The Camp Bullwheel story

The old Daems place looked pretty sad as it slowly sunk into the ground surrounded by massive cottonwoods. The old homestead sat on top of bedrock, and for that reason the water table was very high. Often times, during the summer water bubbled out of the top of the well casing, giving much-needed water to the Cottonwoods that Gladys had planted almost a century earlier.
I had lived across the road from Roy and Gladys Daems for four years while their nephew Allan and his family rented their old homestead right next-door. A family spat gave me an opportunity to buy the sorry old place that was crying out for attention. What transpired from there has now, 40 years later, turned into a camp that hosts people with disabilities, getting them out on the Madison River and surrounds, with evening campfires and guitar music under the Montana sky.
This is the story about how it all happened.

Chapter 1

In 1980 I threw caution to the wind and moved from Denver, Colorado to Varney, Montana, in search of trout, completely obsessed. I had been fortunate enough to luck into a real estate market that allowed me to expend my energies completely, and ride a significant real estate wave. While I renovated by day, working with plumbing, electrical, carpentry, tile work, roofing, etc., my heart sought water, clear rivers teaming with trout, that existed all over the world. I indulged that passion and by the time I was 30 years old I had probably fished internationally as much as anyone my age. But, I did it differently. I camped on the rivers. I hitchhiked; I rode buses. And I had the adventure of a lifetime at age 24, traveling throughout Chile and Argentina chasing trout, 50 years ago. That obsession led me to the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River, quite possibly the quintessential river on the planet for technical fly fishing. The trout have PhD‘s!

1976 was my summer to make the pilgrimage onto this hallowed river. I found my way to the Riverside Campground, just south of Harriman Park. The Henry’s Fork of the Snake River wound through this amazing state park that was donated by the Harriman family back in the day. Having just arrived and not having a very strong sense of where to go, I found a place on the river with huge boulders and spunky rainbows on the job. The fish were looking up and attacking my high floating offering, a fluffy caddis fly, riding proudly on top of the water.

I looked up and there was a young man on shore that he had sent a fisherman’s greeting,  Any fish coming up?
Some spunky ones, can’t help themselves, flying out of the water after my high floater. Where are you from, asked the young man? Colorado, how about you? Up the road in West Yellowstone but my dad and I are traveling around fishing, camping out of the back of our station wagon. You know, we’re fishing with some guys from Colorado, so why don’t you join us tomorrow… And the rest is history.

The next morning, I was introduced to the gang from Steamboat Colorado, a motley crew indeed, that seemingly embraced my presence and intrusion. From that meeting I made lifelong friends. After some days on the fabled Snake, I tagged along,  with the Steamboat gang to a place called Varney Bridge to fish the salmon-fly hatch on the Madison River. I completely fell in love with the culture, the river, the valley, and the mountains. So taken, I found a piece of property overlooking the Madison Valley with the distinctive Sphinx Mountain the prominent view and sitting above the lovely Blaine Spring Creek.

Across the street lived Roy and Gladys Daems that, age wise could easily be grandparents… And they did become just that

.I arrived in the early spring of 1980, hell-bent on carving out my slice of life in trout country, completely obsessed. Gladys Daems instructed Roy to come over and find out what the heck was going on right in their view of the Madison range, curiosity had overwhelmed both of them. I greeted Roy working his way through the barbwire fence. There was no handshake, a lot of foot shuffling, a very shy man who’d come to investigate.

I make friends easily and in no time had Roy telling me all about the valley and the Teepee ring on my property. Then I dragged him down the hill and showed him some springs I had discovered, gushing right out of the hillside. He almost had a stroke or a heart attack or something on the way back up the hill and that’s when I heard that he had survived a stroke only months earlier. I’m sure glad I didn’t kill him. When we got to the top of the hill he muttered, come on over and meet Ike.

Gladys Daems was peering out the back porch door when Roy and I arrived, fingers in her mouth, fearful of the bogeyman from Denver. I introduced myself and Gladys asked me in for a piece of apple pie, maybe one of the best I’ve ever eaten. Over that pie, a bond was created they changed our lives. You see, the house next-door, their old homestead, would become Camp Bullwheel.

Admittedly, I had been struggling with purpose, having caught enough fish and explored enough of the Madison River and surrounds. So, when the house next-door to Roy and Gladys, their old Homestead came available and was offered to me, it was a blessing. I needed a project.

It was the spring of 1984 when I drove up from Denver, opened my house across the street, and then took in the enormity of reviving the old Daems place. It was a real mess, doors kicked in, no heating system, sketchy electrical, and garbage everywhere. To say that the nephew had left on good terms would be the understatement of the century. It was ugly and I was kind of caught in the middle because I get along with everybody. But I had a project in front of me that I was starved to get into and had absolutely the time of my life pulling that all together.

Gladys and Roy were overjoyed to see their old homestead, where they had raised their two daughters, being brought back to life. And it was a family affair because their two grandsons were working alongside, what became, a whole gang that wanted to be part of this reemergence of the old Daems place.

 

While Gladys was inside making curtains on her old Singer, Roy was on his 1948 Elmer Hogstead backhoe digging my septic trenches with his grandson Dan on the ground keeping Roy out of trouble, his eyesight on the wane. Davey, the other grandson was cleaning up the place, strewn with, well, you name it. Davey got a rough start, cerebral palsy, challenged mentally, and didn’t move well, gimping severely to one side. But his glee and enthusiasm made up for any deficit. He’d chase me down with each succeeding bucket of trash and exclaim- Look what I got! A huge smile of satisfaction emanating from his being.

Even that first day, as well as succeeding days, neighbors would stop and compliment the ‘new look’.

When we began the residing project, nailing up rough sawn Douglas Fir, well, it just so happened that friends from New Zealand we were visiting and Hugh Hassleman stood at a full 6’7”. . . relieving the stepladder work. His wife, Caroline, busied herself keeping water, snacks, and materials in front of us as the building took on a fresh look. 

Dick Coad was Roy’s uncle and only a few years his senior. He and his bride Ann lived just down the road along with their turkeys, pheasants, quail, etc, quite the show. Dick, age 80, and all of 120 pounds had provided the table saw and was eagerly ferrying freshly cut boards to the hammering crew, banging into about everything close by.

My amigo Richard, from town, couldn’t miss the fun either and jumped right into the fray as the old place took shape. He was the angle man, making the precise cuts for the difficult fittings, as we covered the ugly gray roofing material that enveloped the house.

Ever the plumber and electrician, skills acquired revamping houses in Colorado, I cobbled together a heating system, baseboard electric, and tied the plumbing to Roy’s new septic system. Gladys donated old furniture along with the ‘Nearly New’ thrift shop in Ennis, and we furnished the place with my intention of renting to fishermen in the season. . . and did.  

The massive Cottonwoods were badly in need of a haircut, dead limbs threatening the house and outbuildings. Now, hiring expensive tree guys was out of the question. . . So, I bought an electric chain saw and the monkey in me came right to life, as it did as a kid, climbing an aged cherry tree in our backyard, one of my first challenges. Big fat limbs tumbled to the ground for several days as I keep my parts from that whizzing chain that could take a finger in a heartbeat. . . then the real work began, as the yard was covered with limbs and greenery. Bucked into the ideal dimension for the woodstove, the wood was neatly stacked on the north side of the house, breaking the brunt of that cruel north wind.

By late summer the place was ship-shape and ready for tenants. A tight group of fishermen from Pennsylvania were my first takers and they loved the place! Walking distance to the Madison, this location was a fisherman’s delight. And that’s why the old homestead was hardly ever vacant. 

I enjoyed the summer/fall fishermen for a few years, then morphed to longer term occupants. Over the next thirty-three years I had a variety of renters, almost all involved with fishing the Madison, that just so happened to break up into a plethora of islands just below the famous Varney Bridge, making for channels of every size, along with, when it all came together, the full-on Madison, one of the most coveted rivers in the world. The location was stellar for fishermen.

Every five to seven years I’d lose my tenants and then must go in and give the place a facelift, painting, fixing, prepping for the next occupant. . . but I wasn’t happy about it, me, getting a bit long in the tooth and frankly, dreading yet another cleanup. . . Then the lightbulb came on. . . my old friend Peter Pauwels.

I’d gotten wind that Peter was taking fishermen with disabilities down the Colorado River and chased him down with the idea of turning the place into a camp/lodge. Great idea Frank, but it’ll be a few years. I’ve got my hands full here in Colorado, he let on. Not giving up, I ventured, just come up and take a look, please. Peter relented.

I got right to work, chasing down a variety of people that might be able to shed light, or even help with such a venture. On September 9th, 2017, eleven people converged at the Sportsmen’s motel in Ennis, for lunch. My friends Rick and Anna helped me with the agenda and the set-up of the meeting, creating a logical design for seating. At the head of the table behind me I had a whiteboard, greeted everyone, and made my pitch, a facility for people with disabilities. Karen McMullin volunteered her legal expertise and agreed to set up our non-profit. Paul, her husband, a contractor, offered his expertise. Around the table everyone contributed their two cents and support. And then, Peter took the floor.

Peter Pauwels broke the mold! Easily the least selfish person I’ve ever met, Peter volunteered at Craig Hospital in Denver for several decades, specializing in designing equipment for disabled to partake in nature, fishing at the forefront. The accolades he’s received for his work are a mere whisp of what the man has given back. On top of that is his genius in engineering watercraft and equipment that allow every disability to participant, Peter’s compete obsession- inclusion.

Back in the day of renovating properties in Denver, we’d have a closing party, always, when selling and sometimes when buying. Dinner at the Riviera, on me, was the slogan. As we rode that real estate wave, doing quite well, Peter was the go-to guy for getting it done. His amazing building skills helped us through many challenges. Invariably, at these closing parties, Peter would always show up with one of his friends in a wheelchair or using crutches, a heart as big as the world! 

Back to the lunch I hosted, Peter took the reins, wowed everyone with his knowledge and experience, and we were launched! Peter and I drove out to the homestead and he as off, like a shot, exploring, thinking, planning, then scheming. We agreed to meet April 1, 2018, and dive into the construction in preparation for our first summer of guests. Having volunteered at Craig, Peter had the connections to make it work, to bring people with disabilities to our camp, out on the river, and show them the best of Montana.

Chapter 2 Coming soon

Fast forward seven years and seven seasons of hosting the most deserving. What a ride it has been! We partnered with Ability Montana in 2022, they, leasing the property for their vast sweep of southern Montana’s community of disabled.

Ability Montana is a peer operated organization that helps people with disabilities at all levels- housing, education, transportation, jobs. . . on and on. With Scott Birkenbuel at the helm, Ability has flourished, as has Camp Bullwheel. And now it is time to pass the torch.

Peter and I extend our sincere thanks to those caring souls that jumped right in and brought this dream to reality. The old homestead, out-buildings, and newish boathouse sitting on two acres will continue to serve people with disabilities in perpetuity and remain named Camp Bullwheel.

More early Varney history to follow. . . so stay tuned.