"Fishermen from Chicago got lesson in history" from the March 30, 1971 Door County Advocate
By NATALIE KENT
Fishermen from Chicago got lesson in history
By NATALIE KENT
"Hey, look at this gorgeous bass I caught this morning at Rowley's Bay!"
The voice awakened me from a doze in the sunshine under an old apricot tree in Peninsula park.
It was the day preceding Memorial Day last May and I had been working hard in the cemetery under the bluff where many of my ancestors were buried. Raking dead leaves, mowing grass and planting geraniums had left me exhausted.
Looking up I saw a tall man holding a fine black bass and a small woman nearby with three pickerel on a string.
I. congratulated them and invited them to sit down and enjoy a cup of coffee from my thermos jug. They both graciously accepted saying that they had an hour's time before their golfing date at the adjacent links.
I soon learned that they were residents of Chicago and had spent many summer vacations on our fair peninsula. They seemed most enthusiastic about the wild, unspoiled land and swamps around Rowley's Bay where they had been fishing.
"There aren't many spots like that left where a man can find solitude, peace, frogs, birds, fish and best of all, clean air!" remarked my new companion.
"Did you know that that peaceful environment at the tip of the thumb was once a busy community with investors buying land from as far away as Tacoma, Wash." I replied.
Amazed, he beseeched me to explain. Having read and studied much of the folklore of my native county, I tried to relate the history of Rowley's Bay as I had learned it.
We all leaned back or lay down among the golden dandelions. We could see a few blossoms on the ancient apricot tree and smell the wild roses and lily-of-the-valley on the graves in the old cemetery, where the robins were busily engaged pulling worms or singing lustily from the tree tops.
"It was in 1863 when an old eccentric by the name of Peter Rowleys came by water to that lonely spot. He longed to get away from civilization and be a hermit. He tied his skiff to a tree and built a cabin, living on venison and fish. He gave the land its name.
"His solitude, however, was eventually interrupted by a surveyor by the name of John Bink. The Indians, however, thinking he was a deserter from the army, captured him. When he failed to return to the trading post at Green Bay a man by the name of McCabe was sent out to look for him. He, in turn, left his pony, `Polly,' and making camp near Death's Door, the most treacherous waters on the Great Lakes, went on foot in search of Bink. He too was captured by the Indians.
"Polly', with provisions on her back, found her way back and in due time the two men were released from the Indians.
"Old Peter Rowleys lived through the years, 30 or 40, and died in the wilderness.
"Before long a lumber company found Rowley's Bay. The cedar was thought to be useful for posts and telegraph poles. Soon huge lumber camps were built in the wilderness and men came from the nearby cities to work. Huge piers were built jutting out into the black waters and ships came in regularly to load their cargoes.
"It was in about 1876 when a man by the name of Rogers came upon this scene. He had traded his land in Illinois for a vast 4,000 acreage in Rowley's Bay. He too built a pier, a large store, homes, recreational buildings, many homes and a large saw mill.
"But alas! Soon the big cedars were all cut off and only saplings were left. Mr. Rogers was crafty and went to Chicago to see how to unload his project. There he contacted a Mr. Mathews who conceived the idea of extracting oil out of the cedar saplings.
"He came to Rowley's Bay filled with ambition and new ideas and built a huge cedar oil factory at the northeast side. It flourished for a few years and then died out.
"Mr. Mathews left Rowley's Bay and moved to Marshfield and no more was heard of his venture.
"Mr. Rogers also became disillusioned and contacted real estate brokers in Milwaukee, who managed to trade off his swampland acres for land in Missouri.
"A certain Mr. Hanson became the owner. He decided that since his newly acquired land was neither suitable for farming or lumbering it might be a good idea to build a town there.
"Mr. Hanson went to Green Bay and had lithographs made showing wide streets, parks and avenues. He even gave them fancy names such as 'Arlington,' 'Potomac,' etc. He sold these lithographs to a Mr. Rosenstein in Chicago who in turn sold them to investors in the big city.
"In due time many of these investors traveled to Rowley's Bay to see what sort of property they had purchased. Some came to retire, to paint, and to go into business. All found wilderness and disillusionment. Soon all was abandoned and as the years went by the pickerel and bass, frogs and birds again took over."
I had completed my tale of Rowley's Bay and we all were silent, lost in thought. The robins went on pulling worms and several golfers were parking their cars.
"That was quite a story," said my friend. "I have time for one more. Did this park belong to your ancestors?"
"Yes, I went on, this land where we are now once consisted of more than 300 acres of the best land in Wisconsin. It raised thousands of bushels of grain and never once had a failure. It belonged to my great grand-father, who survived the terrible cholera epidemic which hit Eagle Island when he was a member of the immigrants led by a zealous pastor who brought them here about 1854. He cut lumber and shipped it out with his grain. He also raised fine race horses.
"He became interested in fruit trees. This apricot tree was planted by my father more than 100 years ago. It is forty feet wide at the bottom and the blossoms are so lovely; I love to come here.
"The homestead stood right here near the tree. It is gone now and so are the stables. The big granary was purchased by a millionaire from St Louis and is now fashioned into a summer home near here.
"There is the totem pole built to honor Chief Kaquados, last of the great Chief Onanguisse descendants. My father knew the chief. He often told me how the Indians would come to his home here when grandmother was baking her good bread and they would just have mush for supper.
"He also told me how one time when the Indians came hooting and dancing over the bluff and grandfather was gone she herded her family of five children quietly down to the pier, got them into the skiff, and stayed out on the bay while the Indians ravaged her pantry."
We all gazed quietly at the peaceful blue sky, the weathered tombstones, bluffs, the dying apricot tree, and at the dead fish. Quietly we shook hands, promising to meet each other again soon.
Courtesy of the Door County Library Newspaper Archive