shortly after these business transactions occurred, however, William unexpectedly died. Erle faced the daunting challenge of carrying on a new business in a new location with new partners while mourning the loss of his brother.
The solace of the Northwoods beckoned. He answered.
Gathering together a few of his business associates, Erle decided to take a fishing hiatus to the Hayward lakes region in the fall of 1922. As a neophyte to the wilderness, however, Erle needed the appropriate gear and attire, and so, before setting off, he headed into neighboring Chicago to stock up on camp essentials.
Not a man to scrimp, he selected one of Chicago’s finest department stores and outfitted himself in a complete fishing wardrobe that included the sportsmen’s fashions of the day: wool knickers; long, sturdy stockings; Pendleton shirts; and an all-purpose overcoat and cap that would come in particularly handy to ward off the dust and dirt during the rugged two-day drive in an open car. He also picked up the best of rods, reels, and lures.
He was ready, and he was dapper.
The group of friends chose Boulder Lodge near Clam Lake, run by the Scheer brothers, as their destination. They were not disappointed. After several invigorating weeks of Northwoods scenery and adventures, they returned home refreshed and renewed, bringing with them an abundance of hilarious fish tales and the desire to come back again.
As he was not a selfish man, Erle’s first impulse was to share such loveliness with his wife, Clara, and their adored young son, David, my father. Known as a generous and sensitive man, Erle knew his little family would be thrilled by the opportunity to enjoy such an appealing environment. The following summer, the closely knit trio made the trip.
They never looked back.
Returning to Boulder Lodge for several summers thereafter, they relished weeks of fishing, hiking, and exploring the area. One day, as they motored down Route 77 on one of their excursions from Boulder Lodge to Hayward in their Buick touring car, they noticed a sign for Moody’s Camp.
Erle wondered out loud if it was the same Ted Moody who had worked as a mechanic on his car when they lived in the Dundee-Elgin area and decided to turn down Murphy Boulevard to check.
My father, David, and grandfather, Erle Oatman, show off their fine stringer of fish in front of Boulder Lodge, circa 1926.
One can only speculate at the surprise and delight the two men shared upon greeting each other again in such an out-of-context setting. Ted and Myrtle proudly showed them around their camp, and the three Oatmans were smitten.
Clara especially liked the resort’s elegant accoutrements over the more rustic furnishings of Boulder Lodge, and so without much further ado, Erle made plans to stay at Moody’s the following summer. It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship between the families.
And what a discovery it was.
Erle, Clara, and David fell in love with it all: the splendor of the lake with its wild islands; the sunrises and moonrises across the bay; clear water and a sandy beach for swimming; challenging fishing; three delicious meals a day; and a bevy of interesting guests to befriend.
Clara and David were able to come north for as many as six weeks at a time, with Erle traveling back to Aurora to check on the dairy business as needed. It only took a few summers for the three to realize they wanted to stay forever.
Because of their close friendship, Ted and Myrtle offered to sell the Oatmans the first lot west of the resort. As one of the earliest private cabins built near Moody’s, the property was graced with approximately 150 feet of shoreline that included a sandy swimming area and an acre of land. Erle and Clara knew it was perfect. They could have their own private cabin and still enjoy all that the resort had to offer: the fine dining, the use of the resort’s help for chores, the fishing guides, and, most importantly, the friends. They were hooked.
And so, in the summer of 1929, Wake Robin was built. Clara designed it. Ted Moody and Hank Smith, a local Ojibwe, handcrafted it inside and out.
Clara chose to name her cabin Wake Robin, the common name for the trillium, a white wildflower that blooms abundantly across the forest floor in springtime. With its delicate, three-pronged petals and serenely striped leaves, the Wake Robin wildflower perfectly encapsulated the spirit of their picturesque little cabin.
For despite their wealth and social status back in Aurora, the Oatmans sought simplicity in the woods. Like Thoreau (of whom Clara was an ardent admirer and reader), they appreciated the quiet humbleness of being close to nature and the strong sense of God’s presence in the beauty that surrounded them. Choosing a spot high on a hill encir
cled with pine, oak, birch, and maple and with views of Big Spider’s sparkling waters and islands, the Oatmans staked out their building site. Large granite boulders gathered from local fields and chiseled into sturdy squares served as a strong foundation, while nearby forests provided the cabin’s long tamarack logs.
Clara and Erle decided a kitchen, two bedrooms, a living room with a fieldstone fireplace for warmth, and, best of all, a wind-cooled screened porch with a sleeping nook in the back were all they needed. Smith, renowned for his superb carpentry skills, hand hewed the logs and carved the chinking with the skill of an artist.
With a pump for water, kerosene lamps for light, a wood-burning stove for cooking, an icebox cooled by the previous winter’s harvested ice, and an outhouse at the back of the property, the Oatmans felt Wake Robin was as charming and comfortable as any Northwoods retreat of the day could be. Delighted, Erle added a dapper straw bowler to his camp attire and Clara a straw boating bonnet to hers.
To celebrate the cabin’s completion and the bond of their friendship, Ted presented Erle and Clara with an eight-point buck to hang over the rustic oak mantle as a housewarming gift. For all, it was a dream come true. Years of happiness beckoned.
Erle enjoyed fishing and relaxing amid the magnificence of the forest, which seemed to make the hassles of running a business quickly fade away; Clara reveled in the swimming and the birdsong that filled the air; David relished the freedom and possibilities for exploration that the woods and water offered a young boy. And eventually, when he received his very own boat as a teenager, it was the perfect place to grow into a man.
My grandparents, Clara and Erle, circa 1933, on their dock alongside their square-stern canoe with its 3½-horsepower engine
My grandfather’s 1938 fishing license
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