James Oliver Curwood & Michigan conservation

By Mike VanBuren
From the Early September 2013 North Woods Call

    I’ve never been sure what medieval-style castles have to do with conservation and north woods action-adventure stories.
    But it’s something I puzzle over whenever I pass through the lower Michigan community of Owosso and see the unusual writing studio built by early 20th Century novelist James Oliver Curwood on the banks of the Shiawassee River.
     Curwood was famous for his lifelong interest in the outdoors and the riveting stories he penned about nature, romance and the struggles of fictional heroes and heroines living in the far north.  He was among the best-selling American novelists of his era—certainly the highest paid—with his literary creations appearing in  magazines, books, stage productions and early motion pictures.
      Yet, in 1922—while seeking a quiet retreat to do his writing and meet with business associates—Curwood constructed what is now known as the “Curwood Castle,” a fairy tale bit of architecture more reminiscent of the European Middle Ages than the harsh wilds of North America.
      Go figure.
   Maybe Curwood wanted to stand out among his Shiawassee County neighbors, or—as some have said—fulfill his romantic notions of an inspiring place to write his stories.  He was far from commonplace himself and may have longed for something unique to match his personality.
     Regardless of the reason, the castle is somewhat symbolic of Curwood’s crusade for the conservation of Michigan’s wildlife, forests, lakes and streams.  Among other things, he was suspicious of the Michigan Department of Conservation’s ability to manage natural resources, and believed that political patronage was interfering with effective enforcement of the state’s game and fish laws.
     Simply put, he didn’t think that the Michigan Conservation Commission and the bureaucrats hired to protect the resources were doing their jobs. You might even say that Curwood saw the state’s conservation system as a kind of contemporary feudalism where political favors were given to special interests in exchange for their loyalty to politicians.
     The Department of Conservation, he said, was being diverted from its original purpose into a political machine, which had for its aim the spending of money where it would do the most good—for politicians.
    Sound familiar?
     The Curwood Castle—actually a replica of a Norman chateau—was built rather late in the author’s life, just four years before he died in 1927 at the age of 49 from an infection related to what is believed to have been a spider bite.  Likewise, Curwood’s zealous dedication to conservation—capped by his own appointment to the Conservation Commission in 1926—blossomed during the last decade of his life.
     Prior to that, by his own admission, he was a wanton killer of animals and had numerous big-game trophies hanging on the walls of his Owosso home to prove it.  All that changed, however, during a hunting trip to the Canadian Rockies, where he stalked a large grizzly bear he named Thor.  Curwood reportedly tried to kill the animal three times in three weeks—seriously wounding it—until Thor approached him one day on a rocky ledge high on the side of a cliff and Curwood slipped and fell, breaking his gun.
     The bear reared up on its hind legs, as if it were going to attack the terrified hunter, then turned and walked away with a low growl.  Curwood couldn’t believe he had escaped near certain death and returned home committed to the conservation of wildlife, rather than to its destruction.
    Of course, he wrote a story about the incident—published in 1916 as “The Grizzly King”—in which he said, “Thor was not, like man, a murderer.”
   Going  forward,  Curwood began to campaign publicly about the virtues of conservation.
     “I  have  ceased  to  be  a  destroyer, as I once destroyed,” he  said, “and my ruling passion is to help wild things to live, from flowers and trees and birds and beasts to man himself, rather than to indulge further in the dominant sport of my species—extermination.”
     Curwood spent much time enjoying Michigan’s outdoor resources and owned several cabins, including one along the Au Sable River near Roscommon that was later expanded into a lodge said to have  once hosted the likes of California newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst.
     Under the administration of then Michigan Gov. Fred Green, Curwood saw some notable successes in his campaign for conservation, although neither the governor nor  fellow Conservation Commission members were ready for all of the  major reforms he proposed.
     His legacies include pushing through the commission a resolution supporting the purchase of a stand of virgin white and Norway pine near Grayling, which later became the showpiece of Hartwick Pines State Park.  Perhaps more importantly, Curwood significantly moved public debate toward the conservation of Michigan’s natural resources and built support for many related policies and programs that followed.
     He wanted to limit, or even close, certain hunting seasons, and he was interested in stocking streams and game preserves, as well as reforestation.
     “Conservation is not simply a matter for the hunter and fisherman,” he said.  “Our very lives and future prosperity depend on it.”
     In a letter to noted Michigan conservationist P.S. Lovejoy, Curwood said, “We must save what we already have and then look ahead to what we can achieve in the next 50 or 100 years.”
     Unfortunately, after his death, many of the things Curwood fought for—especially when it comes to separating partisan politics from conservation—have been routinely sidestepped.
      For the crusading author, however, it was largely a spiritual quest that can only be ignored at our peril.
     “Nature is my religion,” he said, “The great goal I want to achieve is to take my readers with me into the heart of this nature. I love it and I feel that they must love it—if I can only get the two acquainted.”