Island of happy days

At Stout's Lodge, guests gain entree into a less hurried era.

At the turn of the last century, as Wisconsin’s pineries were vanishing into sawmills, the vast fortunes they produced fell to the heirs of the Knapp, Stout lumber company.

Operating in the Red Cedar River valley, it was for a time the largest in the world, and Menomonie was its company town. The heirs gave it schools, churches, an auditorium; James Stout, son of the president, endowed the institute that became the University of Wisconsin-Stout.

His brother Frank found a different use for his money; he plowed $1.5 million in 1915 money into a 26-acre island estate near the town of Rice Lake, on Red Cedar Lake. With trainloads of cedar logs from Idaho, redwood from California and white pine from local dams, he built his family a rambling, 35,000-square-foot compound, adorned by Bavarian carvings of pelicans and oak leaves, Gothic arches and medieval-Norwegian dragon’s heads.

This Island of Happy Days was “the dearest place on Earth,’’ said Frank Stout, a man for went for the gusto. A priceless collection of photographs shows him playing there with his wife, Clara, and their five children: picnicking, trap shooting, water skiing on planks. In one photo, Frank is going down a slide; in another, the family is costumed, and Frank, then 57, wears a parasol, apron and headdress.

But in 1927 Frank died; Clara continued to use the estate until she died there in 1948. After that, the lodge deteriorated until it was purchased and opened to overnight guests in 1992.

Today, at Stout’s Island Lodge, anyone can tread in the steps of the tycoon. The butlers, maids, cooks and gardeners who tended the tycoon, however, are gone, so guests are left to wander around the island on their own.

The handsome log lodge sits on a hillock, its doors flanked by clumps of pink mallow and opening onto a sloping lawn, on which someone usually is playing croquet. Beyond, through a fringe of greenery, wooden stairs lead to a screened landing whose curving roof and carved rails bear the mark of Norwegian builder Hans Haugen, who put the dragons on the downspouts; from there, swimmers descend to the dock, off which a small raft is anchored.

There’s a clay tennis court and a ramshackle but elegant boathouse, with a collection of high-quality canoes, kayaks, water bikes and rowing shells. When my friend Grace and I went there one July, three baby swallows were in the middle shell and often could be seen hungrily flapping their beaks.

On the narrow, wooded island next door, a pair of osprey tended their nest atop a pine, and orioles, warblers and finches trill and whistle in the bushes. Grace and I started listening for birds during dinner in the restaurant, after a trim, tanned man walked up, reached across our table, pushed open the window and told us we should.

“I’m one of the owners,’’ he said, smiling happily. “I hope you’ll enjoy it.’’

It was Will Sullivan, a Lifetime Fitness executive from St. Paul who lives in Harry’s Cabin when he’s on the island and shares ownership with St. Paul restaurateur John Rupp and Eau Claire ophthalmologist Tom Dow. Whenever we saw Sullivan, he looked thrilled to be there, whether having drinks with guests or heading off for a round of golf at Tagalong, the mainland course Frank Stout built in 1925.

“I have this great life; I commute by float plane,’’ he said. “Preserving this place is just a blessing; it’s fun to do. We fell in love with it, and we’re passing this love onto other people.’’

Grace and I were thrilled to be there, too, once we adjusted our expectations. For Stout’s Island Resort is more like the dotty old aunt than the rich uncle; it’s adorable, but it has some eccentric habits. It took us most of the weekend to figure out who was running the place, and we couldn’t watch the Wimbledon women’s final because there wasn’t a television hooked up.

My beer came in a plastic glass so light I nearly threw it over my shoulder. The tennis balls were all dead and the cobwebs were staying well ahead of the small staff. The power to the bar kept switching off, and the maids never showed up to do our room in the beautiful  Wilson Cabin.

Then a pipe burst in the room below ours and our plumbing was off for six hours. As we sat there waiting for water, I looked at Grace and asked what she thought.

“I’m having a great time, are you kidding?’’ she said. “I’m ready to spend a month here.’’

Right away, she’d been caught in the island’s languorous embrace. No one runs on the Island of Happy Days; they drift. After some tennis — dead balls are fine for practicing serves — we drifted down to the swimming dock, where we frittered away most of the afternoon. Then we drifted over the footbridge onto the wooded island, where a path strewn with pine needles leads to two Adirondack chairs overlooking the lake; sitting there, lulled by the hum of motorboats and the rustle of leaves, Grace promptly fell asleep.

Then she went to the room to read, while I took out a kayak to get a better view of the ospreys, a white-breasted raptor that’s smaller than an eagle but still a big bird. One was on the nest as I paddled up; then the other flew up and took a post on the dead branch next to it. Just ahead, a loon bobbed on the water.

Before dinner, we leafed through the Stout family photo albums, and soon we were able to attach names to the compelling faces in the framed portraits we’d been gazing at in the dining room, including Allison, the fair-haired youngest boy, and Harry, the handsome oldest son, who died of appendicitis at 34. The whole family was handsome, in fact, and they didn’t seem to sit at home much; one photo shows them on camels, in front of the Sphinx in Egypt.

For many people, this kind of family glamour makes Stout’s Island Lodge irresistible.

“It’s a step back into the past, with all that implies,’’ says Curlin Sullivan, who’d traveled from Atlanta to join her husband’s family reunion. “There are going to be glitches, but I think that’s one of its charms. When you walk in the door, the feeling is incredible. If you’re quiet and still enough, you can almost imagine it’s yours.’’

Other families had convened at Stout’s, including that of Dottie “Boomer’’ Joseph of Sarasota, Fla., who had come to celebrate her 80th birthday. Usually, the clan could be found playing croquet or sitting on the lawn’s circle of Adirondack chairs.

“There are all kinds of things to do for all ages, or you don’t have to do anything,’’ Joseph said. “I even rode a water bicycle for the first time.’’

It took a while for us to get off the island because the pontoon boat needed a new fuse. But we were in no hurry; in fact, we were sorry to go.

As a resort, Stout’s Island Lodge gets four asterisks rather than four stars. But as an experience, it’s unrivaled.

Trip Tips: Stout’s Island Lodge

Getting there: From the town of Mikana, 12 miles northeast of Rice Lake, the lodge ferry picks up guests on the hour.

Accommodations: Daily rates for the 39 rooms are competitive with fine B&Bs and weekly rates with lake resorts. All the rooms I saw were very attractive; guests can choose north-woods new or period furnishings. Rates are $179-$279 per night for two, including a breakfast of breads, muffins, cereal and fruit served in the dining room. It’s $25 extra for each person over 14, and a Sunday-night stay in addition to Friday and Saturday is half-price.

A one-night stay is allowed on weekdays; the resort is open from the end of May  through October.

Dining: The restaurant is also open to nonguests for lunch and dinner Tuesday-Sunday.

Golf: There's boat service to Tagalong.

Information: 715-354-3646, www.stoutslodge.com

Last updated on July 18, 2008