You Can't Get There from Here; the McComas Massacre

I like to look for places where history happened.  I’m not content to find the general vicinity of an event, I want to stand on the same spot and look for rocks or coins or belt buckles.  Which artifacts, of course, I would turn over forthwith to the proper authorities; yes, I would (although I do have a rusty old nail from an old stage coach station around here somewhere). I set off for New Mexico yesterday to find such a place – an obscure place, to be sure, but one which did have some significance, especially for the three people involved and the perpetrators of the crime. 

Unfortunately, dating even from the time of the McComas family’s murders, this is ranch land that is jealously guarded against outside interlopers like me.  Oh, I tried, from this way then that; but you cannot get there from here, or from anywhere else, not legally anyway.  The spot in question was marked by a walnut tree and it is on a dusty old road over in Grant County, New Mexico. 

The western end of Thompson Canyon

In frontier times, this road was part of the Lordsburg to Silver City stage road – today, it is difficult to tell what parts of the roads in the immediate vicinity were used by the stage road.  I know, however, about where the murders occurred and that spot is on Thompson Canyon Road just beyond where it exits the western end of its namesake, about 17 miles north of Lordsburg, NM.

Back in 1883, Hamilton Calhoun McComas  (or H.C., as he was known) was pursuing his American dream of making himself and his heirs successful by mining ventures in southwestern New Mexico.  It was wild country and still being contested by some extremely wily, contumacious former inhabitants. 

H.C., part of a large family, had moved west from Virginia, Illinois, Kansas and Missouri, in that order. He was an attorney by profession and I’ve read that he was a good one.  He may have worked with Abraham Lincoln at one time in his life – and he had served as a judge back in Illinois. Thereafter, everywhere he went, people called him “Judge” McComas. 

By late 1882, H.C., now 52,  had bought a red-brick house in Silver City at 500 North Hudson Street (where the post office is now), moved his second wife and some of his children there and was pursuing multiple endeavors relating to the practice of law and mining – even mixing the two up, which to me seems a natural thing to do.  His wife, Juniata, had presented him with two daughters and a little boy, Charley, who was then about six years of age – plus H.C. had some (older) sons through a first, failed marriage.

Silver City is situated at a place that was considered home by a good number of the "Chiricahua" Apaches.  In fact, the people we now collectively call "Chiricahuas" consisted of several groups of closely-related Indians and the ones who lived in the Silver City area were mostly the Chihenne, or "Red Paint People;" the Mimbres and the Warm Springs bands.

By the late 1870’s, these peoples had mostly been driven out of the area because of their fierce resistance to an almost complete white take-over of their lands, and the equally aggressive nature of the newcomers who were flooding the territory in overwhelming numbers.  Rather than meekly accept this eventuality, some of the Apaches continued to fight long after most others had given up and moved to reservation life. 

These outsiders' (or "renegades'") means of survival was increasingly centered on raiding against the ones who were forcing them out.  The Apaches were always a raiding people, but as their way of life became more and more threatened and uncertain, they couldn’t live any other way.  As a result of this pressure, they lost their lands, their way of life, almost their entire culture – it was lost since they had no peaceful time to teach their children and in many cases they had no children left to teach.

In later years, the raiding included an increased resort to violence and murder – which in earlier years had not been as much a part of that mode of subsistence (war was war, and raiding was raiding, and killing was a part of war, not of raiding). 

But as more and more Americans infiltrated the southwestern lands, the more the vengeful Apaches resorted to raiding and violence - and that was the one thing that was certain to turn virtually all Americans violently against them.  In the view of most southwestern whites the Apaches weren’t fighting for the land, they were simply vicious thieves and murderers; so there wasn't any understanding or empathy for them.  These were unhappy years, for both sides.

By the early 80’s, the Apaches had been driven either onto reservations, or in the case of the most resistant ones, south of the border into the mountains of the Sierra Madre.  Their wisest, most influential leaders were dead (Cheis and Mangas Coloradas) – only some much older chiefs and some younger, less diplomatically-savvy hotheads were left to lead (along with the firebrands Victorio, Nana, Geronimo and Juh).  The other Indian wars were mostly over -- so the Army concentrated all its attentions and resources on the few Apaches left -- even so, it took until September 1886 to subdue them.

The Apaches that were still off-reservation were being pressured by American troops on this side of the border and Mexican troops on the other side -- until finally each side was given the authority to continue a “hot pursuit” across the borders.  After that, the Apaches got no rest at all.  It wasn’t just the troops – both Mexican citizens and American citizens alike were very apt to organize pursuit of the Apaches both with and independently of the governments’ troops. In order to continue to resist and fight, the Indians had to have several things – namely horses, weapons, and ammunition. In the last years and months these were all in short supply as were food and subsistence supplies – blankets, cookware, etc.  The Apaches had no place left to rest, a demoralizing fact which soon became clear to them.

In early 1883, these Indians were in a desperate condition; Victorio had been killed – and while some of them (led by Geronimo) raided in Mexico, a few others under Chato and Bonito rode north into Arizona and New Mexico to raid for weapons, horses and ammunition.  Chato’s raiders, who are the subject of the rest of this story, decided before they rode north that they would kill everyone they encountered.  They moved fast and hard – as the Apaches were uniquely skilled at doing; no other people have ever been as suited (or adapted) to live on this desert land and survive – not without electricity anyway.

As Chato and Bonito led their few raiders north, they left a trail of death and destruction behind them.  Word got around about the raid and the violence, and the population was alarmed, if not ready.  These Indians were known to be headed east from Arizona into southwestern New Mexico and the “boot heel,” so it is somewhat surprising that any travelers were out on the roads given the rather likely threat of tortured, violent death – still, the Silver City stage ran as usual – and life went on for most – save for a few drovers or miners caught far from the relative safety of town (it was not uncommon that Apaches would come right into a town and kill or terrorize some of its inhabitants).  The Army had a couple of regiments out searching for the Indians and some citizen volunteers were also patrolling. None of them succeeded in finding Chato's raiding party.

Sometime immediately before March 27, 1883, in the middle of Chato’s raid, H.C. got word from an older son, David, then working in a McComas’ enterprise in Pyramid City, that his legal advice was needed with some kind of business circumstance and would he come at once. 

Apparently, H.C. thought the Apaches were nothing that couldn’t be handled with a Winchester rifle and a side arm – and he rented a buckboard, bundled little Charley into the back, and set off toward Lordsburg (about 55 or 60 wagon miles away) with his wife, Juniata (or “Jenny”) beside him. Thankfully (for them), the two girls were left behind in the care of a close friend with instructions to practice for an upcoming piano recital. Perhaps, H.C. discounted the threat -- as a relative newcomer to the southwest he may not have had a clear-enough idea of the critical threat the Apaches could pose -- the depredations and dangers of the Cochise War (1860's and early 1870's) were not a first-person memory for him.

The first day, H.C. trotted the horses and the buckboard west and then south from Silver City, along and across Mangas Creek and toward the Burro Mountains.  Declining an invitation to stop and stay with his friend the sheriff in Paschal (a small mining community), he drove the team on to the Mountain Home Inn, a lonely lodging in a dell immediately below Burro Peak.  He was perhaps about halfway with the drive to Lordsburg at that point – and after a very pleasant and companionable evening with another guest and the proprietors, the McComas family set out at 9:00 am  on March 28^th for the remaining thirty miles or so to Lordsburg.

Unknown to them, or any other whites who were still alive, Chato’s raiders were headed toward the same area – the Burro Mountains – and planned to use “hidden” trails in that area to move safely southward toward Mexico with the spoils of their raiding.

H.C. negotiated the narrowest part of Thompson Canyon and after exiting its western end, was able to relax a little – thinking perhaps that if the Indians were in the area, the confines of the canyon were the best place for an ambush; he was beyond that now.  From where he was, the road to Lordsburg was a simple, fairly straight shot right down the valley. If the town had any two-story buildings, and it was a clear day, he probably could have seen them.

They had just passed the Lordsburg to Silver City stage, headed the other way at a good clip, perhaps giving him even more reason to think things were relatively safe. He stopped with his family a few minutes after 12:00 for a picnic lunch.  They spread a blanket under a very old and very large walnut tree and sat down to eat.  At that moment the Indians appeared. By sheer coincidence and merciless fate, H.C., Juniata and little Charley were at precisely the wrong place at precisely the right time; they were simply in the way.

H.C. fought desperately, perhaps trying to give his family a few moments to escape.  But he had no chance – and he was quickly killed by several bullets.  Juniata tried to escape with Charley in the buckboard, but was overtaken and bludgeoned to death in a few short seconds.  Two Apaches argued over who would take Charley – but Bonito, commanding the respect due a leader, solved the argument by taking him himself. 

Charley McComas was never seen by whites again – he probably lived a month or two in the Apaches' camps – but died or was killed – and the surviving Apaches wouldn’t talk much about it later – perhaps fearing reprisals. In the mid-twentieth century, a few did tell what they thought had happened to him, but many were not sure and said so, and in any event the details of their stories varied.  It is even possible, some said, that he lived among the Apaches into adulthood, although most Apaches who did talk about it, and later historians as well, refuted that presumption and for the most part think Charley was dead before summer was out that year.

The Apaches killed thousands of people during the almost 300 years that European settlers were invading and taking their lands. But the murders of Judge and Juniata McComas and the kidnapping of their son, more than any others, galvanized public opinion in the United States against the Apaches and as a result, energized attempts to force them into captivity – or kill them.  Many in those days wanted them all dead. 

It was hard to justify – and remains so today – the killing of innocent women and children, or other civilians, during “nothing” more than a raid to steal guns, horses and ammunition. The connection to survival for these Indians was at best indirect and in the minds of most western citizens, nonexistent. To be fair, the Apaches' desperate circumstances in 1883 were (although not entirely) directly related to the manner in which Mexicans and Americans had treated them  -- they had often been attacked and murdered by the newcomers in much the same way, often cruelly and treacherously. 

The Apaches were already a hard, vengeful people -- why would anyone think they would react to extremely violent ill-treatment in any other way?  But I have seen the words of no less a vengeful personage than Geronimo himself, that what he regretted most about his violent past was the killing of innocent children; with those words he admitted that he believed there were limits to the morality of killing -- that it was wrong to kill non-combatants (at least under some circumstances). 

Within three and a half years, the last of the “renegades” were hunted down, starved out and forced to give up – by then, even in their own fiercely resistant minds it seemed the only way for them to survive at all.  They were broken – and by the time they recovered any of their indomitable Apache spirit, it was no longer possible for them to resist.  They were, by then, thousands of miles away from home, imprisoned in Florida, Alabama and Oklahoma, demoralized and completely dependent on the government.

The McComases?  Their bodies were recovered, taken first to Silver City and then to Fort Scott, Kansas for burial.  The girls were charged to H.C.’s father-in-law and their interests guarded by Juniata’s brother – as well as H.C.’s business partner.  H.C.’s oldest son, David, the one in New Mexico, was dead within a couple of years himself – he apparently never recovered from the shock of his father’s death.  It is possible that he may have been a suicide – no cause of death was published. The other older son, William, became a personable cad for the most part, and drifted through life and jobs. He was implicated in a woman's murder later in life and was quite a scandalous character, capitalizing on his family's "story" to garner sympathy whenever he could. The daughters  (Ada and Mary) survived to adulthood and old age, but were forever scarred by the violent loss of their parents and brother.

While I have much empathy for the Apaches and for other Indian peoples, these were senseless killings.  Despite their desperate plight at the time, this was criminal activity more than it was legitimate war-faring (which they had some moral right to engage in) and within a year of committing these murders, Chato was serving in Crook’s Army as an Apache Scout.  He lived well into the 1930’s.  H.C., Jenny and Charley McComas and their heirs never got justice. Chato and the others with him should rightfully have been hanged.

The McComas murders were a memorable event in the history of the Apache Wars – and I wanted to stand on the spot where they happened.  As late as 1994, that walnut tree they picnicked under, while dead, still stood. Yesterday, hoping the skeleton of that tree was still there, I tried to approach the site from Lordsburg on County Road B009 – I drove for nearly 15 miles (on a pretty good road) but right after I crossed the Hidalgo/Grant County line, the road got 4wd rough and I came to a padlocked gate.  I was at that point within two or three miles of the murder scene.  So I drove back south to Highway 90 and turned north to the Mill Canyon Road; I took that 5 or 6 miles west to… another locked gate... a few feet from Thompson Canyon Road and not 1½ miles from where that walnut tree stood.  Sigh. 

Just LOOK at this filthy car!

I thought about slipping under the fence and walking the rest of the way (I was that close) – but there were No Trespassing signs posted and I am, after all, a person who believes that laws are made to be obeyed and that property rights are to be respected.  That’s just the way it is.  If I ever get the chance, I may contact that rancher and see if perhaps he will take 15 minutes out of his day and accompany me there; who knows, he might if he possesses a generous spirit. Anyway, that was more dust than my new car had ever seen before and I was some disappointed by not being able to get to the exact place where the McComases were killed.

We cannot save every single historical site – and most people would probably consider this event to have been a minor one.  It was, in a sense, it’s just that what happened to these three ordinary Americans along that lonely road had such far-reaching effects.  While it pains my egalitarian soul to say so, it had far-reaching results because in their own place and time the McComases were prominent and well-known – I guess what you might call American upper-class; suffice it to say they were decent people and pillars of their community. Their deaths brought a lot of outrage and national attention to that little corner of the world.

On Highway 90, at the intersection of Gold Gulch Road, the New Mexicans have erected an historical marker commemorating the murders of H.C. McComas and his wife and the taking of their boy.  The marker is a little over 22 miles south of Silver City and about 8 air miles from the site of the murders on Thompson Canyon Road.  

Many people knowledgeable of the history of the Southwest instantly recognize the name, if not the details, of the McComas incident. Other books I have read mentioned the McComas killings in passing, as part of a larger story – simply as a recounting of fact, or a part of the death toll.  No one that I knew of had written about these murders with any depth, or presented H.C. and Juniata McComas as real people whose lives were cut short – until lately. 

My interest in visiting the McComas site and the walnut tree was sparked by a book, written by Dr. Marc Simmons. Most of the detail that I’ve learned (and included herein) as regards the McComas family comes from it  – if you are interested in the rest of the fascinating story, read this remarkable book...

Simmons, Marc.  Massacre on the Lordsburg Road; A Tragedy of the Apache Wars. College Station: Texas A&M University Press. 1997

Other books that contributed immeasurably to my ability to write this article were:

Ball, Eve. Indeh; An Apache Oddysey. Provo: Brigham Young University Press. 1980.

Ball, Eve. In the Days of Victorio. Tucson: Univ. of Arizona Press. 1970.

Betzinez, Jason.  I Fought With Geronimo.   New York: Bonanza Books. 1959

Thrapp, Dan. The Conquest of Apacheria. Norman and London: University of Oklahoma Press. 1967.

How the bola tie got its name.

Exhibit A

Out here in the western USA, the preferred male neckware (and in some cases, female too) is the bola tie.  Some folks call it the “bolo,” but this is incorrect.  If you want to adopt our traditions and live amongst us, get it right. This is a matter of mutual respect and good manners.

I have heard folks ask about the origins of the name – what does it mean? Much of our “cowboy” tradition in the west came to us courtesy of other cultures - Africa, Spain and finally, Mexico.  Modern cattle arrived in what became the western USA in 1540, along with the Coronado expedition.  Some of the Don's cattle made an escape in the southwestern lands he was exploring (y tambien algunos de los caballos ) and these became the ancestors of the ones we now call “Texas Longhorns.” 

Many of the hands who worked with these early American steaks-on-the-hoof were “buckaroos” from the Spanish and Mexican tradition – that moniker in fact comes from the Spanish “vaquero.”   Is there nothing that is uniquely American?  No, Virginia, there is not, not much anyway...  We all came from somewhere else, todos.  And we brought our good stuff with us!  Like barbecue...

Many of the cattle raising traditions of Spain and North Africa were handed down to these early Mexican and Tejano cowboys and they in turn passed the traditions along to us over the years – the “lariat,” for example, and the practice of branding and “round-up;” these were ancient old-world practices long before the first rodeo in this country.  ¡Es verdad, amigos!

So if you transplanted old Harley Joe onto a cattle ranch on a Kenyan savanna, or maybe in Morocco, he might just feel right at home there – at least in the sense he would see cowboys doing some of the same things he saw back home in the Hill Country, so he might not feel quite so foreign.  He could pitch right in and lend a hand, because he'd already know the basic drill.

One of the tools of the cowboying trade in those old Spanish times was the bola.  It was a braided cord (not anything lightweight, but like a heavy-duty lariat); the examples I have seen had three separate lengths of lariat, each one perhaps three or four feet long and all connected together at one end, each strand dangling with a weight attached to its end. 

A cowboy who had an impulse to cause a running steer to stop and hang around por un momento would whirl the bola above his head several times to gain some momentum, then fling it off in the direction of the animal's legs.  If the gaucho's aim was true, the bola would entangle itself among those flying limbs and bring an abrupt halt to the leather-bent-for-hell-procession. Then the cowboy could tie up those dangerous legs (just like down at the rodeo) and do whatever else needed to be done at that particular time.  Nothing further need be said about that at present.

Where those earlier traditions were practiced,  Harley Joe might see a Spanish cowboy competing in a calf-roping competition just like down in San Antonio -- using a bola instead of our usual rope, or lariat.  The look of the thing would be much the same though.

If you look at Exhibit A, the modern bola tie, Diné-style, you will see that it looks kind of just like you might expect a real bola to look – it's a small version of a lariat with “weights” attached to the ends.  And that is how it got its name.  It is missing the third length of rope and the weights are transformed into little decorative tips on the end of its two cords. 

It reminds us, some of us anyway, of the vaqueros' bola (or the Argentine "boleadora"), a tradicionál tool of the cattle business, although admittedly, many westerners do not know its origins either (except my cattle-ropin' sister).  Some think it's something those crazy Texicans came up with on a dull Saturday night.  Wrong! 

We add the decorative clasp, maybe with a nice piece of turquoise, to bring it up short around the neck when Miss Bobbi Jo requires such and there you have it.  Some of us would say this little bit of “old-world” inspired treasure has a very classy look to it.  I mean, if you must wear a tie at all – it might as well look as fine as this one does…

We do things our own way, out here in the Wild West.

Restaurant Review - Town Talk II

My friends have a GREAT barbecue place, why would I want to eat anywhere else?  I have been eating at Town Talk II ever since they opened, but lately I haven’t been getting down to that neighborhood as much – I ate there yesterday and it reminded me of what a great little treasure this place is.

I've been telling people about Town Talk II for years.  I joke with my students that if they'll just go there and eat, and tell the proprietor they heard about the place in "traffic school," they'll get extra good service!  What they don't know is that everyone gets "extra good service" at Town Talk!  You don't have to beg for it.

The barbecue is great – I’ve tried most of their offerings at different times and the meat is lean, the sauce is tasty.  I especially enjoy the ribs – done just right and the meat falling-off-the-bone-tender. But one of the things I like best about Town Talk II is the kind of a place it is.  The owner is Mr. Chris Rideaux -- he and his family run the place in memory of their Grandfather who had a similar establishment in old downtown Phoenix years ago – before most any of you lived here.

The recipes are old family recipes, which come from the southern Louisiana Creole tradition.  The side dishes shine here – the daily “specials” in particular.  Each day holds a different surprise – my favorites are the jambalaya, the fried cabbage and the dirty rice. Only one is available each day, and each one is worth trying.  I almost forgot to mention the best one of all -- the Black-Eyed Pea Salad.  I love that one so much I stole their recipe!

Everyone who comes in the door seems to be a friend.  Chris catches up with each person as they come by.  The place is fairly compact, so it is almost like eating in a friend’s kitchen.  Photos of the old town in Louisiana adorn the walls, along with some reviews and a map of old Phoenix.

I took a photo of my plate yesterday… let me tell you about that.  The plate looks pretty “worked over,” huh?  Yeah, well I got so excited when Chris served it that I lost sight of the goal and ate ¾ of it before I remembered to take the photo.  That kind of thing happens occasionally; I’ll do better next time, I swear.  What was there before I flew through it was pulled pork, sliced hot links, slaw and the daily special, southern-style greens.  I sprinkled a little peppered vinegar on those, just like they do down-home.  I topped it all off with some warm blackberry cobbler and ice cream, but that was pushing it some as I really had no room for it.

You can find my friend Chris Rideaux and his barbecue “joint” on 19^th Avenue, just north of Osborn on the east side of the street.  The restaurant is just north of the grade school on the corner. 

Town Talk II is open Monday to Saturday, 11 AM to 7 PM, at 3509 N. 19th Avenue, Phoenix, AZ 85015.  Closed on Sundays.

If you wish to order ahead, call 602-234-4745.  Tell ‘em Bob sent you. Here’s a link to their web page if you want to see the menu, or read a little more about them in their own words! 

Cars I have owned...

 The cars:

1.     1970 Toyota Corolla 1200, white

2.     1972 Volkswagen 111 (beetle), red

3.     1973 Toyota Corona 4dr, beige

4.     1975 Toyota Corolla SR5, green

5.     1976 Toyota Mk. III Station Wagon, yellow

6.     1975 Toyota Celica, brown

7.     1977 Toyota Celica, blue

8.     1974 Plymouth Fury III, white

9.     1979 Mazda RX7, yellow

10. 1975 Honda Civic, white

11. 1971 MGB-GT, tan

12. 1993 Ford Ranger 4WD, white

13. 2002 Dodge Ram 1500, Charcoal Gray and silver

14. 2011 Chevrolet Malibu 4dr, gold mist

15.2015 GMC Canyon, white

The motorcycles:

1.     1960s Honda 50, white

2.     1968 Honda 125 Scrambler, blue

3.     1973? Honda 360 twin, orange/black

4.     1974? Honda 400/4, red

5.     1978? Kawasaki 650 twin/twin cam, red/frost

6.     ???? Honda 650 twin, black

7.     ???? Honda 450 Nighthawk twin, black

8.     2001 Harley-Davidson XL1200C, Jade Pearl (green)

9.     2003 Kawasaki ZR7S, yellow

10. 2005 Kawasaki ZZR1200, dark blue

Road Trip Report -- A Great Plains Sojourn

Uh-oh... I missed Colorado and Wyoming!

My vacation for 2011 was an adventurous road trip through western America. I made a loop through 11 western states -- Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Nevada and... since I had to come home in the end, Arizona again.

I saw the Arizona Rim Country, the high deserts of New Mexico, the Oklahoma Indian nation, the American Great Plains, the Missouri River country, Custer country, Lewis and Clark country, the Oregon Trail, the Pony Express trail, the Rocky Mountains and the Great Basin.

I rented a Chevy HHR for the run, wanting to keep the miles off my own new vehicle. I believe this was a good decision and was not as expensive as you might think. I encountered fairly consistent gasoline prices over the whole of the journey -- mostly around $3.70 to $3.90 per gallon. $3.99 was the most I paid, and once or twice I found fuel in the $3.60's. The car got an average of about 29-30 mpg. Motels and hotels were generally about $50 - $60 per night for a decent room. Keep in mind this wasn't "high" summer vacation season.

The "loop" entailed over 4,100 miles -- in 10 days.

Trip Mileage Log

Day 01: 170 miles Phoenix to Show Low, AZ

Day 02: 564 miles Show Low to Amarillo, TX

Day 03: 224 miles Amarillo to Weatherford, OK

Day 04: 496 miles Weatherford to Dodge City, KS

Day 05: 411 miles Dodge City to Valentine, NE

Day 06: 384 miles Valentine to Mandan, ND

Day 07: 484 miles Mandan to Billings, MT

Day 08: 606 miles Billings to Twin Falls, ID

Day 09: 504 miles Twin Falls to Las Vegas, NV

Day 10: 291 miles Las Vegas to Phoenix

Total: approximately 4,134 miles

I will see:

·        John Wayne's 26-Bar Ranch.

·        The Very Large Array (the VLA radio telescope facility in NM)

·        The Washita Battlefield Park, where Black Kettle and his people were attacked by troops led by George Custer.

·        The National Cowboy Museum in Oklahoma City.

·        The Chisholm Trail and the Great Western Trail.

·        Some Pony Express and Overland Trail sites

·        Cows

·        Windmills

·        Lutheran Churches

·        Nicodemus, KS -- an exoduster emigrant near-ghost town on the Plains

·        The 100th Parallel -- the "water line." West of it, only irrigation-agriculture is feasible. It separates wet America from desert America

·        Sitting Bull's (two) graves

·        Fort Abraham Lincoln (ND)

·        The Busby Bend of Rosebud Creek (Custer's last campsite before you-know-what)

·        Little Bighorn Battlefield – the Greasy Grass - where the natives would say what went around came around...

·        US93 down through desolate, inconsolable Nevada

These places have cultural, geographical or historical significance for me.

I will have some nice roadside picnics along the way. I’ll eat from my ice chest and food box whenever possible, sampling restaurant fare in the evenings. You know, the usual… soup, salad, STEAK.

Why?

The Great Plains

When I was 13 years old, I stood in the rear window of a Route 66 motel at Glenrio, Texas, looking out onto the Plains. I couldn't see a single tree, anywhere, as far as the horizon. I come from a somewhat treeless place (the Sonoran Desert) -- but I had never, in my conscious memory, seen anything like that particular desolate view.

I will teach a class first thing in the morning and then I will take to the road for about nine days. I am going back to that place; I shall really see that place where few trees grow. I will experience it the way our forebears did -- immersed in its limitless horizons, its shimmering mirages and its interminable grass.  For most people passing through the Plains, it is an impediment; they view it as an obstacle between "here" and "there." Not me, not this time. I will see the overland trail as the pioneers saw it -- in that part of the country the early ones each year would have seen the plains pretty much the way I will -- before the grass was beaten down and eaten and before summer's sun parched the land. I will be a pioneer for a day or two, trying to see it through their eyes. I'll be going the wrong direction of course... south to north along the Chisholm and the Great Western cattle-drive trails. But I am going to see the Great Plains in a way I never have before, a way few people ever do (unless they live there). I will see their magnificence and their beauty.

If a crow flew the 100th parallel from east of Amarillo to Bismarck, he would cover about 800 miles. I will log a few more than that -- my route will meander quite a bit in Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas before flying directly north toward the Dakotas like a crow would.  I have my GPS programmed to take me all the different places I want to go -- from Texas to North Dakota, from Montana through Nevada and home, and I will be moseying along -- this will be no speed run, except maybe right at the end in Nevada. I may not speed much that day -- but I will likely not stop for much.

Normally I would wait until Sunday morning to leave (tomorrow is Saturday). It is the civilized thing to do after all, you know, get a good night’s sleep and all. But I cannot wait. I will finish working by early afternoon and I have so many things planned for this adventure, so I shall get myself a head start of about 200 miles on Sunday's itinerary.

Camping in Oklahoma

My evenings will be spent camping if weather permits. I am traveling very light -- but I am taking enough gear that I can manage to keep myself going for a couple of days at a time; a chair, a cot, a small tent in case it rains, an electric lantern and a wash basin. I think about every 2nd or 3rd night I might give in to the desire for a hot shower and a hot shave -- but we'll see. Where I am going, it may still be too cold -- this early in the season it is even possible to still see winter weather and I am not into freezing to death for the sake of fun. I may "motel" more often than I think. [Afterwards, I can say that I did, in fact. Except for one night in Oklahoma, I didn’t camp at all. It was too cold and too wet.]

Daily Journal

Day One: Get outta town!

Road Trip Companion

I am on my way. I worked this morning and afterwards picked up a ruby-red Chevy HHR and left town on SR87 – through Payson and Heber to Show Low. I was sleepy so I stopped in Show Low for the night – this is about what I had planned. I will rise with the dawn and head over to Eagar to the John Wayne 26-Bar Ranch – it used to be Duke’s anyway.

After that, it is east into New Mexico and the Very Large Array telescope site, then through Carrizozo to Vaughn, Santa Rosa and Tucumcari. I’ll probably stay somewhere around Amarillo tomorrow night.

I had dinner in Payson at the Mazatzal Casino (Arizonans say mah-tah-ZAL). My evening was spent cruising along the 7,000 foot high Mogollon Rim – an escarpment that stretches across Arizona from one side to the other, is covered with old Ponderosa pines and divides Arizona’s high pine country from the lower desert mountains and valleys.

Memorial for Two Sisters

The crosses [see photo] are at the junction of SR87 and SR188 – the north entrance to the Roosevelt Lake area. Three teen girls pulled out across the highway to either head south toward Phoenix or straight across to the Deer Creek Trailhead – and forgot to look RIGHT at the second roadway of a divided highway. All three perished when t-boned by a pick-up. The two crosses were put up by the father of two of them.

I got a room at the very clean Kiva Motel in Show Low -- and it is time for bed.   ~Road Bob

Day Two: The Land of Enchantment

My alarm went off at 0500 -- I snoozed until 0515 and still got on the road by 0545. It was sunny and about 45 degrees. It took about 45 minutes to drive across the way to Eagar, AZ and my GPS took me straight to John Wayne's 26-Bar ranch.

The 26-Bar sits on the side of the hill just west of Eagar, off SR260. You take School Bus Road south off the highway -- I've been there before and didn't know it - Don Lester used to live right around there somewhere; he was a traffic school owner I used to know. Anyway...

26 Bar Ranch

The ranch is remarkably inelegant considering its illustrious prior owner. The buildings are plain and functional. It looks like any other working ranch and it is somewhat dilapidated. It could use some fixin' up -- note to the Hopi Tribe which owns it these days.

If Duke loved this place and I suspect he did, he was plainly a man with simple tastes. That fits everything I have read about him. The ranch is located in cow heaven -- the land around it is golden rolling beautiful -- with a fringe of White Mountain pines around the edges. Not far from there is the mountainside where one story says the last free-ranging grizzly bear was killed in Arizona on Escudilla Mountain, back around 1935 if I remember correctly. They had been common here at one time. The land there is still very remote and sparsely populated. Don't tell any Californians though, or the buggers will come over here and fill it up.

I sat in the Safire Restaurant for breakfast -- Duke used to eat there and his portrait still hangs on the wall by the register. Old ranchers from the area still eat there too -- from the looks of them some of them probably knew Duke. The place is old country Arizona -- a place that has almost disappeared. I didn't see any Herefords -- Duke raised champion Herefords -- but I saw lots of other kinds I think. I also saw a couple of tired-looking old horses.

I reached the New Mexico line at 0825, and arrived at the NRAO Very Large Array at 1030. I checked out the visitor's center, watched the film and bought a t-shirt and some postcards!

VLA - Magdalena NM

Seeing the vastness and golden beauty of the New Mexico high plains, hills and mountains, it caused me to reflect on what a singular treat it is to be alive on the earth and particularly in this part of it. We have such a short span in this timeless land -- but I am fortunate to live in such a beautiful place and to be able to drive around and look at it often. Made me want to get out and kiss the ground, but I didn't.

I stopped at Socorro for a few minutes' break, then cut across US380 to Carrizozo. I passed very near the Trinity Site where the USA exploded into the Nuclear Age in 1945. The ground isn't blackened anymore -- but a rock shop nearby sells rocks that were created by the blast -- like glass I think. I stopped to see but the shop was closed and the gates locked. On this stretch I also took a photo of El Capitan -- where Smokey the Bear was found clinging to a smoldering tree after a forest fire when he was a cub.

I passed by a place where Billy the Kid robbed the store -- it was along US54 somewhere in the vicinity of Gallinas or Tecolote, NM.

The Golden Beauty of NM

The worst meal of the trip -- at a "diner" in Vaughn, New Mexico. A cheese enchilada that didn't even have melted cheese; a bowl of "beef" soup (hamburger, I think). The soup wasn't bad, really. I can't say it was a bad place to eat -- the food was just uninspired and the cook wasn't a person who knows much about food preparation, that's all. I could eat it and the staff was friendly. If that's the worst I did on the whole drive, I reckon it was a pretty good trip.

Early evening -- I saw a speeder get nailed -- and more power to the Texas State Police. The jerk had flown up behind me while I was passing a semi -- and probably was doing about 90 mph (with his family in the car). He tailgated me until I was able to clear the truck and get out of his way. This was the same stretch where someone else I know got a speeding ticket a couple of years back, so I was hoping for more of the same... and SURE ENOUGH. I laughed out loud as I drove by. After he got his ticket, he apparently didn't learn much -- he went flying past me again just west of Amarillo.  Not quite 90, that time.

I stopped for the night at Amarillo -- no camping yet -- the weather is threatening. The camp ground (a state park) was 40 miles off my path and I didn't have change for the fees. Avoid disappointment, I always say.

I logged 580 total miles today at an average speed of 52 mph. Yay! The rental car is averaging about 34 mpg so far. It should be even better the next day or two, until I hit the Montana mountains. I'm on the Plains. ~Road Bob

Day Three: Cheyenne Country

I slept in a little later today – got on the road from Amarillo about 9:30 AM – but that was about two hours earlier AZ time (like you should be impressed). Today’s highlight will be the Washita battlefield, but I did see a couple of strange things along the way.

How about this little guy? You know, sometimes you just got to get up high and see stuff. I mean, why else would they put this "dirt" in the middle of a cow-pen, right?

Another strange thing was a wind farm inhabiting the same field as new oil well drilling… kind of the old and the new in terms of energy all “co-existing” in western Oklahoma.

I had a quick lunch in a roadside rest area along Texas Route 152, just west of Mobeetie. You wonder how that place got its name (?)… Let’s name our town Mobeetie. Yeah, why not; New York and Pittsburgh are already taken so Mobeetie is the third best name. The rest area where I ate had a nice setting, but the trash dumpsters were overflowing and there was litter all over the ground. I didn't sit down and I didn't stay long. Highway crew maintenance funds must have been non-existent in the Panhandle in 2011.

I ate totally out of my own food box today – I was going to eat supper in a café, but the nearest one to where I am camping (Crowder Lake State Park, OK) is in Weatherford – probably about 25 miles or so up the road. So I had a little sandwich, two Fig Newtons, a handful of Fritos and that’s it. I wasn’t that hungry anyway.

I got into a nasty hail storm today – and it did some damage to the rental car. It should be covered by insurance and CDW but it’s a bummer just the same. Now the sky is finally lightening up so maybe the rain is done for today. I have my little tent set up and here’s hoping (1) I don’t need it to be, or (2) it is waterproof. Those are the two best possibilities. Don’t want to think of any others. But right now the sun is shining as it goes down to the west beyond the little lake.

The Battle of the Washita River and Black Kettle, Peace Chief of the Southern Cheyenne

I arrived at the Washita battlefield a bit after 1:00 PM. I stopped first at what was supposed to be the Black Kettle Museum in Cheyenne (OK), but it had closed and the collection was in storage in Oklahoma City, according to an NPS staff person. So I went on to the Washita battlefield visitor center and looked through that and the gift shop, watched the NPS film on the battle and then drove out to the overlook.

Washita River

Two trails wind down along the river and the river bottom where Black Kettle’s village was located – the overlook is the starting point for the walk through the battleground. It is up on the high ground above the river and near where the 7th Cavalry’s command post was during the battle. I took a slow walk along both trails.

Until today I wouldn’t have called it a “battle.” But in a sense, it was, at least later on in the day. The Army snuck up on the village from behind a ridge or two and waited in the dark for the first light of dawn, then charged into the sleeping village at a gallop, shooting and slashing as they went.

Custer split his forces here – as he did 7½ years later in Montana, his idea being to surround the village and prevent an escape -- also like he did later at the Greasy Grass. The only reason I changed my mind about calling it a "battle" was that a few Cheyenne soldiers did counter-attack late in the fight – and the Army chose discretion over valor and organized a retreat while feinting an attack. Custer may have tried the same tactic at Little Bighorn in June of 1876, for the benefit of Marcus Reno and his command, when he sent Captain Yates and E Company down to attack that village at the Medicine Tail Coulee ford. The tactic worked on the Washita -- but at the Greasy Grass, it didn't -- in spectacular, catastrophic fashion. But Lt Col Custer was in fact and in hindsight, a very predictable creature of habit.

This is a place of beauty and peace in the spring time – I imagine it was stark and desolate in the late fall when Custer rode in.  But today there was a gentle wind from the northwest and the short grasses were starting to green up – but the tall prairie grasses were still winter brown. In 1868 it was a place of great natural beauty – today, that natural beauty is mixed with man-made pastoral charm, the result of a century and a half of Caucasian agriculture. The setting is framed by red “cimarron”ridges and knolls, with the river winding down the low valley in between. Cattle graze here now. The day Custer attacked Black Kettle’s village the wind was blowing snow and it was bitterly cold.

I was thinking about how pride and shame can go hand in hand; this place saw a bit of both that day. On the shame side, this was a fight that need not have been fought. The Indians Custer attacked and killed were not the Indians the Army was trying to find. Those were younger men, from the Cheyenne warrior societies and they were camped several hundred yards away. Custer didn’t even know they were there until later in the day when they counter-attacked.

These younger “hot-heads” had been out raiding and taking revenge on white travelers and settlers and the Army was looking to find them and punish them – and destroy their will and means to fight. Black Kettle’s job as“peace chief” was looking out for the very young, some of the women, the elderly and the disabled. He was in disfavor with the warrior groups because his peace philosophy was thought to have resulted in the tragedy at Sand Creek (Colorado) four years earlier. Custer never bothered to figure out which group of people he was attacking. Chances are pretty good he didn't care.

Shame can be assigned to the Cheyenne side as well – Black Kettle was not permitted to camp with the warrior groups away to the east because of that disfavor. They were the only real protection he and those with him might have had.

On the pride side, during the fighting, Custer was informed that his soldiers were killing women and children and he quickly sent orders for them to stop – ordering the non-combatants to be taken captive instead. Shame goes along with that same thing – the soldiers shouldn’t have been killing women and children to begin with.

The United States’ justification for this battle and its conduct was “total war,” the same concept used by General Sherman a few years before during the Civil War. The accentuated brutality of the soldiers’ actions was intended to bring a swift conclusion to the need for fighting Plains Indians. We cannot rightfully attach ideas of 21st Century morality to those actions by the soldiers and their commanders – despite how we hate what they did. It was a different time, a different circumstance. One wishes there had been some other course of action available – some accommodation that would have preserved the right of the American Indian to live in their way alongside white settlers. But the American government didn’t choose any other possibility right after the Civil War; given white-American public sensibilities (and world-view) of that time it is simply wishful thinking to consider it could have.

The irony of course is that the Indian leader attacked and killed, along with several dozen of his people was a most prominent example of a Native American who tried to accommodate the whites and live in peace with them. He and his wife, Medicine Woman Later, were killed in the waters of the Washita River while trying to escape on November 27, 1868; they had both survived a similar massacre at Sand Creek four years before. At this place, though, their luck had run out. A white flag was flying over their village when the 7th Cavalry rode in, just like at Wounded Knee many years later.  It was the same old story, time and again.  I think of Big Foot, of Eskiminzin, and of others, who found themselves in the way at the wrong time.

The Washita isn't visited much, at least it wasn't today. Maybe part of the reason was it was early in the season and there weren't that many tourists out there; I encountered only two other visitors during my entire three hours in the park. In a broader sense, unless you are a western history enthusiast like me, perhaps a Cheyenne peace chief and his people attacked while they were sleeping isn't worthy of too many Americans‘ interest – after all, it was only a few women, children and infirm old men and their caretakers who perished there. Americans all.

Day Four: Cowboy Stuff

Next morning, I got things packed up, washed up real quick and got on the road about 9:45. I stopped in Weatherford, OK for breakfast and then drove the short distance to Oklahoma City and the cowboy museum. There was lots of beautiful western art and memorabilia from different parts of western life, including the movies. There were "artifacts" from western stars A to Z! Also many exhibits from the native side of frontier life -- the clothing was the best part -- deerskin dresses and leggings, head-dresses, etc. They even had a pipe that they said was once Sitting Bull's. The quality of this museum and its collection was a huge surprise -- the presentation rivals that of any facility of its type anywhere. Oklahoma rocks! The biggest disappointment there was that the statue of John Wayne didn't look a thing like him -- the face didn't anyway. The face looked more like Gary Cooper. The body and the "stance," or posture, though, was all Duke.

True Grit Saddle

I spent an extra hour there -- more than I figured -- and then headed up to Pawhuska, before turning west toward Alva. Having done so, I am now on the 100th Parallel -- the center and heart of the Great Plains.

I was amazed at how beautiful the countryside around Pawhuska was -- greened up for spring and cattle ranches, creeks, rolling hills. No wonder the actor Ben Johnson loved it. It was his home, and he's buried there. I looked for his headstone but couldn't find it -- and I had to outrun a thunderstorm right about then. I had an Oklahoma-sized burger and some tater tots before leaving town (tater tots are an Oklahoma thing, I think). I also had a sack of corn-nuts, a Payday bar and a root beer at various times of the day. Yes, I always eat only healthy things.

When I got to Alva (heading west again) -- there were no rooms at the Inn -- any of them. I drove to the next town, none there either... I drove on, town after town, no rooms. The area is experiencing an oil boom and all the roughnecks working the rigs are staying in the motels. I ended up driving all the way to Dodge City, KS to find a room -- about 175 miles farther than I'd planned. I arrived there after midnight -- so I won't get up too early in the morning tomorrow either. But at least they have Internet so I can update the blog. I really didn't want to do any night driving -- I want to see the plains. But I guess I have another 800 miles of them over the next two days so I will probably be sated by the time I am through with them. The extra (unplanned) miles put me on the road in the dark. I hit a big jackrabbit. It is still raining, but I am still on schedule, so it must be a pretty good trip plan.   ~Road Bob

Day Five: The "Meaning" of the Plains

The Great Plains - Kansas

I came to see the Great Plains, the great crucible of the American psyche and character. Today is my big day – I really wasn’t sure what the point would be once I got here – but some things are clearer now, partly because what I’ve seen caused me to ponder that question while driving interminable miles on long straight roads. I really had time to think.

Today, I drove from Dodge City, Kansas to Valentine, Nebraska. The terrain slowly changed along the way – and it is surprisingly different from latitude to latitude. Where I started, it was all featureless flatness and devoid of trees – other than what we humans have planted – the Great Plains of the Llano Estacado, of Amarillo and of Dalhart (Texas). Farther north though, the terrain gets hillier and there are trees along the frequent watercourses. I should have thought of this, I mean, I have seen the Plains at different latitudes, but from east to west or vice versa while traveling the USA’s main Interstates (I-70, I-80, I-90).

There were other changes visible as well – having nothing to do with latitude or longitude. I could see the ancient landscape underneath, glimpses of it anyway, and I could see the changes that civilization and agriculture brought to these lands. While driving along, it occurred to me that I had never seriously considered why the Plains meant so much to us as a people, as a nation. I absorbed the conventional teaching, but I had never given it much critical thought.  I did think about that today.

It was the hardship…

People are strengthened and tempered by hardship and struggle – and they often get weaker, less resolute, degenerate and dissipated when times are too good for long. I think we are seeing those problems in our country today. Perhaps America needs some hard times to rebuild its character, its backbone. The Plains had to be won and even once they were it didn’t get easy. The environment here is harsh -- and scraping out a living is toilsome and by no means is success a certain thing, especially as it was years ago without the benefit of modern transport and support means. There is little visible water over much of the land. The wind blows constantly and it blows in bitter cold. If it isn’t raining, or hailing, or blowing up cyclones, it is hot, dry, parched and full of drought for years on end; this land was ground zero for the Dust Bowl. No wonder these Plains people eat nails for breakfast. In addition to all of that, the Plains were and are a vast expanse of sparse population. For many, that meant excruciating loneliness; loneliness that resulted in hardness of character and hardness of attitude -- and in the end, sometimes insanity.

Americans won the plains – they fought and struggled for them and once they had them, they went about subduing them - to the extent they can be considered subdued. I think those who live here would argue against any suggestion that the Plains have been tamed to any great degree. All of this was no easy feat – but the people of the Great Plains have succeeded beyond anything imaginable two centuries ago.

Everywhere you look you see the hands of modern humans upon the land – ranches, farms, windmills, oil derricks, fields cultivating food not only for our nation, but for the world. These lands are covered with beef and wheat. The American work ethic and our trademark pragmatism were engendered here, or not too far from here. If we are stoic, it is because of our amplified experience with tragedy and terror here. People here are as little jaded by “life in the big city” as it is possible to be – drivers of passing farm trucks almost universally wave to the vehicles passing them – even strangers. These people remember when knowing your neighbor could mean survival and in some ways at least, that is still true today.

Random thoughts on the Great Plains and my journey today…

The majority of the day was filled with dark skies and rain. The sun finally came out about 4:00 PM.

The Arapaho people were living in this area when other Americans first met them – Arapaho means “Blue Cloud People.” I saw those clouds today; now I know.

Windmills are everywhere. I took photos of them. There had to be some way of pulling that deep Ogallala Aquifer water up out of the ground to make things grow and water the cattle. The sign of man on this land is the windmill and the grain elevator. The sign of woman is that every town has a school -- and a church – and some churches stand even where there isn’t a town anymore. Lutheranism seems to be a dominant force around here. Eventually, the water will run out - current estimates are the Ogallala aquifer will be pumped dry in about 50 years. Then we'll probably have another dust bowl.

I ate lunch at the “Cactus Club” in Ness City. They had a buffet lunch of American-style dishes. It was like eating at a pot-luck “back home.” There was one big round table in the middle and it hosted a continual procession of big men who ate lunch together – one would finish, get up and leave and another would come in and take his place. While I sat there and ate at my table, their table changed its muddy-booted customers probably three times. They all knew each other and ate together, but they didn’t talk much. It wasn’t at all unfriendly – just quiet. Perhaps there wasn’t anything new to discuss.

Nebraska

Northwest-central Nebraska is rife with hills and streams – it is so green and lush that it could just as easily be Indiana in some ways. This was especially so around Arnold, and Gothenburg was also a beautiful little town. I might move there.

The National Cow of Nebraska is the Black Angus. But the thought occurs to me, why the black? Why not the White Angus, or the red one? Black doesn’t taste any different to me than any other cow – beef is beef. Why does the black one get all the glory? There is a rusty brown cow that is really common also -- I don't know what kind it is. When I get home I shall look it up. Maybe it is the Rusty Angus? “Hey, Garçon… forget the black, I’d like to have a Rusty Angus T-Bone, please!”

Kansans and Nebraskans are not litter bugs; later I found that South and North Dakotans are not much for littering either. None of them would win any prizes for prodigious littering. I drove for miles and miles today without seeing any trash beside the road; almost literally none; one or two pieces, maybe. The land was totally devoid of, barren of, garbage. At first I thought maybe this is because the wind blows it all away – but not so – if it was, then the garbage would all be stuck to the fences. But it isn’t; there just isn’t any. There weren’t even any “no littering”signs. I suppose this is because these are farmers around here – and a farmer lives on and is tied to the land. These people are self-reliant and they have a smattering of the pride that comes with that trait – so I suppose they don’t litter like some others might; for them, perhaps it would be sacrilege. I think it is a pity we can’t “can” that virtue somehow and loose it in some other parts of the country that come quickly to mind.

I put on about 500 miles today with stops at Nicodemus, Kansas and a few minutes to take photographs other places along the way. Nicodemus is a town that was and is unique on the Kansas plains – it was founded and built by black folks (called "exodusters") escaping the repressive and hostile south after the Civil War. They wanted to be some place where they could make their own way, build their own community, and Nicodemus became "Canaan" for a few of them.

Nicodemus Mailbox Humor

It is still a special place – and I hoped to meet some of its residents. Alas, they all seemed to be at lunch. You can’t fault them for wanting to eat lunch – but I feel like I might have missed something. Nicodemus pretty much stopped growing when the railroad bypassed it over one hundred years ago, but today the local residents are trying to restore their town to some of its prior prosperity and save it from the extinction suffered by so many other small plains towns. I hope they win that battle because their town is the very representation of human hope.

Near Nicodemus, I saw an early section of the highway I was traveling, now abandoned; US24 I think. It reminded me that we are not the original road-trippers -- moving around isn't new at all. Road-tripping in the USA started with the Conestoga wagon, after all, at least if we are thinking in terms of vehicular travel. And for sure, those mountain-men fur trappers were road-trip vagabonds supreme. And here was evidence of 20th Century road-tripping history right beside the present-day blacktop -- even the center-line striping was still visible in some places. It was probably the original US24 alignment from the 1930's, back when Americans were just beginning their romance with the automobile.

Pony Express Station

The Pony Express: In Gothenburg, Nebraska, you can see a bona-fide Pony Express relay station.  The cabin was built prior to that use, and it was also used for some other purposes at different times, but it may be the only remaining building that was actually used by that swashbuckling enterprise as far as the relay stations anyway. They have moved it from its original foundation not too far away and it is now placed in a pretty little city park. They said it was "open, come in and look around." But of course it wasn't. I did get an exterior picture... You might be able to tell by the size of the building that Pony Express riders were very small people - that doorway is a short five feet from dirt-foundation to the top of the door frame.

This is the part of my country that I love most. This is the heart and soul of America. I think I could spend the rest of my life among these people who live on the Plains. If the jihadist terrorists were smart, they would come here to see the stuff of which Americans were made. It might scare them just a little.

At the end of the day I set my alarm for 0700.  I had stuff to do on Thursday.   ~ Road Bob

Day Six: Missouri River Country

I got out of Valentine, Nebraska at 0830 today. I wanted to drive as far as Dickinson, ND but I have learned to call ahead -- it is a good thing too because there didn't seem to be any rooms there and those that were available were well over $100 per night.  Oil industry workers, again.

So I practiced flexibility and stayed in Mandan, ND after seeing Fort Abraham Lincoln after-hours. I walked around the square of the parade ground -- there are few buildings left. I have been in these types of Army frontier posts and their structures before, so I could simply imagine my memories of Fort Larned, or Fort Laramie, and there you have it.  I have read Elizabeth Custer’s description of the post as it was when she first saw it (in her book Boots and Saddles) – and I recalled her words as I wandered about the very places she described, walking the same ground she walked.

I did take quite a few shots of the post commander's house, since Autie Custer lived there. But what moved me most was seeing the parade ground and thinking about how it was the last sight of "home" about half the troops of Custer's command would ever get. I looked at the commissary where the non-coms drew the supplies for that march to Montana -- and I wondered which direction the troops marched (or rode) as they left for the last time in May of 1876, to the bouncing measures of "Garry Owen." Those ordinary, hard-luck men, as they assembled on that dusty parade ground that morning, were poised on the brink of near-immortality, unaware of their impending, illustrious forever future. That said, it is of critical importance that we realize that glorious shine is only in our minds. In reality, fleeting fame is nothing but coal because there is no glory in war or death. It is only those men and the grief of their families that we should think about.

But the day didn't start there...

The C.o.M

The Cows of Morning: The C.o.M. is a fraternal herd known the world over for their bulldogged, determined pursuit of the greener grass on the other side of the fence. They are exclusive much like any country club and not just every young buck gets into the "club." Their normal devotions are undertaken each dawn, before the ranch hands are up and watching.

Murdo, SD: Just south of Murdo, I saw a "string" of what I took to be wild horses, running almost single-file along a ridge line. They were silhouetted by the morning sun and all golden and glowing in outline as they ran. These were the “California beach god” kind of horses -- the equine-version of Ken and Barbie, if you would; manes flying, long legs stretching, perfect conformation, loose and running in South Dakota. The sight was something John Ford would have filmed in Panavision on his most perfect day and toasted himself afterward. I had no place to stop -- many of these roads have no shoulder at all. And ten seconds later the moment was gone, the light changed, the angle changed and they had ALL stopped to look at ME. They were very wary – even though they were at least ¼ mile away.

Too many times that happens -- the shot is there, you see it, but by the time you can get stopped, get the camera out, get the right lens on it, everything changes. Yesterday I stopped to get a shot of the sun's golden rays on some cliffs and within 30 seconds the chance (along with the sun) was g-o-n-e and I had missed it altogether.

I had a picnic lunch in a little riverside park at the corner of Two Rivers and Ash streets in Fort Pierre. I sat there and ate and watched fishermen launching (and trailering) their boats at the public landing across the Bad River. The park was right at the mouth of the Bad River at the Missouri River. It didn’t look so “bad” to me.

After lunch, I stopped in Pierre and reset all the tires' air -- then headed north toward Mobridge and Sitting Bull's graves. The ride between the two (on the Standing Rock Reserve) was very nice -- very picturesque.

Tatanka Iotake lies here - maybe

Why two graves? I’m glad you asked… Sitting Bull’s body was taken to Fort Yates and buried there after he was shot by Indian policemen. His family lived farther south though – in the vicinity of what is now Mobridge, South Dakota. They resented his being taken from them – heck, they probably resented the fact that he was murdered by his own people. Anyway, quite a few years ago they got together one night and went up to Fort Yates, dug him up and re-buried him on a bluff overlooking the Missouri River near Mobridge.

The problem is, the folks at Fort Yates say they didn’t get the real Sitting Bull at all – that they dug up the wrong Indian. Those that did the digging say “nonsense, we got the right guy.” After all, he was their kin. So Sitting Bull has two graves. Who knows which one is the right one – maybe he’s a little bit in both. Either way, I have visited him and paid my respects; of course, he would have quickly cut my throat just like any other puny, interloping wasichu. I have no illusions... But Sitting Bull was a great American. He was, to his people in his time, as great as any of our great statesmen and spiritual leaders; I can appreciate his spirit and his integrity. He was a constant, a rock, in the life of many Lakota. Personally, I hope that the actual resting place is the Mobridge grave -- it is a magnificent place, with an expansive view overlooking that great river.

Commanding Officer's Porch - Ft Lincoln

From there it was 90 minutes into Bismarck, Mandan and Fort Lincoln. I had a relaxed evening -- I ate at a restaurant next door to the motel, then drove across the river to Bismarck to a car wash (didn't do any lasting good, rained all the next day). Then on the way back saw a car wash that was NOT listed on the GPS that was maybe only 4 blocks away -- instead of the 9 miles to Bismarck. That's not the first time the GPS has lied to me.

But anyway, the car is somewhat cleaner now. I had a Dairy Queen sundae when I got back.

Oh... I met one of South Dakota's NICEST state troopers today. No further comment.

The only disappointing thing all day – I stopped to see the Missouri River at the exact spot I first saw that river – in 1965 with my Dad – but it has changed so much I couldn’t even figure out where we had stopped back then. About the only thing that had not changed was the bridge itself – just judging by the apparent age of the one I saw today, I think it was the same one.

Day Seven: In Custer's Footsteps

George Custer left Fort Lincoln on May 17, 1876, to join a campaign to "round up" the remaining free Lakota and Cheyenne and force them onto federal reservations.

His wasn't the only command involved in the pursuit, but it is the one most remembered today. It took the 7th Cavalry about thirty-nine days to reach the end of their trail near what we know today as the Little Bighorn Valley -- which means they covered an average of 10 miles each day; I covered the same route almost exactly today in less than 8 hours.  So much for the old cavalry adage "forty miles a day on beans and hay."  The Army apparently didn't normally move that quickly, even the horse army.

I saw several of their campsites and spent quite a number of minutes staring at the landscapes and wondering how they saw it. That was certainly one highlight of this entire road trip for me.

I left Bismarck at roughly 0800 and drove west on I-90 until I got hungry -- I stopped at the "Wrangler Cafe" in Richardton, ND for some eggs and (some extremely good) sausage. Nearby was a historical marker noting that the 7th Cavalry had camped there -- near a smallish prominence called Young Man's Butte about two miles east of the town and plainly visible. The 7th Cavalry was six days out from Fort Lincoln at that point. They then continued west and crossed into present-day Montana near the present-day town of Beach. I did the same.

I suspect they made a bee-line for the Yellowstone River at that point -- but I do not know their exact route -- it wouldn't surprise me to find they followed the same route as does the highway today. I took a small detour near the ND border -- and paid a short visit to the Roosevelt-Grasslands National Park.

Yellowstone River - Montana

South Dakota has its famous "badlands" -- and North Dakota has this similar place -- and a national park encompasses them. Teddy Roosevelt's ranches were nearby and one of his cabins is near the present-day park headquarters in Medora. He believed his experiences there shaped his entire life afterward. As I arrived, it was very cold, beginning to snow and I was beginning to feel some time pressure - Little Bighorn Battlefield before 5:00 PM (which I believed was closing time). I really wanted a couple of photos there, so I skipped most of Grasslands NP. Today, I wish I hadn't.

One of my "wants" for this trip was to hike to the middle of Custer's June 23/24th bivouac site on the Busby bend of Rosebud Creek. I was unable to get there because of time constraints and a certain amount of very cold mud and private property fences. But I could have hit it with a rock from where I was -- so I took a couple of photos and settled for that.  I saw it, I just didn't get to walk on it. Then I raced across the Wolf Mountains to the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument. I got some great photos there -- the late afternoon light was gorgeous. I also found that closing time was actually 6:00 pm... I guess that really didn't make much difference for the other things but at least I had an extra hour in the park before they closed the gates. As it was, I pushed my luck with some very accommodating rangers.

Last Stand Hill

I searched for Private Frank Braun's grave but couldn't find it. Pvt. Braun was the last known Army fatality of the battle -- he was wounded and taken back to Fort Lincoln to recover.  He died there in the fall of 1876, and when the frontier posts were abandoned his body was brought back to the battlefield for reburial at the national cemetery there.

The new Indian memorial is in place now -- and since I was there last in 2003, some new individual Indian memorial markers are in place on the field and the informative plaques have been improved everywhere I went. I came home burning with desire to learn more about the battle (it's always something) -- this time I want to focus on the days immediately prior to the fight -- the time spent by the commanders where they made the decisions what to do and how to do it (when they were encamped at the mouth of Rosebud Creek); also on some of the other participants -- Reno, Benteen and Sgt. John Ryan, particularly.



A homeland defender fell here

After the park closed, I drove the short distance to Billings for the night -- had a great meal at the Montana Brewing Company -- and relaxed in my room until it was time to sleep. I stayed at the "Dude Rancher" Motel. It and the restaurant are both downtown; great place to stay, great place to eat, if you find yourself in Billings. The staff at the motel was very friendly as was the restaurant's -- the eatery had a young crowd on a Friday night and was very noisy and fun. It was a perfect end to the day.

Day Eight: Crazy Woman, Chief Joseph, Sacajawea and Lewis and Clark

Yesterday it was the 7th Cavalry, today it was all of the above... plus a little bit of the Oregon Trail.

This was the road trip's longest mileage day -- over 600 from Billings, Montana to Twin Falls, Idaho. The day was very wintry -- snow and cold all day -- mostly in the 30's and later in the afternoon in Idaho, the (toasty) 40's. Scenery-wise, it was probably the prettiest day of the trip -- lots of snow-capped mountains and river valleys.

I drove north from Billings to US12 and took that west. Near Ryegate, I found a historical marker that commemorated the passing of Chief Joseph and his people as they were running away from General Howard in 1877 -- little knowing that their real worry was no longer Howard, but Col. Nelson Miles who was waiting to ambush them from another direction. The fleeing Nez Perce had crossed the Musselshell River near that spot while pushing hard for Canada and what they hoped would be freedom. What they got instead was a long exile to Oklahoma.

Montana

I crossed the Crazy Woman Mountains toward White Sulphur Springs and then headed south on US287. The mountains were named for a woman whose true story was recounted in the film "Jeremiah Johnson" (and the book it was based on, called Liver-Eating Johnson).

Later in the day, while driving southward near Dillon, MT, I came across the place where Sacajawea was reunited with her brother -- and Lewis and Clark got the horses they so desperately needed to cross the mountains and get to the Pacific. The location was where her Shoshoni people spent the summer each year – and when she saw familiar landmarks -- like Beaverhead Point -- she knew they were going in the right direction and were close. Lewis and Clark were pretty much lost at that point -- so Sacajawea saved the day once again. I doubt she was even 20 years old at the time. Amazing, huh? In my opinion, one of the greatest injustices in history was that Sacajawea didn't get to live a long and happy life.

I picked up I-15 South at Dillon, and high-balled it for Twin Falls for the night. Along the way, I stopped at a rest area west of Pocatello near Massacre Rocks State Park -- a place where resentful Indians attacked westward-bound emigrants on the trail to Oregon and killed some. Revenge was then taken by other whites in the area, if my memory serves me correctly.

Much of the day in Montana and the first part in Idaho was cold and the land was snow-covered. It was still winter up there and as always, it was very beautiful. The roads were clear.

Day Nine: Nevada and the Great Basin

Leaving Twin Falls, I drove US93 toward Jackpot, Nevada. I stopped for breakfast at a casino in Jackpot -- ate quickly and hit the road for points south. My destination for the day was Las Vegas and a steak dinner at Billy-Bob’s!

US93 - Nevada

US93 from Idaho to Ely is stunningly beautiful -- you drive valleys rimmed by snow-capped peaks on both sides, and ahead and behind. There wasn't much traffic. I set my cruise control, turned up the music and simply enjoyed myself. On a cruise ship, this would have been the "at sea" day... I stopped for lunch at Schellbourne -- the site of a Pony Express Station and trail route; the trail came down from a pass to the east and then headed north up the valley.

After lunch I actually got to drive on a road that overlay a portion of the trail, as it descended from the mountain pass to the east -- US93 was closed for about three hours just south of the rest area where I ate -- a watermelon truck had gone off the highway and turned over and it was going to take a while to clean up the resulting mess. Many hundreds of watermelons had perished in the wreck. We were turned off-road onto dirt roads to get around the scene -- including a short stretch on the actual Pony Express trail.

I stopped in Ely for some ice cream, then headed south down US6 and SR318. SR318 is the course for the Silver State Classic Challenge -- a road race that traverses about 100 miles at breakneck speeds. The entrance fees are enormous -- I am not sure who gets the money. But the race gives the "amateur" race drivers of the world an opportunity, for a price, to drive about 100 miles as fast as their car class will allow.

Near Alamo, I picked up US93 again and motored stately into Las Vegas. I got a Motel 6 room right next to "Boulder Station," had my steak dinner at Sam's Town (at Billy-Bob's Steakhouse; good food, excellent service, if a bit pretentiously dramatic) and went to bed early.

Day Ten: Back home again in Arizona

Today, I have a short jaunt from Las Vegas to Phoenix. It is like vacation is now over -- since I have driven this road so many times. I took the new bridge across the Colorado River south of the Dam -- they have erected concrete on the side of each lane so there is no view whatsoever of that spectacular chasm. It is sad that many drivers have such little common sense that such a thing is required -- you would have idiots stopping their vehicles in traffic, on the bridge, to see the "pretty view." I regret that they didn't build a little rest area into the project so there would be a place we could pull out and get a photo or two, but they didn't. Crossing the bridge, I reentered Arizona.

I stopped in Kingman for breakfast at a great little place called "The Roadrunner." I think it was right on the corner of Beale and 1st St, on the west end of town -- the food was great, the staff and customers full of it; my kind of place. After eating, I headed on down US93 toward Phoenix -- stopped briefly at Wickieup and was home by 1:00 PM -- as far as Dave's anyway. I stopped for a quick visit.

Day Eleven: Nothing left but the crying...

Nothing left to do now but clean Montana off the rental car, take it back, and put my road gear away. I am already thinking of the next road trip adventure; it may very well be a run from Colorado to California on US50, with a side trip to Chief Joseph’s Wallowa Valley to cap it off.

I am ROAD BOB. Keep the shiny side up!

Note to the reader: If this post was helpful to you, you found it interesting, or even if you find an error you want to tell me about, won't you please leave a comment...  

I owe a certain amount of inspiration for this trip, for its idea, to author Ian Frazier, who chronicled his own quest to discover the Plains in his book Great Plains.  Some of the places I visited I wouldn't even have known about had I not read his book, several times.  Thanks, Mr. Frazier!  

Wild animals I saw along the way… (other than the C.o.M… and the road kill.)

Wapiti at the 26 Bar Ranch

The National "Cow" of Nebraska

NM Pronghorn

South Dakota "pelicans"