Jean Elaine Schultz About 2,500 words
325 High Street
Marquette, MI 49855-4203
Tel 906/228-5257






LEGACY OF LOGS AND BOARDS—A GRAND CAMP’S UNFINISHED JOURNEY by J. E. Schultz

For many visitors to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, the UP is a special place that shelters their dreams. Burned-out downstate “trolls,” over-worked Wisconsin “cheese heads,” stressed-out Illinois fast-trackers—all see the UP as an unspoiled land where they can finally be alone, and perhaps even rescue their sanity. And so the searchers come: disaffected, yearning, out of touch with the feel of nature. If they could just find a wooded parcel off the beaten path . . . they would build a cabin there, and find peace among the whispering trees, the wildlife, and the clear cool water.
So it was nearly one hundred years ago, when a Chicago millionaire built a vacation shangri-la in the UP. Like today’s urban escapees, Cyrus McCormick wanted to disappear into another world. But even by contemporary standards, the splendid retreat he created was an ultimate “cabin in the woods.” Tucked away on a remote forest island, his log cabin estate formed the center of a little-known Upper Peninsula “grand camp.”
Marquette businessman Richard Hendricksen dismantled the long-abandoned McCormick Grand Camp cabins over a decade ago, and in doing so saved them from destruction. Yet the threat of oblivion remains; until a relocation site can be found, his work of historical preservation remains unfinished. But long ago Hendricksen decided that the McCormick cabins were worth his time and effort: although the setbacks have been disappointing, for now he’s willing to wait.
Nearly a century ago, Cyrus H. McCormick had also made a decision, and he certainly possessed the means to do it. According to Marquette regional historian Fred Rydholm, at one point the McCormicks were rumored to be the wealthiest family in America, which would put them in the same league as today’s computer billionaire Bill Gates.
Like Gates, the McCormick family amassed a fortune with the invention and shrewd marketing of a new technology: in their case, the mechanical reaper. This innovation revolutionized farming methods, and made the McCormick Harvester Company a major force in American business. Cyrus H. McCormick, heir to this company and its dazzling fortune, could have done anything and gone anywhere. But in 1904, the reaper baron quietly began to buy some of the finest land in the central U.P. Eventually encompassing 26 square miles of forest and freshwater, including the headwaters of several rivers, numerous waterfalls, and over a dozen sparkling lakes, his holdings are now part of the Ottawa National Forest and known as the McCormick Wilderness. Within this green abundance, McCormick and his business partner Cyrus Bentley chose a site for their camp: a small island on what became known as White Deer Lake.
According to Rydholm, McCormick and Bentley followed Marquette entrepreneur J.M. Longyear’s philosophy of what rewarding camping should be: “All the comforts of home with the wilderness at your doorstep.” Top-notch log men and carpenters took all the time they needed constructing a complex of buildings, which by 1910 consisted of five log cabins—Library Cabin, Living Room Cabin, Beaver Cabin, Ladies or Birch Cabin, and the Chimney Cabin or Main Lodge.
Detailed with antique window glass, hardwood floors, and crafted walls of birch, cedar, pine and maple, the rustic cabin interiors were comfortable yet luxurious. Outside, hand-carved porches and decks led to slate and wooden walkways that meandered from one tree-shaded yard to the next; beyond were the boat docks and tennis court.
The wealthy nature lovers designed and positioned each cabin to not only capture the sunlight and scenic vistas, but to harmonize with the surrounding wilderness. Hendricksen maintains that it’s this careful synthesis with nature, together with the painstaking artistry of the log craft, that gave the camp an aura of creative perfection. In the end, the island retreat became as much a part of White Deer Lake as the pines, the moss, and the cry of the loon.
A retreat in the grand camp tradition was a self-sufficient complex of log structures. Accordingly, secondary “support” cabins were built on the mainland, including one that housed the camp’s employees. Among other tasks, these workers prepared meals, cleaned the rooms, groomed the trails, guided the hikers, and conveyed guests to and from the railway station at the small town of Champion.
Beyond the camp, 80 miles of groomed and bridged trails led McCormick, Bentley, and their guests to the many scenic points of interest on the vast estate. Weary hikers often found a bench at these destinations, where they could rest and enjoy the view.
To safeguard their privacy and quiet, McCormick and Bentley kept a very low profile in the area. Few local people were aware of the camp’s construction, and its location was a secret from the public for years. “They even had the road going up there taken off the state map,” says Rydholm.
When Cyrus H. McCormick died in 1936, his son Gordon inherited the White
Deer Lake camp. The eccentric Gordon cherished the secluded forest refuge, and took an active interest in the monthly reports of the on-site, year-round maintenance staff. But not once during the last twenty years of his ownership did he come to visit.
Knowing Gordon McCormick had no heirs, many organizations wanted to acquire his property. Continues Rydholm, “Northern Michigan University tried to get it. The Boy Scouts and the Wilderness Society tried to get it.” But when Gordon died in 1967, he willed his entire holdings in the Upper Peninsula to the United States Forest Service.
Over the next 15 years, this federal agency tried to divest itself of the camp on White Deer Lake. Unsuccessful in attracting a buyer interested in maintaining the the cabins or using them as a retreat, the Forest Service sought someone to dismantle and remove them off the island. Says Rydholm, “They had one bidder who bid $150. He came up and looked them over and got cold feet.“ As a last resort, the Forest Service announced in 1983 that unless the island cabins were bought and removed, they would burn them to the ground.
The rescuer of the McCormick cabins came from a very different background than the privilege and wealth of the McCormicks. One of six children, Richard Hendricksen, now 48, grew up in modest circumstances in downstate Big Rapids, where his father ran a small business. When he was 12, tragedy struck the close-knit family when his mother died of leukemia. Shortly after high school, he and a partner ran a successful maple syrup business. Then in 1977, on the promise of work to be had, Hendircksen followed a friend to the UP and decided to stay.
1983 found him searching for redirection. The year was turning out badly for him: his dog had died and he was going through a divorce. There were financial worries as well, and the stress of starting a new career as a real estate broker. Hendricksen needed a new adventure, but he couldn’t have predicted the turn his life was about to take.
“I was younger then—I had a lot of energy,” he recalls, regarding his decision to save the McCormick cabins. On a Labor Day excursion to White Deer Lake in 1983, it was love at first sight. Impulsively, he swam out to the island and inspected each abandoned masterpiece. After years of neglect by the Forest Service, the buildings were slowly falling apart. Some of the roofs leaked, grass grew on two of them, and corners of the Library and Birch cabins had rotted away due to rain. Despite this damage and the expired bidding deadline, Hendricksen appealed to the Forest Service. “I bought them out of blindness,” he says, “because I was desperate. I couldn’t let them burn. I offered them $100, because that’s all the money I had.” The Forest Service countered with an even lower offer. For $10 a structure, Richard Hendricksen was granted the privilege and responsibility of removing the cabins from the McCormick Wilderness within two years. If he failed, the Forest Service would proceed with the burning.
Realizing the seriousness of his undertaking, the new owner formed an advisory committee to help with decision-making. He also tried to get some work done that fall, but became quickly frustrated. “There was the problem of getting the logs across the island to the mainland, and the problem of finding money to hire people to help me,” he recalls.
Fortunately, the winter of 1983-84 gave him a chance to organize his thoughts and build strength for the challenges to come. Alone at White Deer Lake, Hendricksen pondered and planned, and absorbed the wild essence of his surroundings. One night he dragged his bed onto the frozen lake and slept there—while it snowed. “The silence worked on me,” he remembers. “It cleared my mind and convinced me I could make this work.”
Making the project work meant finding a new use for the crumbling retreat. Hendricksen returned from his winter at White Deer Lake convinced that the McCormick cabins were a fascinating and tangible link to the long-vanished abundance of the past. Repaired and relocated, they would succeed as a multi-faceted tourist attraction: historic, educational, artistic, entertaining, and inspiring.
The following spring, despite the lack of a trained crew and heavy equipment, his race to dismantle and remove the camp began in earnest. “The Forest Service didn’t think I could do it,” he recalls. “No one thought I could do it.” Going into debt to cover bare-bones expenses, he endured back-breaking labor, physical injuries, poverty, bugs, and bad weather.
In a local TV station interview, he appears serious and deeply committed to carrying on. But anticipating perhaps the next weakening barrage of skepticism, the dedicated fighter cannot conceal a touching loneliness within his resolve.
Fortunately, friends and sometimes even strangers helped Hendricksen in his massive project. One of the volunteers was Detroit-area native David Szczesny. Recalls Szczesny, “Richard explained his vision for the cabins, how important they were, how well-made they were. It was an impressive compound, and Richard was so enthusiastic about what he was doing that it was infectious.”
On several weekends, Szczesny returned to White Deer Lake to assist in the grueling but intriguing disassembly. “It was like, wow, this is the real thing—the super Lincoln Log kit of all time! It seemed simple enough in theory, but it proved to be difficult actually moving everything, especially with the limited resources.”
First each cabin had to be gutted. This meant removal of the windows, doors, free-standing interior walls, and flooring. “Maybe forty to fifty percent of the structure must be moved, labeled and identified, nails removed, and so forth, before you begin to take off the roof,” Hendricksen explains. Only after a cabin was gutted and roofless was its frame then taken apart log by log. Sadly, elaborate stone chimneys that adorned each roof couldn’t be salvaged—they were just too heavy to raft off the island. Later, the Forest Service had them blown apart.
It took nearly two years of work, but Richard Hendricksen succeeded in removing the McCormick cabins from White Deer Lake. Storing his hard-won treasures in a warehouse lot, he began the task of finding them a new home. After single-handedly bearing the cost of disassembly, he had vowed to obtain solid financial backing before rebuilding. This required a relocation site to present to potential investors. The ideal site would possess exceptional natural beauty, but also be very accessible to tourists. Hendricksen contacted the Mackinac City area, Greenfield Village in Dearborn Michigan, and even Florida’s Disney world—none of whom were interested.
Tourist Park just north of Marquette was a possibility, until it was voted down by his advisory committee. Hendricksen then focused on Mattson Lower Harbor Park. “I became obsessed with the Lower Harbor,” he says, “and fought for it for months.” He prepared a detailed proposal for the City Commission in 1985, but based on a technicality they refused to hear it. “I couldn’t get anywhere,” he recalls. “I kept hearing that it didn’t belong.” He believes the rejection was largely political: the powers-that-be had already decided what would go in the park.
Grand Island became the next great hope. This scenic recreational area near Munising was the former site of another private camp, and therefore seemed an ideal place for a cabin attraction. For over a year and a half Hendricksen attended Grand Island Advisory Committee meetings. But when he finally made a presentation, it was the Lower Harbor all over again.“I was blown out of the water,” he remembers. “The message again was, ‘They don’t belong here.’”
He’s pondered the reasons why people refuse to invest in area history. “They’re not visionary enough,” he concludes. Hendricksen also believes he lacked the flamboyance and big money needed to make his plan attractive. “I didn’t have a slick professional presentation to offer them,” he states. “I had to be a salesman, and I didn’t know how to sell this.”
By 1990, he’d grown weary of the struggle, and there were practical demands of life to attend to. Specializing in remote land, he has since made a successful living as a real estate broker. He emphasizes environmental awareness, and tries to educate potential buyers in responsible stewardship of the forest. These efforts were recognized by the Detroit Free Press, which in 1991 presented him with an “Earthchiever” environmental award.
But looking back, Hendricksen considers his White Deer Lake years the most enjoyable of his working life. Log cabins remain a strong interest: he’s currently building a log home on a hilltop near Big Bay. And like Gordon McCormick before him, he hasn’t forgotten his grand camp cabins. A top-quality relocation site for them may yet be found, and he’s open to suggestions. Written when he was trying to find financial backing, a 1986 journal entry expresses his continuing belief in his work: “The McCormick spirit is what the UP is about . . . it has as much right to be seen as the timbering, developing, mining, touristing, and so on.”
Encroached upon by weeds and warehouse debris, five of the finest cabins ever to nestle within the green forest depths of the UP survive as weathered stacks of logs and boards. Richard Hendricksen has sheltered them for over a decade now. When asked what will happen to this legacy if he can’t rebuild it, he quietly responds, “The McCormick Grand Camp will end up dying. All my work will have gone for naught, and I’ll use it as a tax writeoff. And I will have failed.”
But if these log masterpieces could speak, perhaps their whispered message would be, “Rebuild us, and people will come.” Who knows—it worked in the hit movie Field of Dreams. Maybe someone would hear, and believe.