On the Old Ophid Trail

Scotts Bluff National Monument. The highway past this beautiful promontory rising from the North Platte Valley of western Nebraska should be a One-Way west only for, in truth, the monument is not very impressive to travelers returning from the deserts and mountains of Wyoming. For those coming from the east, however, and especially pioneers on the Oregon Trail one hundred and fifty years ago, this huge hunk of rock and chalk was the most awesome sight encountered thus far. One day Deb and I stopped at the visitor center and after viewing the excellent museum inside we hopped a shuttle 500 feet to the top.

It's really a different world atop Scotts Bluff. The views from all sides are spectacular and the air is much cooler. The rocks and Ponderosa pine make one feel as if they are already in the mountains. It doesn't take much imagination to hear the voices echoing down from up here. The voices are of those from 150 years ago; those who had trudged the hot, dusty trail and watched this bluff slowly grow and grow for days as they approached. When they finally reached this massive mesa, two young men from Pennsylvania were determined to scale its cliffs as they had vowed days before. They knew it would take hours to accomplish the feat but since it was a Sunday, a day of rest and repair, they could afford to take their time. After a close call when a rock gave way half way up, and after a few minor cuts and cactus thorns, the two finally reached the top. And now, with their feet firmly planted on the rocks, the boys desperately tried to get the attention of the families camped far below to prove that they had done it. But no one heard. No matter how wildly they waved or how loud they yelled, the wind was wrong and the distance too great. Still, the boys had the satisfaction of conquering this mountain that had mocked them for days and of carving their names in the soft rock. The names are gone now but if a visitor stops for a moment and listens, they can still hear the voices echoing down.

After walking around a bit Deb and I decided to eschew the shuttle and hike back down on the foot trail. It was a perilous trip. Perhaps the men were braver back in the 1930's when the path was built. Certainly they were thinner. The way down was very narrow and the options were few should an emergency arise. Seemingly, there is no place in the West where one can escape rattlesnakes for even atop the sheer-faced bluff signs had warned of them. On our way down the trail, we were on constant alert for these coiled menaces. Actually, had one sprang at us from the side of the path we really had only two choices: 1) Allow the reptile to strike us and perhaps kill us, or 2) leap over the side where the fall would most definitely end our earthly existence. I suppose I have made an ophid out of Deb for when we successfully reached the bottom without a bite or fall, she told me that all the way down she was steeling herself not to panic or jump should she hear the familiar buzzing sound next to her.

Coming Tomorrow: "My First . . . and Last Rattlesnake Hunt"

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Debbie Daily

Pennsylvanians in the Wild West

The Meade Society will hold its annual birthday celebration for Gen. George Meade (right) on New Year's Eve at Laurel Hill Cemetery in Philadelphia. This event includes speechifying and a champagne toast to the man who "saved the Union."( http://www.civilwarhome.com/meadebio.htm ) Our dear friend Andy Waskie founded the Meade Society and has reenacted Meade for many years. So devoted is Andy that he and his beautiful bride, Carol Neumann, were married at Laurel Hill a couple of years ago on Meade's birthday and wedding anniversary. (Oddly, Andy and Carol are not our only friends to be married in a cemetery or who we have stayed with on their honeymoon!) Andy is as passionate about graves as I, and a tour through Laurel Hill with Dr. Waskie is an adventure.

Also buried at Laurel Hill is Owen Wister (left), the Pennsylvanian who penned The Virginian and began the avalanche of Western literature that evolved into film and television. Andy will be visiting the West this spring when he addresses the Kansas City Civil War Roundtable on Gen. John Geary. Geary was the first mayor of San Francisco, a territorial governor of Kansas, a Union general in the Civil War, and Governor of Pennsylvania. While in the West, Andy hopes to visit Meade County, Kansas, and Carol, who portrays Clara Barton, hopes to see Barton County, the only Kansas county named for a woman.

If you happen to be passing through Philly on New Year's Eve, General Meade's birthday celebration is an event you'll never forget. For more information, give Andy a call and tell him Tom and Deb sent you. (Dr. Andy Waskie at 215-204-5452. For directions, call: 215-228-8200 Laurel Hill Cemetery)


The Santa Fe Trail

Plans are underway for the "Great Santa Fe Trail Horse Race and Endurance Ride," an 800-mile trek that approximately follows the trail from Independence, Missouri, to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Organizers are meeting January 3 and 4 in Dodge City to discuss logistics. The race will occur in September, 2007. Topics to be discussed include host cities along the race route, other possible Santa Fe Trail events, television coverage, economic impact, and how communities along the trail can maximize their participation in this event? Partners and sponsors of the event include RFD TV, The U.S. Postal Service, the New Mexico Sports Authority, the Bureau of Land Management Mustang and Burro Adoption Program, and the Kansas Lottery. The Imus Ranch, a working cattle ranch for kids with cancer, has been designated as the race charity. The Postal Service will even sponsor a special Pony Express ride. For more information, contact Rob Phillips at 785-218-3265.


Hector Santa Anna Dies

Hector Santa-Anna, a combat veteran of World War II, passed away in a Dover, Delaware, hospital. The 83-year-old Santa Anna was a B-17 bomber pilot and flew 35 missions over Europe. He was also directly descended from the brother of Antonio de Lopez de Santa Anna, the Mexican general who led his forces against the Alamo in 1836. Apparently, nerve runs in the family. Hector Santa Anna recalled a mission during which enemy flak knocked out one of the engines on his B-17, ruptured the gas tanks, and destroyed the radio, oxygen system, elevator controls, and all of the tires. But Santa Anna kept the crippled plane in the air and landed in Belgium.

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Thought for the Day

"99 % of lawyers give the rest a bad name."

Bad Woman Meets Bad Lands

Every state west of the Missouri has a little or a lot of what are called "badlands." We here in Kansas have at least three such areas. But, to my knowledge, only one state has a national park devoted to these rough and broken grounds, viz., South Dakota.

One day back in Two Thousand and something, Deb and I were headed north through the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. Poking up ahead was Badlands National Park. Even from a great distance we could clearly see that these badlands were something special. Thus, after parking the trailer at a KOA campground a few miles southeast of the dusty, tumbleweed town of Interior, we dashed up to the park to take a hike on one of the trails. We probably hadn't gone a hundred yards on the trail when we missed the path entirely and meandered down a narrow ravine.

"Some scout you are!" mocked the woman when we later realized our mistake.

"Well, writing about them doesn't necessarily make me one," I countered as we retraced our steps. In truth, I had never gotten so lost, so completely, in so short a time, in all my so-so life as a so-so scout. This is the enigma of every badlands I have trod: Looking at them is easy; navigating through them is tuff.

After locating the path once more, we soon found ourselves walking in a moonscape of fantastic shapes and colors. Even the Grand Canyon did not prepare either me, Deb or a famous architect for these Badlands.

"I've been about the world a lot, and pretty much over our own country," observed Frank Lloyd Wright, "but I was totally unprepared for that revelation called the Dakota Bad Lands. . . . What I saw gave me an indescribable sense of mysterious elsewhere. . . , an endless supernatural world more spiritual than earth."

Deb's awed comment that the place "looks like a cavern with the lid off" may be as close to describing it as any. Spires that end in pin points; scoured ravines whose edges at sundown seem as sharp and defined as razor blades; strange, verdant plateaus, or micro-mesas, that look as level and manicured as golf greens-–all this and more. And it goes on for miles and miles. The whole fantastic jumble is made mostly of clay and after a rain the white, pink and tan sediment runs down and settles into patches that dry perfectly flat. We both had to touch some of this clay that was not quite dry near a puddle. In feel and texture it was as smooth and cool as cold cream. I put some on my burning lips and it was like a wonderful balm. On our five or six mile hike we saw not one living thing, other than grass, flowers and cactus. But other living things were there.

According to the brochure I read after our walk, just about every North American animal under the sun calls the Badlands home, including buffalo, antelope and . . . even mountain lions. And so, beautiful and mysterious as the park is, scratch one more place on the globe where this "slow deer" will experience the thrill of biking in the wild.

Still, fully armed with a pistol in my back pack and a large knife on my hip, I look forward to soon returning to and hiking through this great wonder of the world. God bless U. S. Grant, Teddy Roosevelt and the National Park Service for protecting our natural treasures and ensuring that folks like Deb and I can come and enjoy (and even get lost in) this magical world called the Badlands.

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Debbie Daily

150 Years Ago in Colorado
--it was just like today!

Our friends to the west report prodigious snowfall, and since I was thinking of Dr. Donald Danker the other day, I am reminded of another experience in a blizzard decades ago. Mollie: The Journal of Mollie Dorsey Sanford in Nebraska and Colorado Territories, 1857-1866 was edited by my old professor. Dr. Danker truly loved this girl and was so struck by her experiences.

Moving from Nebraska to the wilds of Colorado Territory, the young bride found herself home alone on Christmas Eve. As the wind howled up the canyon and the snow piled higher and higher outside her cabin door, Mollie's imagination went wild with the calamities that might befall her husband before he returned. She sank deeper into despair as the night went on.

Suddenly, there was a scratch at the door. Not a knock, but a scratch. Tentatively, Mollie opened the door just a crack to take a peek and with the bitter cold wind and snow that blew in . . . so did a kitten. The kitten ran into the cabin as if it had been its destination all along. " A kitten!" the bewildered girl pondered. "Where on earth had this cat come from?"

It may seem odd now, but cats were scarce in the Territory. People bought cats to keep away the mice and rats. The chances that a stray kitten would be lost somewhere and survive to arrive at Mollie's fireside were just astronomical. She concluded it was a miracle.

She warmed and fed the little creature, who was soon curled in Mollie's lap, purring softly as it slept, while the storm raged around them. Mollie was comforted in her long wait, and her husband returned safely.

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Email

Another Young Bride's Story

Merry Christmas, Tom and Deb. Hope to see you soon. Wanted to share a little nugget I found: "A couple came from Ohio, arriving in Leavenworth a few days since, and were married about noon. At 8 o'clock in the evening a bouncing boy weighing ten and a half pounds, was born to the blooming bride of less than ten hours. This is only another evidence of the fertility of Kansas, and a proof that the drought is not so general and fatal in its effects as some of our eastern friends suppose." The Sumner County Press, Wellington, KS, January 8, 1874
Best,

George Laughead, Dodge City

DG: Merry Christmas, George! With the snows in western Kansas and Colorado, we may see further evidence of fertility in about nine months!


Joyeux Noel

Hi dear friends,
I wish you a very happy Christmas with your family.
Your friends,

Christine & J. Jacques Roussels, Rambouillet, France
(Christine and Jean Jacques gave us an incredible tour of Paris a couple of years ago, including the grave of Confederate Secretary of State Judah P. Benjamin. They reenact the American Civil War and she is the most devoted fan of the Wild West I know. I believe she has been to Billy the Kid's grave three times!)


Correction

Deb, I am going to have to stop drinking and telling you stories . . . [or maybe] I'll just stop telling you stories and keep drinking more. It was my arm not my hand! (blog, 12.16.06)

David Chuber, Falcon, Missouri

DG: Arm? hand? After a couple of drinks, what's the difference!

Red Cloud's War

Most Americans, historians included, would agree that the greatest victory of the Plains Indian tribes over the U. S. Army was at the Little Bighorn in 1876. But most Americans, historians included, would be wrong. The greatest victory came ten years earlier, near Fort Phil Kearny up in Wyoming. At the Little Bighorn, the Indians won a battle; at Fort Phil Kearny, they won a war.

Although Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull may have been the most famous Indian leaders on the plains, Chief Red Cloud (right) was by far the most successful . . . and the most impressive.

"Red Cloud was one of the most picturesque red men I ever saw," recalled a young army officer. "[He was] a model of physical excellence standing over six feet in height, straight as an arrow, with the impress of command stamped on every line of his powerful face."

In 1866, when the federal government built a relay of forts along the Big Horns to protect the Bozeman Trail, which stretched to the gold fields of Montana, Red Cloud declared war. The land through which the road ran was some of the last and best hunting grounds of the Sioux and the chief was determined to keep it. Realizing that a direct assault against the forts would never succeed, Red Cloud's mounted warriors waged a harassing guerrilla war along the Bozeman. By ones and twos, soldiers and civilians were cut off and killed. On their fleet ponies, catching the raiders was next to impossible. The frustration and anger felt by the troopers stationed at the forts was similar to that felt by all regular soldiers who fought guerrilla wars, before and after. All are anxious, even desperate, to exact revenge. Most good officers understand these emotions and are careful to rein in their men lest rage lead to indiscretions and disaster.

One young man who was hell-bent to punish his tormentors was William Fetterman (right). A newcomer to Fort Phil Kearny, the captain was openly contemptuous of his wild adversary. The fact that he and a group of comrades had one day been fired upon by concealed warriors at close range without receiving so much as a scratch left him laughing at the Indians' marksmanship; the ease with which he and a few men had routed a large band of red men the week before also caused the officer to sneer at his foe's fighting ability.

"A company of regulars could whip a thousand," Fetterman was heard to say, "and a regiment could whip the whole array of hostile tribes."

On the unusually warm morning of December 21, 1866--one hundred and forty years ago today--Fetterman was ordered by his commander to take a column of troops and relieve a work party which was under attack not far from the fort. Before the young officer left he was cautioned that under no circumstances was he to pursue flying bands of Indians over a nearby ridge, some two miles north. This Indian tactic had been tried earlier without success and it was obvious that Red Cloud was hoping to lure the bluecoats into an ambush.

Hardly had the column marched out the gate when a small band of Indians bolted from a nearby creek and fled toward the distant ridge. Despite his orders, Fetterman pursued. Shortly, after the eighty soldiers disappeared over the forbidden ridge, those in the fort heard gunshots echoing from that direction. Soon, the firing rose to a furious level. Finally, after half an hour, the last gunshot was heard and a "perfect silence" descended upon the ridge.

When a relief column reached the scene later that day, it found that every man in Fetterman's force had been killed, including the headstrong captain himself. With few exceptions, the soldiers had been literally cut to pieces. Arms, legs, heads, eyeballs, guts, testicles, tongues, toes--all had been hacked off and hurled about the prairie. Evidence of torture was everywhere. By the time the wagons returned to the fort with the corpses, the weather had turned bitterly cold and the bodies were frozen hard as rock.

Despite the horror created throughout the nation by the Fetterman massacre, the federal government seemed determined to maintain the forts along the Bozeman. For his part, Red Cloud seemed just as determined that they would go and throughout the winter and following summer the chief continued his siege. At last, President U. S. Grant decided enough was enough and ordered the posts closed. Soon after the soldiers marched out, the victorious Sioux rode in and promptly burned the hated symbols to the ground. With a superb strategy of action and inaction, "Red Cloud's War" thus ended in total victory.

Far from being loathed and hated by whites, Red Cloud became a celebrity at the various army posts he later visited, much as Buffalo Bill was honored by the Indians he fought.

"He is really very polite, and dignified in all respects," commented one dainty army wife upon meeting the famous chief, "and when he smiles I never saw a sweeter [one]."

Although most of the log palisades are long gone and an interstate highway passes not far to the east, one still gets a sense of the almost perfect isolation the soldiers and families must have felt when they were stationed at Fort Phil Kearny. And after visiting the scene of the Fetterman massacre, one can easily see that when the young captain led his command over the ridge and found upwards of 3,000 warriors waiting for him, his fate was sealed. ( http://home.comcast.net/~theangle/RedCloud/kearny.htm )

Next trip west, visit Fort Phil Kearny and the Fetterman Massacre site. Walk the trails; relive the past. But before you go, read the best book available on Red Cloud's War, Col. Fred Chiaventone's award-winning Moon of the Bitter Cold. Everything becomes clear after reading this book:
http://www.amazon.com/Moon-Bitter-Cold-Frederick-Chiaventone/dp/0765346575/sr=1-1/qid=1166643980/ref=sr_1_1/102-0300891-6676957?ie=UTF8&s=books

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Thought For the Day

"If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs, it's just possible you haven't grasped the situation."
-------Jean Kerr

Billy Bonney

An Interview With Drew Gomber

(Born in New York City, raised in New Jersey, Drew Gomber may not seem like a fit candidate to discourse on one of the true legends of the Wild West, Billy the Kid. But he is. Living in the heart of "Kid" country near Lincoln, New Mexico, Drew has studied Billy Bonney and the Lincoln County War like few others. Appearing in over 50 documentary films, including an upcoming Discovery Channel special shot in Spain--which he will host--Drew has become one of the more recognizable faces on TV.)

Tom Goodrich: What kind of person was the Kid?

Drew: I have come to believe that the Kid was a likeable guy--the true key to his legend is his personality. The guy had charisma coming out of his ears. We've all known someone like Billy--they have their failings, but they have so much personality, no one cares. Homicidal? Sure--as were many others in that time and place, to say nothing of his circumstances. The Kid is probably someone it would have been fun to know. That seems to be the one thing that everyone who knew him agreed on--he was always joking and laughing.

TG: I have seen movies and read accounts of Billy the Kid in which he is either portrayed as a mad dog murderer or merely a faithful friend avenging the death of Mr. Tunstall? Which is true?

Drew: While there is no evidence that Tunstall had any particular affection for the Kid, he DID give the Kid a rifle and a horse, possibly the first presents anyone had given him. When Tunstall was murdered, the Kid dealt himself into the Lincoln County War in a big way. It was probably Billy to whom Billy Morton referred in his letter to his brother back east, predicting his own death. He mentioned that one man in the posse was very eager to do away with he and Baker and this was, in all probability, Billy. On the other hand, anyone calling him a "mad dog killer" needs to study up on their subject a bit more.

TG: How would you describe the Lincoln County War? What was the body count?

Drew: The Lincoln County War was not a range war, it was a war between merchants. And the fact is, it was about money and nothing else. Many have tried to claim that it was an extension of the English/Irish troubles, but there were English and Irish on BOTH sides. No one will ever know the true body count. It has been estimated at about 20--but that is documented deaths. Many people left the area during the War--or did they? My personal estimated guess is about 100.

TG: What is your favorite Kid movie?

Drew: My favorite Kid movie is probably the first Young Guns not because they characterized the Kid correctly, but for the first time to my knowledge, they used the correct names of the players and even had most of the right gunfights in the right order. The sequel of course, was absurd. To my knowledge, no movie has ever correctly captured the Kid's personality, which is unfortunate, because, as stated above, it is his personality that is the key to his legend.

TG: I know you give Kid tours. Can you tell us a bit about that?

Drew: I'm available for tours of either Lincoln itself--which can go anywhere from 45 minutes to two hours depending on the interest of the persons to whom I am giving the tour; or Lincoln County--which is a day long tour that would take in the Tunstall murder site, the site of the Blazer's Mill gun battle, and the (almost) ghost town of White Oaks.

(Drew Gomber can be reached at: PO Box 221, Lincoln, NM 88338, or 505-653-4056, or drew@pvtnetworks.net , or http://www.drewgomber.com/ )

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Christmas Shopping? Problem Solved!

Just when you need a break the most, The Weider History Group is giving you $5 off a year's subscription to any of its magazines: AMERICA'S CIVIL WAR, AMERICAN HISTORY, AVIATION HISTORY, BRITISH HERITAGE, CIVIL WAR TIMES, MILITARY HISTORY, MHQ, VIETNAM , WILD WEST, and WORLD WAR II . So, if my math is right, buy one for your dad, one for your brother-in-law, one for your boss, one for your VFW Post, and one for the old maid who lives down the lane, and that's $25 you've saved on presents! What a deal!! What a bunch of magazines!!! Offer good only through Dec. 31st . . . so you better hurry. http://www.historynet.com/magazines

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More Church Bloopers

The pastor would appreciate it if the ladies of the congregation would lend him their electric girdles for the pancake breakfast next Sunday.

Weight Watchers will meet at 7 PM at the First Presbyterian Church. Please use large doubledoor at the side entrance.

Miss Charlene Mason sang "I will not pass this way again," giving obvious pleasure to the congregation.

Our youth basketball team is back in action Wednesday at 8 PM in the recreation hall. Come out and watch us kill Christ the King.

The Rector will preach his farewell message after which the choir will sing, "Break Forth Into Joy."

The eighth-graders will be presenting Hamlet in the church basement Friday at 7 PM. The congregation is invited to attend this tragedy.

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Email

Hi, Deb. . . . Thought you would enjoy this little story:

Back in the 1800s, the Tates Watch Company of Massachusetts wanted to produce other products and, since they already made the cases for pocket watches, decided to market compasses for the pioneers traveling west. It turned out that although their watches were of finest quality, their compasses were so bad that people often ended up in Canada or Mexico rather than California. This, of course, is the origin of the expression, "He who has a Tates is lost!"

NC She-Heel

DG: Thanks for the nugget, She-Heel. This is one explanation for how folks wound up in Canada, not to mention all those historic signs archaeologists have uncovered that say "Ho, for Winnipeg, eh!"

History Hustlers

Because so much of our life together has involved travel, there seems little more to write about than things Deb and I have seen and done while on the move over the past eight years. And so, here we go again. . . .

Several weeks ago I mentioned a series of encounters that occurred in New Mexico ("Caution . . . Apocalypse Ahead!" 11.30.06) which, in our opinion, rivaled anything Roswell could have tossed at us. Over the years there have been other such stuff including a Virginia lightning bolt zorching the food I was cooking, red ants in the pants in Louisiana and, and bizarre anomalies such as this "questioning pine" in the Black Hills that Deb seems to be pondering to the right.

For the better part of three years the woman and I traversed America while we researched two books on the Lincoln assassination. To fund our travels we were forced to deliver a zillion public lectures, doing sometimes as many as three a day. Following these talks we sold our books to the crowds, which usually paid for all our needs, then dashed off to either an archive or another talk. So great was the blur that sometimes we hardly knew what day it was or what town we were in. But some incidents do stand out.

A tornado struck Scottsdale, Arizona, the night we spoke there and one can well imagine the jokes two speakers from "Oz" heard as a result. During the height of the D.C. sniper scare, we talked one evening in the very center of the killing zone, Gaithersburg, Maryland--a large, but understandably subdued, crowd that night. A gun-wielding drunk interrupted our "Q & A" in Dallas. Deb had to rush away and upchuck in the middle of a lecture in Orange County, California. And so on.

Without a doubt, the greatest series of coincidences occurred one day in the Washington, D. C., metro area. Topeka is a small city, in a small state, in a small region, demographically speaking. In the hundreds of talks we had given prior to this day, not one person in our crowds had ever mentioned any connection whatsoever to Topeka. On the morning in question, we spoke to the Springfield, Virginia, Rotary. At the end of the program, a man piped up, "I'm from Topeka!" At noon, we talked to the Reston, Virginia, Kiwanis, and again, a man stood up and announced that he was from Topeka. That evening we addressed a Laurel, Maryland, group. Before we began the program, I asked: "Will the person from Topeka please raise your hand? We know you're out there." To our disappointment, no one acknowledged being from the capital of Kansas; one man did offer, however, that his brother lived there. Nothing like that had ever happened before or since.

One autumn morning, after a program in Thousand Oaks, California, we were basking in the sun at a local Starbucks. There were maybe twenty or thirty people around us, lolling like lizards. While Deb was reading a newspaper, I noticed a van drive slowly through the parking lot. It sported the logo of a Los Angeles TV station and the occupants were looking in the direction of the coffee shop. A few minutes later, I glanced over and saw a suit and his cameraman walking our way. The reporter acted as if he were searching for someone among the crowd, but with my bald head glowing like a light bulb, even then I knew.

"Excuse me, sir," said the fellow. "Can we interview you?"

By this time, Deb had looked up from her paper.

"Sure," she said, being willing to talk on any subject, "about what?"

"I suppose you haven't heard yet, but George C. Scott died this morning about two blocks from here."

No, we hadn't heard, and we both were sorry to hear about it for we loved his acting, but "you don't want us. We're not from here. I'm from Kansas and she's from Virginia."

"Oh, that's perfect," the reporter replied. "That's just what we want!"

And so, for the next fifteen minutes we held forth with our learned opinions; said what we felt, platitudes mostly; that Scott was a consummate actor; a hard working professional from the old school; Hollywood had lost a great one. At the moment, I could think of only one film that he had starred in, other than THE film, and so I said the obvious, "He was born to play Patton (right)."

"He was born in Virginia," offered Deb.

What other banalities we uttered I cannot remember, but really, Scott deserved better than this. A city full of producers, directors, actors, agents, and screen writers, and they pick us, a hillbilly dwarf and a bald clodhopper. Other than being mistaken once for a retro rock star by a giddy crowd of young women in downtown Philadelphia, that's as close as I've come to feeling famous. But I must admit: Just being mistaken for someone famous is pretty cool and certainly beats sleeping under a bridge.

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Debbie Daily

New Book!

The only flaw that I can find in Buffalo Bill Cody is that he wasn't a Virginian. I assert that Virginians created America, but Buffalo Bill took America to the rest of the world. So goes the premise of Buffalo Bill in Bologna, by Bob Rydell and Rob Kroes. Bob is the head of the history department at Montana State University and I had the great pleasure of studying with him a few years ago during the Summer Institute at the Buffalo Bill Historical Center. A scholar and a gentleman, Bob was a wonderful professor and just an all around great guy. While at the BBHC, we studied Buffalo Bill's impact on culture and one of my favorite photographs is of the scout and a couple of Sioux Indians riding in a gondola through the canals of Venice. According to the Billings Outpost, the book was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize in history.

Juti Winchester, curator of the Buffalo Bill Museum, told the Outpost that the Wild West shows were one version of American culture, and she appreciated Rydell putting them into a global context. Normally, she said, people tend to trivialize Cody's Wild West show.

"People don't tend to take it very seriously, but Dr. Rydell's book does take it very seriously," Winchester said. "It's the kind of work that is needed."

Read the entire story at http://www.billingsnews.com/story?storyid=21800&issue=364

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Still Time!

Under "gift ideas" at www.historynetshop.com, you'll find a wonderful scene of The Alamo featuring Davy Crockett, William Travis, and Jim Bowie being attacked by Mexican soldiers. The figures, done in 1/24 scale, are realistically posed with sculpted faces. And, the best part, the price is only $29.95! A scene of Custer's Last Stand is also available.

A Wonder of the West

From the size of her eyes and the excitement in her voice, one might have thought Deb was peering down into the Salt Lake Valley with Brigham Young as they stood on the verge of the Promised Land. We had entered the Pine Ridge country of northwest Nebraska and nothing in her life ever surprised the woman more than what she discovered in that relatively unknown corner of the universe.

Although I love pure prairie and can--and have--spent weeks just camping and wandering among it, not everyone is like me. Most folks, I'm sure, find the trip north from Alliance as a perfect opportunity to read, write, sleep, or contemplate suicide. I pity them. Even if prairie is not their nugget, the treat to come is worth the wait. If the eye stays alert and scans the horizon it will soon spy one of the most fascinating phenomena in the West.

An hour or so north of Alliance, a razor thin band of black begins to appear ahead, stretching from east to west. At that great distance the anomaly is only mildly arresting and one might dismiss it as nothing more than a large swath of burned prairie, or even a huge cloud casting its shadow over the earth. But by now curiosity has been piqued. As the miles pass and you move closer, one can see that the looming line is not black at all, but deep green. More and more miles still, and you realize for the first time that the dark band spied so many miles back are actually trees. And then, amazingly, upon cresting a hill you can now clearly see that these are not just any trees, but tall Ponderosa pines, scores of feet high. Breaking through and passing among the small patches of forest, it is evident to the seasoned traveler that this is the precise point where the prairie and mountain West first come together. Unlike Colorado and New Mexico to the south, where there is an abrupt and almost violent meeting of the two worlds, up here the transition is so subtle and soft as to be almost friendly and benign.

After ten or fifteen miles of gently winding through this quilt work of forest and plain, the "friendliness" ends abruptly, and spectacularly. Dropping into the narrow valleys, one is awed to find themselves surrounded by high, pine-studded buttes and rocky outcrops that rise straight up from the valley floor like the battered and breached walls of Jericho.

Deb was almost speechless. She had never seen or experienced anything like this before. Hoping for just such a reaction I had avoided mentioning a thing about the area. For sure, there are plenty of places in the West that dwarf and shrink into insignificance these valleys, these trees, and even these beautiful palisades. But the great appeal of the Pine Ridge country is that it is so startling and totally unexpected. Truly, one has reached the mystical Old West when they reach the Pine Ridge.

Mercifully for me, we soon found a great campground at Fort Robinson State Historic Site (right), in the heart of everything near Crawford. Had we not, I'm sure Deb would have begged to find a motel that we might linger for a few days and explore the country, even though the spectacle of a camping trailer parked outside a motel would have been a rich sight indeed and perhaps made the local news.

If anything, Deb's love of this area increased the more she saw of it. As one day grew to two, and three days grew to four, I began to wonder if she would ever want to leave. In fact, the woman did not.

"I'd love to live here," she confessed.

When I mentioned what the winters were like, Deb's ardor began to chill somewhat. Watching her mind work, I preempted the thought process by stating that we could hardly afford one home in Topeka. Nevertheless, by the light in her eyes and the thrill in her voice it was easy to see that the woman was going to enjoy this area to her utmost while she was here. And this is exactly what I was hoping to gain from this, her first true trip west.

Although she had once flown into her hero's namesake, Cody, Wyoming, and spent a week there and in neighboring Yellowstone, up to this time Deb had never truly experienced the West. When we spent a month in the Southwest on our way to talks in Arizona and California several years back, we had traveled by car. While we had seen great sights and hiked and biked through the desert, it was not the same as this. Camping compels you to actually live in the area you visit. The views out your window are your views for as long as you stay; the grass or sand beneath your door are your front lawn; the air that washes over the land and enters your windows fill your lungs day and night; it enters your bloodstream; the land becomes a part of you. It was this aspect of camping that thrilled Deb the most; for awhile at least, she could actually live here and be a piece of it.

Deb's excitement was infectious. I had been here and seemingly every other place in the West dozens of times. If I had not lost my awe and appreciation for the country, I had certainly become jaded. Now, through Deb, I was seeing old scenes through new eyes. And it was glorious. Perhaps in another week or two the wonder here would be overpowered and forgotten by the grandeur further west, but that would be just fine. The moment was everything.

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