SEPT 13-16 PART 1: THE LIFE OF LARS MATT OLSON AND HIS STAY IN VERMONT WITH THE KENTS

ROCKWELL KENT WILDERNESS CENTENNIAL JOURNAL

100 YEARS LATER

by Doug Capra © 2018-19

Part 1 

Sept. 13-16, 2019

ABOVE – Lars Matt Olson, about 1916. Author’s collection.

BELOW – Olson feeding his goats on Fox Island, circa 1916. Photo given to me by Virginia Darling, daughter of Thomas Hawkins who financed the fox farm and hired Olson to manage it.

OLSON OF THE DEEP EXPERIENCE

What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song?

Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price

Of all the man hath, his house, his wife, his children.

         William Blake – Excerpts from “The Four Zoas”

And now at last it is over. Fox Island will soon become in our memories like a dream or vision, a remote experience too wonderful, for the full liberty we knew there and the deep peace, to be remembered or believed as a real experience in life. It was for us life as it should be, serene and wholesome; love – but no hate, faith without disillusionment, the absolute for the toiling hands of man and for his soaring spirit. Olson of the deep experience, strong, brave, generous and gentle like a child; and his island – like Paradise. Ah God, -- and now the world again!

           Rockwell Kent – the last paragraph of Wilderness.

ABOVE – Olson and Rockie on the porch of Olson’s Fox Island cabin – with his goats – probably his favorites, Nanny and Billy.

BELOW – Kent’s pen and inks of Rockie from Wilderness.

         To appreciate Rockwell Kent’s Alaska Wilderness, you need not only understand his son Rockie’s experience but also both father and son’s relationship with Lars Matt Olson, a crusty yet gentle Alaska pioneer who in his old age retired to Seward and partnered up with a local entrepreneur to manage an island fox farm and goat ranch. Kent was not unlike many tourists today who travel north seeking the “real” Alaska. That can be more difficult to find these days. But it exists. During his stops along the Inside Passage, Kent discovered he didn’t want to settle in or near the towns. They were too tame, and he particularly had distain for the hideous architecture. Yakutat turned out to be too isolated, especially considering he had his eight-year-old son with him. An island in Resurrection Bay became the perfect place to settle. It was isolated enough -- twelve miles from a town -- but not just any town. Seward was the largest community on the Kenai Peninsula, a major transportation hub with a new railroad under construction that would eventually open up Alaska’s interior. Also, he did have some company – Lars Olson – and the benefit of a cabin he had only to restore.

ABOVE – A panorama of Seward in 1915. This type of photograph was becoming popular just about the time Seward became newsworthy with its designation as the terminus of the new Government Railroad in March 1915. Resurrection Bay Historicall Society.

BELOW – A view of Seward from out in Resurrection Bay taken by photographer John E. Thwaites, also a mail clerk aboard the steamship Dora. Kent met Thwaites on his first day in Seward. He suggested a few spots in the bay where Kent might settle for the winter. Resurrection Bay Historical Society.

         The wildness Kent discovered not only existed within the solitude of Fox Island and the vastness of Resurrection Bay, but also expressed itself within his soul. He stood a man in between youth and old age. If his son Rockie embodied the freedom and creativity of youth during Kent’s island moratorium, Olson expressed the qualities of experience and old age. This unconsecrated trinity – the father, his son, and a peculiar and an old, broken-down frontiersman (as he called himself) – this troika of life’s stages came to personify the wilderness experience itself. Kent called his book Wilderness, and in his prose and art he contemplated much about that concept of wildness. Olson represented the human equivalent of the elemental all around him. The old Swede was as strong and sturdy as Bear Glacier, as fierce and uncontrolled as the North Wind, and as rugged and honest as the mountains and sea. He epitomized the wilderness – and that infinite and unfathomable mystery symbolized freedom and liberty to Rockwell Kent.

ABOVE – This photo of the entrance to Resurrection by was taken with a telephoto lens, probably from the top of either Lowell Mountain (later called Mount Marathon) or Bear Mountain. Caines Head is the peninsula at center; Fox Island is the large island, its north or left-hand cove was the location of the fox farm; to the island’s right is Hive Island and the tip of Rugged Island. The LNP in the lower right-hand corner identifies the photographer as the Rev. Louis N. Pedersen, an early Methodist minister in Seward. He was also a talented photographer and sold many of his postcards locally. By 1913 he was in Skagway where he preached at a Presbyterian church and opened a photography business with his sons. This photo was taken sometime between 1905 and 1913. Resurrection Bay Historical Society.

         The Great War was still raging when Kent arrived in Alaska, and the Russian Revolution underway. Many feared that Bolshevism had infiltrated the labor movement in the U.S. By the time he was ready to leave Alaska, Kent’s uncertainty about his artistic success and his marriage ate at him. He was an anarchist, he wrote a fellow artist, and didn’t believe he owed anyone anything who didn’t do something for him. In Wilderness (March 3, 1919), Kent writes about what he called “common law” good for the general community, and what he called exceptional law about “morals, temperance, or those that conscript unwilling men for war. In all law there is tyranny, in these laws tyranny shows its hand. The man who wants true freedom must escape from the whole thing…How farcical sound these days ‘Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness,’ – ‘No government without the consent of the governed,’ and other old-fashioned principles. But they still have to be reckoned with till the last Bolshevik has been converted into a prosperous tradesman and the last idealist is dead. And now to Fox Island.” That’s where he could escape to Rockie, Olson and the freedom of wilderness.

ABOVE – When World War I began in 1914 most Americans agreed with President Woodrow Wilson that we should stay out of that European conflict. For many reasons we entered the war in April 1917. Like all small towns throughout the country, Seward quickly supported our entry into the conflict. This is a photo of a group of young boys in uniform marching down Seward’s main street circa 1918. The arrow points to Howard Romig, who later became a prominent Alaska physician. He remembered young Rockie and the trouble he had with older boys when they learned he could speak some German. Photo courtesy of Howard Romig’s daughter, Kerry Romig.

BELOW -- Rockwell Kent's World War I draft card. Despite his reservations against the new selective service and forced conscription, Kent registered for the draft while in Seward on Oct. 15, 1918. He didn't want his Newfoundland experience to repeat itself in Alaska. By 1918 the pressure to register for the draft had heightened nationwide. Those who didn't were called slackers. They were pursued, caught and arrested.

 Another September day, another year. I stand by the decayed spruce stump at the ruins of Kent’s cabin. Instead of that iconic axe embedded within it, alder, moss and blueberry plants sprout from its top.

ABOVE – The axe embedded with the tree stump near the cabin door a shown in a sketch from Kent’s illustrated journal. Beside the sketch, what the stump looks like today.

Suddenly, the world changes into a dream or a vision. It’s now a frigid January day. As I wedge myself between the twisted alder trunks and branches, the cabin interior materializes and I hear Kent welcoming me in for conversation and a cup of tea. He and Rockie are sitting by the small table under the west-facing window. There’s not really room for three, but they make room and roll up a log so I can sit.

ABOVE – Doug Capra, the author of this book, stands inside the ruins of the Kent cabin on Fox Island.

BELOW – “Meal Time” from Wilderness.

I settle down beside them and Kent pours me a cup of tea. “Where’s Olson?” I ask. “Probably feeding his goats,” Kent tells me. Rockie’s eyes dart toward the door. He knows what’s coming – grown-up talk about the real world. His fantasy world on Fox Island is much more interesting. The boy says bye and dashes out to play along the beach with his make-believe sword while Kent and I discuss the Great War, art, politics, Nietzsche and William Blake. These conversations often get intense. He’s passionate about his beliefs and backs up his positions with intelligent arguments. I play the Devil’s Advocate just to antagonize him.  

Back in 1910-11, he and Kathleen rented an apartment in New York City under the residence of the painter John Sloan and his wife Dolly. Rockie is an infant, and Kathleen is pregnant again by March 1911. Kent tells me some of that story, but he's pretty hard on Sloan. I've read Sloan's diary so I know the other side. Both Sloan and Dolly have not had easy lives, especially Dolly. John knows what it's like to be a struggling artist and tolerates the Kent's. The Sloans even go on a vegetarian diet to accommodate the couple, and occasionally babysit Rockie so the Kent's can go out on the town. But after awhile John and Dolly feel used and refuse sit the baby. Sometimes Kent's humor irks, especially when he says their only babysitting responsibility is to open the door and get the baby in case of fire. 

Kent goes to Newfoundland during this time leaving Kathleen with the Sloans. She's shy, quiet, and uncomfortable there. John and Dolly are an older couple -- she's only 19 years old. She'll sit quietly for hours not saying anything. That gets annoying after a while.  Once back from Newfoundland, Kent's off and back to Monhegan Island. Though eleven years older than Kent, Sloan appreciates the artist's work and his spunk, but doesn't care for that strenuous sort of life, or the way he sometimes treates Kathleen. And conversations with Kent can get tricky. "He makes a full statement of his stand on every subject," Sloan writes, "social and religious and of course creates excitement among the simple folk, business men and bankers." By 1918 in Alaska, Kent hasn't changed much. If he has an opinion about anything he'll express it. He may be somewhat more reticent in Seward with the Great War in progress. But he has adifficult time holding back. From my discussions with him I can imagine him wandering the Seward streets expressing his spreading his socialist ideas all along the way. Seward is full of businessmen and bankers, perhaps not the "simple folk" Sloan imagines. Some of the more liberal locals agree with him or are at least open to his ideas. To most he's at best a socialist, at worst a Bolshevik or a German spy. This is the U.S. -- and Seward, Alaska -- during 1918-19. Not the best of times to question any "American values."

Kent and I have exhausted our analysis of the Russian Revolution. I enjoy pushing his buttons, but carefully. There is a tipping point after which one can become anathama to him. He at least tolerates me because we have interesting discussions. I don't know if he likes me. It's hard to tell. I divert the subject to Lars Olson. Rockwell enjoys talking about him, and it's good to end on a less controversial note. Our conversation eventually dissolves into silence.

“Well,” I say. “I’ll see if I can find Olson.”

“He may be out on the lake getting those sacks of frozen Humpy salmon he uses for fox feed – the one’s he suspends through hole in the ice.”

“Salmon for fox food?”

          “Yes mixed with other things. He gets the salmon in Humpy Cove.” 

I get up and took two or three steps toward the south-facing window. “Are you going to grab some pebbles before you leave?” I just smiled. The question was rhetorical. He knew the answer

After our debates, I always pick up a few small, odd-shaped flat stones near the cabin ruins before I leave and put them in my pack. I don’t find as many like these along the south end of the cove, but it does have a larger bench to walk along between the slanting beach and the woods. That may be because it gets built up during storms as the north wind plows rocks up beach.  After the 1964 earthquake that flat bench along the north beach probably dropped off. It’s more difficult to walk along today. During winter storms, the north wind bounces off the southern headland of Kent’s cove and switches to north, flinging these stones into the woods.  I always find them within the cabin ruins. Before I leave, I look out Kent’s the huge window by his work table. It gives Kent the light he needs to do his art and write letters. Back then he had a clear view toward the southern headland, today’s Callisto Head, and along the coast of what is now Kenai Fjords National Park. Today the Sitka Alder have taken over.

ABOVE – Kent took this photo of the interior of his Fox Island cabin. Note the sketch by the window. Rockwell Kent Gallery, Plattsburgh State University, Plattsburgh, NY.

BELOW – This looks like a variation of Kent’s sketch in the photo above. From Wilderness, this is called “Sunrise.” It’s interesting that the figure in this pen and ink is supposed to be looking toward the east. In actuality, based upon the cabin position, he’s looking west. Kent couldn’t see the sunrise from his location on Fox Island. But he could see a beautiful sunset which would have gone down in about that position.

As I head toward the door, I turn to say goodbye -- but Kent’s physical image dissolves. The dream or vision disappears as I step outside and follow an old trail through the brush to the fox corral and Olson’s cabin. Winter has also faded, and I’ve returned to a mild September day. I carefully meander past the devil’s club and alder while picking and eating huge ripe blueberries. Occasional I stop to admire the giant old-growth spruce stumps. The trail can be tricky to follow, but I know the way. Kent marked it out on his sketch map of the fox farm.  It was clearly visible in the 1970’s, and I recall bush-wacking along its remnants in the 1980’s.  By the 1990’s it was harder to find. These days it’s there, but you’ve got to know where to go. Sharp and rusted barbed wire, deeply embedded within Sitka spruce trunks, alerts me that I’m at the old fox corral. A little further north and I’m at Olson’s cabin site. The cabin’s gone, of course, but not in my mind. All along the way I’m looking out for the goats, especially Billy. He can get nasty.

ABOVE – You can clearly see the trail labeled “To the Spring” that leads from “Our Cabin” in this sketch of the fox farm Kent drew for Wilderness. That trail, which joins up with Olson’s trail to the lake, is relatively easy to find in the spring before all the vegetation comes in. By mid-summer the route is more difficult with all the Devil’s Club and other brush.

BELOW -- The trail from the Olson cabin site that leads to the lake on Fox Island. Capra photo.

Some days I have no desire to fight the trail from Kent's cabin with the clogging devil’s club and alder -- especially when it’s wet. So I hike what’s left of the rocky upper beach bench and wander about a hundred feet north over to where two uprooted spruce stumps guard the entrance to the clearing where Olson’s cabin had been. The trail down to the lake begins not far from his cabin door.

I step onto his porch and knock. No answer – but I hear his two angora goats inside. There’s no way I’m going to open that door. The goats love Olson and he loves them, but they don’t take well to strangers. I need to find him for an interview – so I head down the trail toward the lake. It’s easy to follow, probably because porcupines and river otters still use it. Years ago I sat down on a fallen tree trunk along this trail. I had noticed some river otters playing not far offshore on the beach and I knew they’d be heading this way. Soon enough, a lone otter carrying a pink salmon half his size, comes waddling down the trail toward me. I remain still. I can tell he doesn’t notice me. Right beside me he stops, still looking forward -- but I can tell he’s spotted me out of the corner of his eye. He drops his salmon. Silence ensues. As Kent wrote, “These are the times in life when nothing happens, but in silence the soul expands.” Is the salmon an offering? Protection money? After a while, he sees I’m no threat. He quickly picks up his salmon and runs off toward the lake.

BELOW – A family of river otters lounge among the kelp of Resurrection Bay’s intertidal zone. At least one of Kent's drawings of these animals is labeled "sea otter." Sea otter back legs are flippers. They are true marine mammals and don't cavort on land like river otters. River otters have paws on both front and back. There is still an active river otter population on Fox Island, probably descendants of those Kent and Rockie enjoyed watching. Capra photo.

 I head toward the lake following that otter, looking for Olson. We know something about the old Swede's life before he came to Alaska because Kent recorded his stories, but I’m hoping he’ll tell me more. I’ve met him before on these trips.  He’s friendly but these days cautious with strangers, especially in Seward. Some of the newcomers make fun of him, teasing him mercilessly. He tolerates it up to a point, then strikes back with brilliant reposts that astonish his antagonists, leaving them dumbfounded. They retreat with their tail between their legs, but for Olson it’s a Pyrrhic victory. He’s getting tired of what Alaska’s becoming. His Alaska goes back thirty years.

ABOVE – The end of the Olson’s trail by the Fox Island lake. Capra photo.

I get to the end of the trail by the lake. There’s the old man heading my way lugging two sacks of frozen salmon. Frozen salmon? It's winter again and the cold bites. He smiles and waves. He has come to trust me, but he can also be cranky. He knows why I’ve come. “Ah, my other writer friend,” he says. “Come, we’ll talk.” I follow him back to his cabin. Olson lowers the salmon sacks inside a wooden barrel on his porch. “Come on in,” he says. “Nanny and Billy will be happy to see you again.” I doubt that, but I follow him inside out of the cold. He stokes the woodstove fire and sits in his favorite chair by a window, picks up a chunk of wood, takes out a long knife, and starts to whittle. The goats give me the evil eye.

         “It’s okay, Nanny,” Olson chants and rubs her under the ear. “You too, Billy. He’s okay. He’s a friend.”

         The goats look up at him in worship, take a quick glance at me. Billy licks up some water from a pan on a nearby log. Then both begin eating from the trough under the window.  Olson grins at me with his puffy Santa Claus cheeks -- which is my signal to start the conversation.

ABOVE – Olson in his Fox Island cabin with Billy and Nannie. Photo by Rockwell Kent, courtesy of the Rockwell Kent Gallery, Plattsburgh State University, Plattsburgh, NY.

NEXT ENTRY

PART 2

THE LIFE OF LARS MATT OLSON

AND HIS STAY IN VERMONT WITH THE KENTS