The farther he pushed along, the more he began to realize that he was well within the swamp territory and uncut timberlands, a place so primeval and mysterious that it fairly rang with the sound of adventure. It was deathly still and quiet.
As Jim dipped his oars silently and deeply into the black waters he could not help but hear the occasional sounds of birds and wildlife about him. Yet, he was not at the place he wanted to be, the region where game was abundant. But it was part of what he was seeking. He marveled at the sounds and the scenery and was thrilled as never before.
Jim Curwood took in everything with all the awe and wonderment of youth. But soon he knew that he must stop admiring the scenery and make for his destination before nightfall caught up with him. His destination was a place where the swiftly flowing waters of the flooded Shiawassee joined those of the slow, currentless Bad. It was there that he planned to spend the night. Jim dug his oars deeper into the cold, black, silent waters of the mysterious Bad river.
As young Jim rowed along many thoughts entered his mind. He had always thought of the Bad river as an outlaw, stealing away to some dark, secret, quiet place of seclusion. In some places the longest fish poles cannot touch bottom, so deep and abysmal is it. As Jim feared it, so he loved it.
Around four o’clock in the afternoon, as the sun was beginning to set and the shadows began to drop much deeper within the thick wilderness, Jim reached the old logging cabin that he had been heading for. Upon his arrival there, he was greatly perturbed to find that only about a half an acre was above the flood waters. He landed his boat on the dry land and went ashore.
The next morning, long before the sun had made its appearance, he was well on his way. Fortunately enough for him, he did not have to go as far as he had expected, for he ran into his old friend, “Muskrat” Joe, with whom he spent that day and night.
That night Jim Curwood spent one of the merriest and most enjoyable suppers of his life as he sat by the campfire with one of the true wilderness wanderers. They laughed, and joked and told tall stories. The two spent the next five glorious days together, after which the faithful Joe invited Jim Curwood to come to his home and stay a while with him.
For four unforgettable weeks James Oliver Curwood lived the life of a swamp Indian, doing everything, and eating the same things that swamp Indians do and eat. He paddled an old dug-out canoe that had been carved from the trunk of a huge tree and ate what food the Indian offered him. Many of the dishes that the mysterious and picturesque “Muskrat” Joe cooked, most men would turn from in horror. This was not the case with Jim, however, for he ate everything. He felt that what Joe ate was good enough for him.
Perhaps the amazing part of this wilderness living with Joe was that the Indian’s home was wonderfully clean. The abode was located both on and off the river. A long, winding path covered by marsh grass led back to the actual home, if one chose to call it a home. Then, too, it could hardly be termed a cabin or shack, for it was built of tree boughs and limbs, plastered together with swamp mud and thatched over with tall, tough marsh grass. This kept the hot air out in the summer and the cold winds out in the winter.
The place itself was surrounded by an air of mystery and seclusion. It was in this wilderness outpost that Jim Curwood turned out “The Mystery Man of Kim’s Bayou.” It was here, also, that he learned more of the real heart and soul of nature, as well as the new doors opened for him in his great worship and search for nature in all of her abundance and glory.
Upon his unexpected though welcome return to Owosso, Jim told many strange and weird tales about the wilds that he had surrounded himself with during the past month or so. Upon being pressed about the material he supposedly was gathering for the editor of Golden Days Magazine, Jim merely said that he was working on it and that it would be ready in a few days.
One day shortly after his return to Owosso, Jim made the acquaintance of another young man whose name was Bill, through whose association Jim became involved in another of his boyish pranks. This time, however, the prank developed into a scheme of downright dishonesty.
Somehow or other, the two boys decided to concoct a liquid which they called “The Infallible Blood Purifier.” Home-made and brewed without any actual scientific preparation or knowledge, this “stuff” was not only falsely-named but dangerous to drink, as they found out in due time.
Equipped with many bottles of their “Purifier,” the boys entrained on a barnstorming tour of the countryside, by horse-and-buggy, screaming their wares in the market-places of almost every city and village they came to. Most of their customers were farmers, and business was extremely good until, one by one, the farmers became ill. Complaints came thick and fast and the citizenry were up in arms against the boys. It was not long before Jim and Bill were being hunted from town to town by the sheriff, and it was only through sheer good fortune that they managed to elude the law.
It was while they were fleeing that Jim somehow recognized familiar territory and he suddenly realized that they had managed to come to his old farm in Ohio, where he had spent such glorious days with dear friends. The farm was now vacant and dreary, but it held memories for Jim that he would never forget. Inquiring as to his pal, Skinny, and his “Whistling” Jeanne, he found, to his sadness, that his pal had died and the girl had married and moved elsewhere.
So it was with a heavy heart that Jim returned to Owosso to take up once again where he had left off. He had had his fling, was much wiser in the ways of the world and was now ready to plunge seriously and finally into his life’s work.