Door County, Wisconsin - Chapter 37: A Terrible Experience, 1917

For sixty or seventy years: the Green Bay basin has been the most productive fresh water fishing grounds in the United States. The large rivers of clear cold water that pour into it from the great Wisconsin woods serve to make it the favorite feeding ground for the cunning trout, the wandering whitefish and the humble herring. Each year millions of fish have been taken out of its waters without showing any signs of its depletion. It is common to talk of the "good old days" when the nets were always full and the sturgeon were stacked up like huge stone piles on the beach - unsalable because of their abundance. Yet, even nowadays the fisherman frequently lifts a net that yields fifty or sixty half-barrels of herring in one lift.

It was the fishing that first drew people to Door County. For almost a generation this was considered her only possibility and the land was looked upon merely as a necessary point of attachment for their nets. From the ranks of the carly fishermen many of Door County's best men were drawn to the more sedate but sure occupations of farming and business. Most of the fishermen, however, never got beyond that station in life. They were alert and indefatigable as beavers when on the water, enduring hardships innumerable without a whimper, but lazy and indifferent as porcupines when on land. They were an easy-coming, easy-going class. Their quick earnings were spent as quickly. Dauntless in danger when on the deep they often experienced thrilling adventures.

The best fishing has usually been found near the long, low shore north of Menominee. Frequently fishermen from Door County would cross over to this "West shore" and try their luck in the fall fishing, returning with their boats, nets and part of their profits to Door County shortly before Christmas to lay up for the winter.

One fall about 1860 there were among others three such fishermen on the west shore. They were Ingham Kinsey and Bill Stahl from Washington Island, and Allen Bradley with his boy, from Hedgehog Harbor. They used gill nets, 180 feet long, set in from six to ten feet of water. The whitefish were so numerous that fall that frequently the nets had to be cleared of fish several times during the night. Two hundred whitefish, weighing from three to six pounds each, were frequently taken from a net at each lift.

Pleased with their success they kept on with their fishing until rather late in December. Finally the day came when they decided to pull up for home. They loaded their nets and winter's supplies into their boats and pushed off.

The day was a cold and cloudy one with a rather steady wind from the southwest which promised: to land them on Washington Island in speedy time. It was their plan to keep the boats close together for Kinsey and Stahl were alone in their respective boats which rendered their navigation somewhat difficult. For a long time they got along very well. Finally it began to get dark and with that the wind swung around to the northeast, blowing briskly dead ahead. It soon veered to the north, blowing furiously while the weather became intensely cold, the mercury falling almost to zero. By this time the boats had become separated and lost to the sight of each other and each man struggled as best he could.

But it was a desperate and useless struggle. The flying spray had saturated their clothing and now every outer garment was frozen stiff. Their sails were also frozen and unmanageable and each rope, halliard and sheet was soon like a rod of steel. Meanwhile the wind was shrieking, the waves roaring, the mighty storm tossing their clumsy craft where it would. They felt the numbness of intense cold and despair creeping over them. Through the darkness of the night they were driving irresistibly onward to their doom.

Allen Bradley's boat had outdistanced the others, having two men to navigate it. Bradley was moreover a tremendously strong man with the endurance of a wild animal. In the coldest weather he was never known to wear coat, overcoat or mittens.! As he sat in his ice encased garments, gradually feeling his limbs turn to the numbness of death, his ear suddenly detected a sound different from the roar of the storm. It was the booming of the sea on the rock-bound shore of Door County! With sudden life he jumped to the foremast and with a tremendous wrench tore it out of its frozen socket. Another jerk or two and the spar and foresail were also thrown overboard. He then seized the oars and seconded by the feeble but earnest efforts of his son he got the heavy laden, ice incrusted boat under control. Tugging incessantly at the oars with the flying spray turning into an ever increasing load of ice on the boat, he managed to keep it clear of the shore. After two hours of this work he was finally rewarded in turning the point of a little cove and found himself safe in Fish Creek.

There was great surprise in the little village the next morning when it was learned that Allen Bradley had arrived during the night. The cold had been so intense and the gale so terrific that it seemed incredible that anyone could have survived it in an open boat covered with ice. It was generally agreed that the other two fishermen must have perished but some abortive attempts were made along the shore to discover their bodies. A heavy fall of snow, however, had covered everything with a cloak of white.

Toward evening a searching party saw a slowly moving body about a mile away. At first they thought it was a bear because it was moving on four uegs. They approached nearer and to their surprise they saw it was a man moving painfully through the snow on his hands and knees. It was Ingham Kinsey! During the preceding night he had been hurled almost insensible with cold on the beach four miles south of Fish Creek. His boat had been smashed on the rocks. During the night and the next day he had staggered along the beach, first south then north, vainly looking for a human habitation in the unsettled wilderness. Finally his limbs refused to support him and with the last figment of endurance he was crawling along, his hands and feet frozen, when he was discovered and saved.

Wm. Stahl was a famous water dog who had survived so many adventures on the water that he believed himself immune from death in that element. He had built both his own boat and the one that Kinsey had and had unbounded faith in them. Yet he recalled now that his boats had a bad reputation. So many accidents had occurred with his boats that it was a common saying on Washington Island that a Bill Stahl boat and a bottle of whiskey were a combination which would kill anyone. He had the combination right there under him. Was it after all going to prove true with him?

As he felt his boat settling deeper and deeper with its load of ice, becoming quite unmanageable, he gave up all attempts at navigating her and devoted all his energies to keeping his hands and feet from freezing. But it was a practically use- Jess effort. He was soaked with water and ice, more ice was forming around him.

As he listened to the shrieking of the wind, the swish of the white caps and the heavy thud of a wave striking his bow in the trough of the sea it seemed that the resistless cavalry of hell was hitched to his boat dragging it furiously onward to that brink where he would tumble over into the next world -

As he sat there with uncanny fancies flitting through his disordered mind, his boat suddenly struck hard on a rock! Before he realized what happened another wave followed, throwing the boat up on a rocky beach while he was thrown out into the water. The water seemed almost warm in comparison with the intensely cold wind he had been exposed to.

He scrambled out and looked around him but nothing could be seen in the darkness. However, now that he was on firm land he felt new hope within him. He would strike out at once following the shore till he came to a boat house or human habitation. He stumbled over the driftwood that littered the shore, slipped on the stones but struggled on. He felt his limbs were not yet frozen and with good luck he would yet reach a shelter. Suddenly he stopped amazed!

He stared vacantly at the boat. How could it be his boat? He must have turned in his tracks and retraced his steps. What he losing his mind?

He started off along the shore once more, keeping the water on his left, the land on his right. He walked carefully to avoid confusion. At the end of a half hour he was again in front of the boat!

Suddenly he realized the situation. He was on an island and the reason he had come twice upon the boat was that he had walked twice around the island.

By this time it was beginning to get light in the east. Looking in that direction he could now distinguish the high cliffs of Door County. Straining his eyes to the northward he could also dimly discern a long low shore which must be Chambers Island. He now recognized where he was. He was cast ashore on Hat Island, a barren little rock growing a few stunted trees about five miles southwest of Fish Creek.

The dejection that followed upon this discovery struck him like a blow. He felt excessively weary. He had toiled and struggled and suffered all through the storm of the night before, his clothing was frozen stiff, he felt numb with cold to the marrow. He wanted to sink down and forget it all in a moment of slumber.

Suddenly he started up. In his pocket was a match box filled with matches. There were birch trees on the island. He needed but a little bark and in a few moments he would have a fire.

Feverishly he stripped some bark off the birches, broke some dry twigs off the trees and struck a match. It refused to ignite. He struck another and another till the box was half empty. Still no success. Then he examined the matches carefully and found they were all watersoaked. Still clinging to hope he struck the matches with greater care than before till the last was tried in vain.

Almost stunned by this result he went through his pockets one after another. Some were so frozen he had to tear them apart with main force. What chance had he unless he could make a fire. In his exhausted condition he could not endure it another hour. In his hip pocket was his can of tobacco. It had a tight-fitting cover. He opened it and found it almost empty of tobacco. But down there among the tobacco crumbs lay a match. He could see no sign of moisture inside of the can. He poured out a little tobacco in his hand and examined it critically. It seemed as dry as ever. If the tobacco was dry it was likely that the match was dry also. He carefully refrained from touching it, however, lest his clumsy fingers might drop it in the snow.

With this thought in mind he once more made his preparations for a fire. This time, however, he proceeded with much greater care than before. First he carefully picked out the spot on the island which scemed most sheltered from the wind. Then he made a windbreak out of his frozen sail which he propped up with a number of supports. Then he gathered a good sized pile of dry twigs and birch bark. Finally he carefully gathered up a lot of dry leaves which he found under a log. These he tested for dryness, one by one before he put them in their place. Finally he selected a flat dry stone, not too rough, under the same log. This was to strike his match on.

He took out the match but hesitated to strike. What if it were defective? What if it broke and fell into the snow? What if the tinder refused to ignite? No more boats would sail the bay till next spring. No travelers would pass on the ice for a month or two. He knew that within an hour or two his stiff limbs would be frozen. On the outcome of thát match hung life or death.

Lifting the match in silent supplication to heaven, he scratched the stone gently. It failed to spark. He felt the sweat break out underneath his sodden garments and he tried again with greater force. The flame burst out and he thrust it down among the dry leaves. There followed an interminable interval. Finally the thin veil of white smoke was followed by a leaping flame. Carefully he fed the fire with birch bark, twigs and sticks until he soon had a large fire blazing. He was saved!

Toward evening it occurred to him that he ought to have his fire out on the beach where it might attract attention from the mainland. He made a roaring bonfire fed with stumps and logs, snatching a nap intermittently.

This fire was soon seen from Fish Creek. When the good people of Fish Creek found Kinsey that evening they appointed a lookout to patrol the beach and keep a watch for Stahl. About midnight the village was electrified into life by hearing this lookout shout in the street:

Quickly a willing crowd gathered at the pier to lend a hand in the rescue. But how were they to launch a boat? The heavy gale had packed a sheet of anchor ice into the harbor a mile deep. This had frozen together into a solid mass in many places two feet thick. Meanwhile the storm was still roaring and it needed a good vessel to weather the seas. Axes were found and the whole village went to work to cut a channel. By 9 o'clock the next morning a channel was cut a mile long and the best vessel in port was towed out. Sails were bent and by noon Bill Stahl saw sweeping down on him a white winged carrier of life.

[The above narrative was told to the writer by ex-Congressman E. S. Minor who can vouch for its truthfulness. He was one of the rescuing party.]