. . . I have always taken being in trouble entirely for granted. As a child and as a teenager, it was the very air I breathed. My relationship with adults consisted mostly of anxious expectation and -- not unrelated -- avoidance. I was very aware of their presence, but it never would have occurred to me to interact with one of them as if our relationship could consist of anything other than the determination of my just desserts. And so it was with Buell. I always imagined that he wished our parents would just leave us at home with the dogs. We were, after all, a pack of wild noisy creatures who were a nuisance and an irritant to the other guests.

But here's the thing: every now and then -- not often, but every now and wondrous then -- Buell would smile at me. At ME! It was incomprehensible. For one thing, it meant that there was a "me" outside of the pack -- which I never thought he knew (and I wasn't sure I wanted him to know!). But, even more amazing, it was a FUN smile. A mischievous smile, even. A twinkly smile. I can see it to this very day. Every now and then, Buell -- of all people! -- would smile at me. And it was awesome.

There is one generation of Van Vac-ers out there who remember Buell as a wonderful man and a great friend. And there is another generation of Van Vac-ers out there for whom he will always be larger than life. We will be telling Buell stories to our grandchildren. What a great legacy.
From Jan Peterson

I'm so sorry to hear about Buell's death. He was such a permanent feature of my childhood and even later years. He was always there when we arrived. Always the same. Such an honor when he visited my parents at their place in later years. They really loved him. He had made Camp what it is, such a big accomplishment, and now you have been carrying it on for so many years, another giant accomplishment on top of his.

For a quiet man, his circle of friends is so very large because of Camp. And you know how dear Camp is to so many people. And Buell's life was unique in this day and age, in ways that many of us fantasize about and long for -- the clean simpler life (or apparently simpler -- I mean no commuting, no Dilbert-office life, no jangling endless media, no big-city nonsense) that had its focus on the beautiful northern outdoors that we all love.
From Mara Niels

Paul and I loved your dad -- he was such a truly special person -- and I treasure all the memories I have of him. A "tree for Buell" evoked a very particular sweet memory of the time, many years ago, that he took me for a walk in the Van Vac woods to teach me how to tell a red pine from a white pine.
From Pat Kirkegaard

We send our heart felt sympathy and love to you, and appreciation of all your dad did for Camp Van Vac and it's beautiful shores. Blessings to you Nancy, we will light a candle for you and your dad.
From Mary Stoyke and Will Agar and Family

I have so many good memories tied to Uncle Buell. The few photos I have bring back his voice, which sounded like he might have been a cowboy in another life, and that way he walked . . . usually carrying or pushing something, if memory serves me. There's a smell-recall, too -- hot, sandy gravel and a hint of gasoline. And the way he sat, with his hands in his lap and his feet tucked back a little, gangly legs with knees pointing nearly in opposite directions. Think of all the great people his knees pointed at. (Yeah, yeah -- at whom his knees pointed. Gimme a break.) Ugly boots. Green caps. Fixing things in the women's bathroom when I had to go. I don't know whether it's comforting or not, but there are a thousand things about that man collected in people's memories, and if there are any bad ones, I don't know about them. You'd think I would -- if he'd ever done anything really bad, you know that my dad would have called him a sonofabitch at least once!

I remember a conversation with you about accepting the mystery, and I do. But I also think he's spryly walking around right now with a bunch of campers who went before him, in a place with green birch trees and blue water, where nothing ever needs to be fixed!
From Kris Chapin

I'm so sorry to hear about your dad. I remember him even though I haven't seen him for many years. The Peterson sisters always talk about how nice he was to us kids even though I couldn't say his name correctly and accidentally called him Bowel.

I'm thinking of you and your family fondly and hoping your happy memories may ease your pain. In sorrow,
From Maura (Peterson) Barnett

I have been thinking of you and remembering Buell, as has our whole family. I sent a copy of the obituary to my children who are now all over the place. Below is the response from my youngest daughter, Leslie. I thought you might enjoy reading it. Oddly enough, it is very much how I would describe him myself, except that I remember his face very clearly and I always picture him with his ball cap. His stride is forever etched in my memory. One difference is that Jan, Hannah Tozer, and myself were so frequently up to no good, that hearing Buell's booming voice was not always so comforting!

Our thoughts are with you. Your father, family, and Camp Van Vac comprise many of the finest, funniest, and fondest of our memories. With deepest sympathy,
From Barb Peterson Camille

I remember Buell. Since I was so young, I remember him as a fantastically tall and broad man. I can't picture his face clearly but I remember him towering over all of us like a giant with a big old mountainman coat on. What I remember more clearly is his warmth. I never knew him very well, but I always knew that he cared about me (and all of us) and that I could trust him.

And of course, I also remember Joe calling him Bowel, and thinking . . . "Well, Buell IS a really hard name!" At the time, I didn't know that "bowel" was a word. I thought everybody was just laughing because Joe couldn't say a really hard word.

Love you.
From Leslie Spies

What a wonderful life your father led. How many lives he touched and changed. We will miss his truly wry wit and his warm, welcoming smile; and his booming voice on the path while we ran wildly through camp . . . . Ah but that is something we will always have with us, isn't it?

Love to you, to Helen and Linda.
From Signe (Peterson) and Rick Garnitz

I wanted to drop you a line and try to tell you how very sorry I am for your loss. Having lost my own dad I can tell you how important these guys are in your life; but I must tell you . . . so are really great uncles. Through all the sadness I feel I am going to try to recall the sunny days I shared with him (and a couple rainy one's while fishing).

I hope that with time you can do the same.

I will never forget the times I spent with your dad over the years. From our annual trips to Camp Van Vac through the Summer I spent working at camp, he gave to me a precious gift; the love of outdoors and nature. He shared with me and many others a world few are blessed in life to see, northern Minnesota

I learned an appreciation for the forest and the forest creatures. How truly recharging it can be to one's soul to rise early for a day of portages, canoe travel and fishing. Little Crab Lake to this day remains a magical place. A single spot on earth free from man's tinkerings; a quiet, tranquil world that provides one with the luxury to stop, look and listen. Nothing was better than a busy morning of paddling, fishing, followed by a noon campfire roasting Zups.

I think God gave us Uncles because he/she knew that fathers often times die too soon. Uncles are tasked with an ongoing responsibility: providing a model, an anchor, a sort of compass to keep us on track. Oh, they don't always outwardly seem to embrace this responsibility, but subconsciously you know it is there if you should ever need it (and so do they). Uncles teach you self-reliance. How to find your way about in the wilderness; not to be afraid of what is lurking after dark. They are required to have a well developed and exercised sense of humor; a vast assortment of pranks to play. Uncles must have a joke at the ready for any occasion; they must know how to bend but not break.

I will forever hold a picture in my mind of Uncle Buell running the motor as he skipped us across Burnside after a day of fishing or blueberry foraging; of the wooden boat so sleek and varnished. How the cold never seemed to affect him. While the rest of us were bundled, covered from head to toe, he could be bailing water with his hands to keep our feet dry. How he never got lost while winding through the many islands. His smile when lady luck or life threw us a curve with a rain squall or some other bump in the trail. How he had to duck to get through doors. I can still see him sitting before the wood stove at Aunt Kate's cabin, his head bobbing a bit as he dozed after a great meal of bass and "scissors-bills."

So this is the way I choose to remember him. Enjoying what each day brought, larger than life and always at home in the northern wilderness.

All my prayers and love.
From Dick Sparks