Thunder Butte

Just an Old Line Shack

2012-01-22T12:08:00.003-05:00

The Old Line Shack on Thunder Butte Creek

Git go`n Lindy!
Reins slap Lindy on the flank.
It`s been a long time Ole Buddy, we
gotta git home.

This ole man has been gone about
70 years and he`s go`n home.
Where`s home? It`s just a line shack
about ten mile from Thunder Butte
down on Thunder Butte Creek.

What`s a line shack, Dad?

Oh, it`s just a little frame house down
on the creek. I grew up there, then
when I went away to high school, the
ranchers in the area just moved in and
took it over for the cowboys to bunk in
when doing roundup and scout`n strays.

What`s so important about it now? Why '
go back to an old line shack?

Git up, Lindy. Well, son, you know how
important were some of those great days
in your life, the day you graduated from
college, that day you got your MA down
in Texas? Well, when Tony Roach and I
found that pool full of wild fish, that was
the same kind of day for me. Tony told me
they were wild fish and I filled my pockets
full of them and took them home and my
Mother found me emptying all those pollywogs
out on the floor. That was graduation day
for me. Boy did I get a whupp`n. Yup, that
was the day I became a man.

What else do you remember about that old
shack, Dad?

Whoa. That`s a long story son. Got a few
days to listen?

--John Crowley

Pictures and Video

2012-01-21T10:19:00.019-05:00

Dave Doan sent in this brief video clip of Thunder Butte. Much appreciated!

Dave also sent a picture of the family's old place from the original homestead, which his brother Doug now owns. The old home is located seven or eight miles southwest of Thunder Butte in Perkins County.

And, while we're on the topic of pictures from around Thunder Butte, here's one from 1918 or earlier:

Here's another view of Thunder Butte shot by Mike Welfl on July 20, 1980,as posted on flickr.com:

And, here's an amazing December sunset over Thunder Butte from Christian Begeman, as published on his blog. South Dakota Magazine also named this their photo of the month in their January 2012 newsletter:

Editor's Note: One of the photos and the video appears here by permission of Dave Doan. The photo of Thunder Butte circa 1918 or earlier is a scanned image from a turn of the last century and copyright expired publication. The other photos are not copied, but are merely clickable links to the photos as published by the original photographers elsewhere on the internet.

Old Line Shack

2012-01-01T19:39:00.003-05:00

Dang. With Christmas time, visitors and other great things happening, I just plumb forgot the old line shack.

The last time I was down by the crick, where the old line shack is, there was a teen age girl chop`n firewood for the cook stove, an old dog with three legs lay`n by a horse that was tied to the front porch. Of course there was me, sitt`n my sorrel pacer and roll`n a smoke with the make`ns.

I was go`n inside, but I don`t know them folks and they sure don`t know me. I just looked around the yard where I used to play when just a wee kid. The old snapp`n turtle that almost got me when I thought it was a mountain lion. The old dog reminded me of the one we had, got caught in a trap one winter and he gnawed his leg off to get out. We pampered him for a while, but he didn`t need no help, he was just fine.

Look`n out across the yard reminded me of the Christmas tree that used to grow on the far cutbank. My Mother used to see it from her kitchen window `til one day, just before Christmas my brother came drag`n it home behind his horse and put it up in the front room.

That was in the old days, when the shack was home.

We used to hold the spring round up out there in the corrals. Cowboys used to rope and ride with their .44 by their side. Actually it was more than likely just a .22. The West had already been won and the gun was just used for shoot`n rattle snakes.

But, it was fun times. Big bon fire with some cowpuncher smoke`n up a bunch of Mountain Oysters. Some other Honyokker strum`n an old beat up guitar. Bawlin calves be`n stripped of their masculinity, herds of cattle be`n drove in and out to the tune of yell`n, git-hah!

Old Fred, the neighboring rancher who teased me unmercifully, sitt`n on a stump by the camp fire. He slapped his leg when he told a great joke, slapp`n the pocket full of stick matches he always carried. How I rolled on the ground in a fit of laughter when I saw him erupt in a mass of flames, runn`n for the crick to jump in and put out the fire.

You might say, "those were the days", but you would be wrong. Them ghosts of the days and nights, old memories kinda brand a place in the mind where it flares up now and then and them ghosts come march`n `cross the pasture by the old line shack.

--John Crowley

Saddle Tree

2011-12-14T23:04:00.001-05:00

Just a simple cowboy
Plain to see
I got myself some furniture
A brand new saddle tree

No good at rope`n
Not much good with Brahma`s
They dirty where you sit
Have to stick to horses
Well stick`n is the trick

The best will get a saddle
If not I`ll just get sawdust
When I hit the ground
The saddle smells the best
And it gives me another goround

Then they picked me that ole apaloosa
A sunfish`n sun of a gun
And I`m still chase`n that durn saddle
I`m jist an apaloosa bum

--John Crowley

Thunder of the Butte

2011-12-13T23:25:00.000-05:00

The wind blew and the snow flew
And the driving wind stung
Your bare face with sleet and snow
Thunder Butte lost in fog of storm

The crack of splintering trees
Over the sound of these
Came the roar of avalanche
Rocks and snow and trees

Which direction where
When all is lost in white nightmare
Horses stumbling falling blind
Cowboys injured in a failing mind

Suddenly the sun appears
Just in time blazing through the white
A gift from God
Cattle fall into the trail for home

Now it`s Christmas time
No time to roam
Just a mile or so to go
Merry Christmas!

--John Crowley

Why No Blog Posts?

2011-04-01T23:02:00.002-04:00

Dear readers, you're probably wondering why I haven't posted anything recently. Well, it turns out that like many of you, I've got a day job. I won't go into what it is that I do, but I must say that this has been the busiest stretch of time since last fall that I've experienced in quite some time. In the meantime, I hope to be in touch with you soon. Check back, and I promise that I will be back.

--Mike Crowley

Thunder Butte Now on Facebook Too

2011-01-07T13:02:00.006-05:00

If all works according to plan, you will now be able to find our Thunderbutte.com posts here on Facebook, as well as right here in our customary location. Happy New Year!

--Mike Crowley

Oh I Only Want to be a Cowboy

2011-01-05T22:26:00.001-05:00

Oh I only want to be a cowboy
To run and buck and to ride
Oh I only want to be a cowboy
With my Harley by my side

When the sun is sinking in the West
Where the bearded sons come to thrill
I`ll inhale the fumes of the exhaust
As we go roaring up the hill

Oh I only want to be a cowboy
Playing poker all night long
Listening to the roar of the v-4
Stinking up the West singing my song

Oh I only want to be a cowboy
To ride The lonely West
To heck with society and all the rest
Got my Harley and my cowhide vest

--John Crowley

Editor's Note--As long as Dad keeps writing it, I plan to publish more of his cowboy-related poetry here. I have to think that his creative juices stem at least in part from growing up in the Dakota West River country.

The Long Trail Home

2011-01-02T22:17:00.000-05:00

'S been a long day in the saddle
Not everbody has been kind
Some more than others
But I don`t never mind

Spurs scratch ole Pieballs ribs
C`mon pardner you know the way
Not many have cotton`d to us
But you been my Pard today

Home Will it still be there
We done some shenanigans we shouldn`t
And the ache for those we love
Kinda leaves our soul somewhere

'T-was a grand adventure this old life
We twisted tails when we shoulda smiled
And smiled when we shoulda layed `em low
You knew that Pard try`n to tell me all along
Just one more hill Pard
We are gett`n awful slow

--John Crowley

Cowboy Christmas

2010-12-27T17:56:00.000-05:00

Cold fingers numb
Cowpony stumbles drags
Through ice and snow
Stars light the winter herd

In the distance a carol
Snow melts from the sound
Cowboy feels Christmas Grace
As the pony makes his rounds

A steer bolts from the herd
Bless your ornery hide
The cowboy yells
A bright star lights the scene

Distant figures course the snow
Who could be out here tonight
Freezing cold I should know
Man and woman and child approach

Ragged looking starved
Midnight victuals come off the saddle
To share with the hapless pair
Off to camp on the dead run

Roping out of the remuda
For those strangers at the herd
Grab warm garb out of the chuck wagon
Racing back before they pass

All fixed up in warm cowboy raiment
Sent on their way all toasty dry
O`er the planes breaks the chorus
God bless all friends to man

--John Crowley

Thunder Butte Gifts for the Holidays

2010-12-14T23:42:00.004-05:00

Thunder Butte T-Shirt

Well, perhaps not in time for the holidays – I'm not the most mercantile of capitalists and I've neglected to put in a plug for my own Thunder Butte t-shirts and other products. In fact, I've neglected to shill for business for the last two years, which tells you that I'm not a very successful businessman. But, seriously folks, I'm not looking to make any money from this. Originally, I just was looking to design a t-shirt for myself. Now, I want to afford the opportunity to anyone else who would like a Thunder Butte t-shirt or other merchandise to take a look – and if you like what you see – place an order. You can do that by clicking here, which will take you to my friendly little shop at Zazzle.com.

--Mike Crowley

Bygone Days, Just in Time for Christmas

2010-12-11T07:37:00.009-05:00

Just in time for Christmas, here's a noteworthy new product for those who own or are thinking of getting an Apple Ipad. Bygone Days is an Ipad app that contains hundreds of photos from the Old West, old newsreels documenting South Dakota's history, and other information. It aims to provide a rich photographic experience of what life was like through "the eyes, artifacts, and spirit of those who lived it." And, for fans of Babe Mansbridge, who we talked about here, the poster of bronc-busting Babe appears on page 52. Note to my readers -- I do not have an Ipad yet, but this app surely will be one of the first that I buy. You can get Bygone Days by downloading it here at the Apple Itunes store.

In addition to the above, I discovered the following line of products in South Dakota magazine's recent issue. Tower Stool produces an entire line of really unique folding step stools, tables, and benches. For more information, visit their website or call 800-568-4288.

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note--I do not offer specific product endorsements in this blog other than for things that I might occasionally sell myself, and I receive nothing in return for mentioning these products. These are merely products that seem noteworthy to me, and ones that I would like to buy, myself.

Far from the Golden Arches

2010-11-04T13:14:00.004-04:00

Remote Thunder Butte (July 2009)

From personal experience, I can testify that there are places in Alaska more remote than this. But, when it comes to the lower 48 states, a spot not far from Thunder Butte was until recently about as far as one could be removed from a McDonald’s restaurant as one can get in the United States. Surely, many would count this as a blessing. Not that I am a particular critic of McDonalds cuisine. There are moments when convenience overrules conscience – or maybe it’s just the rare reappearance of the McRib. Yes, I admit to occasionally being drawn to the purveyor of speedy gastronomy beneath the golden arches. However, if you live around Thunder Butte, that rare treat would cost you over 140 miles of driving.

Technically, according to Stephen Von Worley, the farthest spot from a McDonalds in the lower 48 contiguous states was, until sometime in the last year, 7.8 miles WNW of Glad Valley, 15.5 miles ESE of Meadow, 19.3 miles north of Iron Lightning, and 19.9 miles NNW of Thunder Butte Creek – in South Dakota. Yet, holding title to such a storied distinction depends on the vagaries of the fast food business, and the closing of a least one McDonalds unfortunately has shifted the most McRemote spot to an empty locale someplace in Nevada. While disheartening to those around Thunder Butte who aspire to all things out-of-the-way, at least one consolation is that a trip to McDonalds still will cost you over two hours of travel through ranch country that remains mostly devoid of people.

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note: Stu Surma reports that the former spot furthest from a McDonald's was where Herman and Nina Rosenau live, west of Glad Valley. According to Stu:

"I used to go past their place on the way to the 'Bluegill' dam which was really in the middle of no-where! That dam had honest 1 pound bluegills -- that were 10 & 1/2 inches long! Enclosed is a picture of my wife DeeAnn and her "Proud Angler" Bluegill with Thunder Butte in the background."

DeeAnn an her "Proud Angler" Bluegill Near Thunder Butte (courtesy of Stu Surma)

Sadly, Stu reports that the last he heard, the water behind the dam had dried up with the recent drought.

Halloween Trickery on the Prairie

2010-10-31T22:25:00.003-04:00

Halloween historically has been more about tricks and pranks than about treats. Just imagine what it must have been like in days past when outhouse tipping was a common Halloween prank in the West River country. Envision stumbling out of your house or ranch shack late at night to use the john and to find the whole affair knocked over. If you were desperate, I imagine you would have just improvised, but with considerable aggravation.

My Dad doesn’t remember much about Halloween from the days when he lived around Thunder Butte. By the time he got to high school in Lemmon, it was – you guessed it – outhouse tipping that marked the haunted holiday.

Lucia Callis reported in Faith Country Heritage: 1910-1985 that:

“Halloween was a special time for little kids. We didn't do "trick or treat", but tried to scare elders with our jack-o-lanterns, and stay away from the big boys who were busy pushing over outhouses, and I think there was a buggy on the schoolhouse one year. I clearly remember one time when one was put right at the front door of the bank, with a sign "Make deposits here." My dad was furious, but mother thought it was very funny.”

But, there were a few other pranks played in times gone buy. In a poem published in 1917, W. E. Brown of Meade County recalls overturning board walks, the kind used for sidewalks in the old towns out on the prairie. Another Faith correspondent recalls soaping the variety store windows on Halloween as a prank.

In more recent times, as trick-or-treating has come into vogue, it isn’t always just the kids playing the tricks. Sometimes, for example, the weather can leave trickery and treachery for those wanting to venture out on Halloween night. Stu Surma mentions that sometime in the 1990’s, it snowed a couple of days before Halloween when he was living in Isabel. He plowed the 14 inches of snow, but there were huge windrows – piles of snow – left across people’s driveways that the little kids had trouble scaling as they attempted to go trick-or-treating that Halloween night.

Adults also get a kick out of playing tricks on the little ones on Halloween night. Stu says that Helen Brinkman was a long-time teacher in Isabel, northeast of Thunder Butte. Her house “was always a stop for the trick or treaters because being a grade school teacher everyone knew and liked her! It was cold one Halloween evening, so I was driving my two girls around to trick or treat. When we drove up to Helen's house there was a stuffed witch seated in a lawn chair all slumped over.” When Stu’s kids rang the doorbell, the witch straightened and said in her best “witchy” voice – “Can I help you?” It was Helen all dressed up as the witch – and that was plenty scary for a Halloween night on the prairie.

--Mike Crowley

A Spooky Name for a Local Waterway

2010-10-29T22:27:00.005-04:00

With Halloween approaching, it’s the time of year when some might start wondering about a certain stream just south of Faith called "Spook Creek" – and how it came to be called that. Was it someone’s ghostly encounter that led to this name? Did someone see something in the nighttime gloom that gave them a fright? Or, was it something more mundane?

Writing some years ago in a 1985 area history book, Faith Country Heritage: 1910-1985, J. Maynard Jonas tells a gruesome little tale about the stream involving an unfriendly encounter between members of the Fox and Lakota tribes:

“There was a large hunting party of the Fox Tribe Indians on a buffalo hunt into Sioux Territory. The battle started near the Arrow Head hills. The Sioux drove the Fox hunters southwest, killing them as they could. The big battle took place about where Faith is now. A number of the Fox Indians were caught in the timber on Spook Creek near the north end of present Durkee Lake. All were killed and their bodies tied to trees along the creek where they hung for many years. Anyone riding there saw the skeletons and was plenty spooked! None of the Fox hunters were ever buried, as none of the hunting party survived. All bodies were left where they fell and for many years the bleached bones of the hunters could be seen. The old Lakota name was Wakan Wakpa or Spirit Creek.”

But, there is more than one story about how the creek got its name. The same book includes an anonymous narrative about two brothers, Hans and Henry Boke, who arrived in the area to establish a ranch in 1897. According to the story:

“The boys had little experience in branding cattle when they first arrived. Their branding irons burned too deeply. As a result, a range rider would often come across a letter B, or an 0, or a K on the prairie. That gave him an eerie feeling. The creek nearby came to be called Spook Creek and the Boke brothers, the Spook brothers.”

I don’t know whether either story is true or not. Perhaps there are other stories about the creek and its interesting name that are worth repeating. You can let me know by leaving a comment below!

--Mike Crowley

Editors Note—Spook Creek was dammed just south of Faith in the 1930’s. Today, Durkee Lake is an important local recreational and fishing spot and provides the town of Faith with much of its water supply.

He Hang Glided From the Butte

2010-10-02T16:25:00.003-04:00

I have always attempted to do honor to all things “Thunder Butte” on this blog, so it is appropriate to mention the life of a man who jumped off the butte, flew away into the air, and lived to tell about it. Donald Dunn was born in Bison in 1942 and grew up on a ranch southeast of Coal Springs. He raised a family and passed away suddenly near Meadow at the age of 68. According to the obituary that ran in the Mobridge Tribune last month:

“Aviation was Donald's lifelong passion. Over the years he owned and piloted numerous airplanes, a hot air balloon, an experimental ultra-light aircraft, and accumulated many ‘project fuselages.’ He thrilled his passengers with hammerhead and dive bomb stunts and could land anywhere. He astounded friends by hang gliding off of Thunder Butte. He often went "airport bumming," visiting airports to watch the airplanes and swap stories with other pilots.”

Stu Surma mentioned to me that “about twenty years ago, he brought his hot air balloon to the Isabel Rodeo Arena. Just before the rodeo, he fired it up and went floating off to the southwest. It was just beautiful.”

I have to admit that it would never occur to me to hang glide off of Thunder Butte. Our Native American friends consider it a sacred place, and it is quiet – almost like a church – up there. It’s a good place to go meditate. So, it does take quite some imagination and perhaps a mischievous streak to think of using the butte as the launching point for an ultralight aircraft. Because the sides of the butte are mostly gentle slopes, too, you wouldn’t have much margin for error to avoid slamming into the ground. And, you would need a really good wind. Donald had the wind when he jumped that day. One likes to think that he’s now on his second wind.

--Mike Crowley

Photos from the Faith Centennial Parade

2010-08-28T10:39:00.022-04:00

Gene Ulrich Rides Again! (photo courtesy of Stu Surma)

Well, folks, I had a once in a lifetime opportunity to go to Alaska for work or take time off and go to the Faith Centennial. Such a decision! I really wanted to see the Faith Centennial and I’d never before had an opportunity to go to Alaska. The choice—see rugged wilderness landscapes (while working) or visit cowboys and prairie folk! I don’t know how you would have chosen and it was a really tough choice, but my friend Stu Surma from Java, South Dakota, was kind enough to send me these photos of the Faith Centennial Parade, which was held on Saturday, August 14th. It’s not quite the same as being there, but almost as good! Thanks, Stu! I still feel bad, though, about missing all of the other great Centennial events. Of course, there is the Bicentennial to look forward to. With some advancements in medical science, a few spare parts, and an oxygen tank, I might still make that event. Let’s keep our fingers crossed!

--Mike Crowley

Faith Color Guard (photo courtesy of Stu Surma)

Actress Catherine Bach and Wagon (photo courtesy of Stu Surma)

Duane Vig's Plane (photo courtesy of Stu Surma)

The Ingall's Family -- Cousins to the Ingalls of Little House on the Prairie Fame (photo courtesy of Stu Surma)

Fischbach Family Float (photo courtesy of Stu Surma)

Rig from the Centennial Wagon Train (photo courtesy of Stu Surma)

Falling Asleep in the Saddle (photo courtesy of Stu Surma)

Small Four Horse Hitch (photo courtesy of Stu Surma)

Little Cowgirl on a Pony (photo courtesy of Stu Surma)

Catherine Bach and Girls with Stu Surma Sporting His Centennial Beard (photo courtesy of Stu Surma)

Editor's Note--Thanks again, Stu!

Faith Centennial Wagon Train

2010-08-13T07:20:00.002-04:00

Faith Centennial Wagon Train Route

One of the Faith Centennial events that I really hate to have missed is the wagon train that departed Mike Maher's ranch up by Isabel last week and was slated to finish up in Faith yesterday. Traversing some pretty rugged country, this is an event that would have given participants the real feel of what some of the early pioneers faced as they moved into this country. To participate, you needed to supply your own team and wagon, which I certainly don't have. Does anyone have pictures? I'd be glad to display them.

--Mike Crowley

Faith's Centennial -- Just a Couple More Days

2010-08-08T20:35:00.009-04:00

Faith Parade 1985 (by Stu Surma)

The Faith Centennial begins Tuesday and runs through Sunday, August 15th. There are activities every day including barbecues, pancake breakfasts, musical theater -- "Nunsense", a carnival, cowboy poetry, evening dancing to Dakota Country featuring Arlie Hulm, Kid's Day at the fairgrounds (on Thursday), a parade (on Saturday), a school alumni social, a fishing derby, a tractor pull, a history program, and of course the annual Faith Rodeo and Stock Show. I'm not doing justice to the sheer size of this event. There is a full program every day. For more information, contact the Faith Chamber of Commerce at (605) 967-2001 or email them at faithchamber@faithsd.com. You can also download the full schedule of activities here.

Unfortunately, I won't be there. I was hoping to come out and spend at least a few days in town, but work and family obligations intervene. So, I must relegate myself to celebrating Faith's history by pouring over some of my old South Dakota books, or by perusing the web in search of the elusive gem from Faith's past. For example, here's one I just found on Ebay -- a lovely commemorative plate celebrating Faith's first 50 years. Will it be mine, or will it be yours! Or, here's an old postcard with a photo of Faith's municipal building. From the looks of it, I'm guessing that it would have been taken about the time my uncle, Neal Crowley, worked as police chief in the little jail that it then housed as well as helped out in the municipal bar, which also was located in the same building. I'll also have to content myself by taking a look at another one of the photos (above) Stu Surma forwarded me from the parade celebrating Faith's first 75 years.

Faith reaches an important milestone, probably having outlived anyone who was alive when the town was founded one hundred years ago. My Dad, who wasn't around as long ago as that doesn't want to be reminded of his birthdays anymore. He also frets that if we traveled great distances to be at Faith's celebration, "No one would remember us." I don't think that's true. I saw a couple of folks who do just a year ago. In any case, here's a fond wish for a wonderful centennial celebration for the town. Also, don't let me forget to say, happy birthday, Faith!

--Mike Crowley

Faith Centennial Approaches

2010-07-31T22:30:00.006-04:00

Actress Catherine Bach* in Faith's 75-Year Parade
(photo by Stu Surma)

Faith, South Dakota, celebrates 100 years of history with a celebration that runs from Tuesday, August 10th, to Sunday, August 15th. That’s only ten days away! A schedule of the planned events can be found here on the town's website. You can also find additional information about plans for the Centennial on Facebook. If you belong to Facebook, just log in and search for “Faith Centennial” to pull up the town’s Centennial page. I’ll also be mentioning some of the plans for the Centennial in an upcoming post.

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note: Actress Catherine Bach, best known for her role as Daisy Duke on the 1980's television show, The Dukes of Hazzard, often visited her grandparents in Faith as a child.

Long Time Glad Valley Resident, Rex Witte, Passes Away

2010-06-25T23:24:00.009-04:00

Rex Witte and Jack Reich in Earlier Days (photo by Stuart Surma)

I have just recently learned that Rex Witte passed away on May 27th. Rex was one of a small handful of remaining inhabitants in Glad Valley. He and his late wife ran the general store there from 1956 until 1982. Rex also ran the fire department in Glad Valley for many years, a volunteer affair that often was lucky to get one person – most likely Rex – to drive the truck. If enough people showed up to drive the truck – meaning one person – a lot of folks thought that was enough people to put out a fire. In addition to these jobs, Rex also farmed in the area.

The Rapid City’s obituary also said that Rex was the postmaster in Glad Valley “until the Feds shut him down in 1997.” I’m not sure what the Feds shut him down for – whether it was a major FBI sting operation, all the postal customers moving away, or that Rex preferred to be out on his tractor. But, when my sister and I pulled up ten years later and tried to flag him down, we had a hard time getting him to stop that tractor. Once stopped, though, he sat on the tractor and talked to us for two hours. When he finally climbed off, I was amazed that Rex at 74 towered over my diminutive 6’3” stature. And, he had such a powerful grip when he shook hands. I’m told that he stayed active until the end, and that he was out chopping wood when the fates intervened.

My Dad, who grew up nearby, remembers stopping in Glad Valley with my mother shortly after they were married in the 1950’s. His stark memory of Rex, who stopped by the store during their visit to sit with his buddies, was someone who was talking a lot of nonsense to impress the “tourists.” Rex had never met my Dad before then, so didn’t know that Dad was a refugee of long standing from the area.

When my sister, Eileen, and I met Rex in 2007, he did have a lot to say about things and people, both in the area and in general. I had to stop him a few times and ask, “Are you serious?” I wasn’t sure at first, but then you’d see the twinkle in Rex’s eye and think that he was pulling your leg. Then, a few minutes later, you weren’t sure again. To be honest, members of my family who grew up in the area were a lot like that from time to time, especially my Uncle Neal who Rex said used to stop by Glad Valley every once in awhile. Neal told many tall tales with a twinkle in his eye, but never would admit that the tallest tale was anything but the unmitigated truth.

Truth be told, I’m sorry there won’t be another chance to talk with Rex.

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note: Stuart Surma emailed me after I originally posted the above, kindly provided a picture of Rex, and mentioned the following--

"Here is a picture of Rex and my friend Jack one day at Glad Valley when we came to sell a coyote to Rex. When you walked in the store where the till was in the center of the store there was a beam above the till with a pistol hanging on two nails. I asked Rex what was that pistol up there for? Rex said," When they come to rob me and say put your hands up, my hands are going up to that pistol – and Rex was tall enough to reach it! Rex always said," If I don't have it here – You Don't Need It!!!" One winter day I walked into the store, and above the potbelly wood stove hung a sign in plain sight as you walked in the door. The sign read, "Your Mother may love you, Your minister may forgive you, Your psychologist may analyze you – but if I find you shoplifting in here I'll break your God-Damned Neck!!!"

"Once a year the Glad Valley Fire Department would have a dance and/or a pancake feed to raise funds for the fire department. People would come from all directions, some of these people you would only see once a year! Rex had a basketball hoop on the front of the store. Rex and the young boys would be out there shooting baskets with Rex playing defense! With Rex's huge wingspan it was no easy task shooting over him! When Rex would help at the pancake feed, he would mix the batter with a big electric drill and a paint mixer, telling people it really worked good for mixing up his coyote bait too!!!"

More on the Bowdle Tornado

2010-06-23T19:46:00.011-04:00

Bowdle Tornado (photo by Stuart Surma)

Stuart Surma of Java, South Dakota, was traveling traveling from Aberdeen to Java when he heard a tornado warning for Walworth County on the radio. He could see clouds darkening the sky in the southwest. Before he got to Bowdle, said Stuart, "a tail dipped down out of the 'wall cloud'!" Once it touched down, it traveled for seven or eight miles from the southwest to the northeast gradually becoming a huge storm.

"We drove up to about a mile east of it and then ran back to Bowdle to the "C" Store," Stuart told me by email. "It went whirling by Bowdle within a mile of the town!" According to Stuart, a farm a mile north of Bowdle was "obliterated". Stuart also mentioned a couple of other farms that were affected, as well. He forwarded the three pictures, shown here, which he took through his windshield.

An Ominous Sky (photo by Stuart Surma)

Roiling Clouds (photo by Stuart Surma)

--Mike Crowley

Massive South Dakota Tornado

2010-05-23T17:41:00.005-04:00

Not exactly West River country and about 120 miles as the crow flies from Thunder Butte, but here is massive tornado caught on video by tornado chasers near Bowdle, South Dakota. Extreme weather is a feature of life on the South Dakota plains, and something that folks near Thunder Butte have to contend with from time to time, too. This particular twister evokes cries of, "Oh my God! Oh my God!"

--Mike Crowley

How Thunder Butte Got Its Name

2010-05-04T17:32:00.003-04:00

I've heard various stories over the years about how Thunder Butte got its name. Here's one from Herman Slides Off that is related on the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe website:

"The name Thunder Butte was given to the butte after a mysterious thunder storm originated from the butte. The incident was witnessed by an Indian hunting party. The group camped a few miles west of the butte and early one morning a small, dark cloud was forming on the top of the butte. And as the cloud grew larger, loud thunder was heard until a thunder storm moved out from the butte. Such incidents were witnessed by the Indians between 1850 and as late as 1910. The butte was also known as a sacred place then. Signs of important forthcoming events could be seen on one side of the butte at certain times of the day. Examples of these signs were the coming of enemies or of a hard winter, the location of buffalo herds, and also signs of forthcoming individual mishaps."

Of course, Thunder Butte still is known as a sacred place today by the Lakota who live in the area.

--Mike Crowley

A State With a Fabulous Magazine

2010-04-19T21:13:00.004-04:00

I've been a reader of South Dakota Magazine for a couple of years now, and I really enjoy the stories the magazine runs about the places, the people, and the history that make South Dakota such a wonderful place to visit. Simply put, it is my favorite magazine and my only complaint is that it isn't published more than once a month. So, it comes as a bit of a surprise that the magazine gave our little corner of the web a big boost this month with Bernie Hunhoff's little piece on ThunderButte.com. Frankly, I'm flabbergasted as they've already mentioned us once before. If this doesn't light a fire to help me get some of those still unpublished stories out of the can and onto the web, I don't know what will. Thanks much, Bernie, and thank you, South Dakota Magazine!

--Mike Crowley

Wind Power Potential for Tribes

2010-04-11T10:27:00.004-04:00

The Economist magazine includes an article (click here) this week about the potential for clean energy development fueled by wind turbines to aid the Dakota tribes. There's no doubt about it, as the article points out, one resource that is plentiful out on the plains is wind.

Setting up wind farms where multitudes of turbines would capture the prairie breezes to generate electricity is a fine idea. There are considerable hurdles, however, not the least of which are the difficulties of negotiating contracts in regions where tribal governance is beset both by chronic economic underdevelopment and the Federal government's heavy paternalistic hand. Another major technical difficulty is distance from population centers. There is no effective transmission network for moving electrical energy over long distances, and building one would be costly.

Even if the distance of tribal areas from urban electrical consumers is an insurmountable problem, there still is merit in looking to wind power for meeting the electricity needs of tribal areas, not to mention the non-tribal towns that dot the Dakota landscape. Even if big wind farm development is impractical, smaller numbers of wind turbines could still meet much of the electrical needs of scattered rural communities.

--Mike Crowley

Lemmon Family's Baby Book For Sale on Ebay

2010-03-04T21:32:00.004-05:00

Are there any relatives of Lemmon's Wilbert "Billy" Tubbs out there? Billy's baby book from 1912 is for sale on Ebay, which somehow seems a sad and tragic end for the treasured memories and photos of a loved one. According to the seller:

"Wilbert (Billy) Alfred Tubbs... was born on August 26, 1912 in the town of Lemmon, South Dakota. Billy's parents were Alfred S. Tubbs and Helen Catherine (Meagly/Meagley) Tubbs. Alfred was well known in the community being the President of the State-Line Land Company and was also the deputy state surveyor. There is a record of his "Holy Baptism" in the Trinity Church in Lemmon on July 27th, 1913. There are quite a few photographs... of him in the early years of his childhood. It looks like there is one with a grandma holding him, a few with mom holding him, one shows mom? getting ready to bathe him in a sink, one with dad? sitting next to him with a cute hat on, a photo of their house from a distance, him with a cute smile as mom is kissing his head, him standing by a table with a little stuffed dog on it, standing by their front door as mom holds his hand over the rail, there is a neat one with him sitting next to a friend at a later age holding a football and a dog next to them, a group of his friends/playmates, him in a field with a football standing by a friend and a dog, him on a horse as well. There are a few letters written to him including a unique tall skinny envelope that appears to be of Japanese origin with neat thin paper that the letter was written on with a neat Japanese scene on it. There is a small "family tree" diagram on one page showing his line from his mom and dad. There are several other informational pages that tell about events in his early years."

This Tubbs family baby book is for sale on Ebay right now, here, and my fervent hope is that someone from Billy's family will rescue the book for the family.

Update -- I contacted the seller on Ebay and offered a nominal fee in an attempt to buy the book and reconnect it with the family, but was turned down. The seller is asking for $130. Nice money if you can get it, I guess. Frankly, though, I think it is a sad thing for things like this, veritable family heirlooms, to fall out of the hands of families. I'm sure that Billy Tubbs descendants, if he has any -- or cousins for that matter -- would appreciate having this bit of family history.

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note--Other than finding this baby book on Ebay, I have no relationship to the buyer and don't know anything about why this book is being sold.

Once You've Heard the Owl

2010-02-26T20:53:00.003-05:00

Listen to the lonesome coyote howl
Coo of the turtle dove
Drink from the flowing spring
And the panther`s midnight call

Not `til then old friend
Will the moon smile down
On the beginning and the end
Of a friendship that has flown

This sleepy summer day
A clucking prairie chicken
Nesting in the new mown hay
Brings future thoughts that quicken

Of speeding cars
And flights to mars
Mark not our final thoughts
Those things are only ours

In summing up
Drink from the flowing spring
Listen to the owl
Night falls sealing everything

--John Crowley

An Island in the Storm

2010-02-25T22:23:00.000-05:00

She stands tall majestic
Spire and steeple crown
Dreams stretched up and outward
From her enveloping arms

Wooley clouds caress her brow
She sleeps
Dozing in the comfort of knowing
She is always beyond our reach

Lightning flashes jagged bolts
Thunder crashes tearing at her sides
Through the maelstrom stands the lady
Thrusting tall beyond the tides

Generating a special interest
An influence well beyond the norm
Thunder Butte Mountain stands forever
Secure haven from the storm

--John Crowley

Winters at Thunder Butte Were a Kick

2010-02-08T16:11:00.002-05:00

Yes, winters at Thunder Butte were a kick. I remember my Dad getting up first to get a fire going in the heating stove, then he would break the ice in the water bucket and in the wash basin, and then he would jump back in bed until the stove got hot. Even with a blazing fire in the wood stove, when it got down around 30 below zero, icicles would form on the window sills and other places from our breath and the coffee pot. It never did get actually warm in the house. There was a lot of standing close to the stove.

--John Crowley

Hunting Wolves for Sport

2010-02-07T13:17:00.009-05:00

Wolves long ago disappeared from the Thunder Butte area, driven to local extinction in their competition with area ranchers. I wrote here in this blog some time ago about the intense hunt for one of the last remaining wolves in the area, Three Toes, which locals thought was intent on visiting as much destruction against their livestock as possible. In the telling of the tale of Three Toes, the battle of man against beast used to take on epic proportions. Wolves were hunted in order to reduce livestock losses, which in later years took on controversy as the species came to be seen as endangered. I had never heard of wolves being hunted purely for sport, which somehow seems offensive, until I ran across the following account from a Canadian, Charles Prim, who passed through the area in 1902:

“It was on Standing Rock, T. R [Standing Rock Trail] in the Western South Dakota in the month of July, 1902. I have four stag hounds and will have an increase soon I expect, they are game all through. We left Evarts on the Big Muddy River with a light wagon, a pair of good bronks, the long legged kind, with a good camping outfit, my wife and I a hunting went. 125 miles west a friend of ours lived, George Darling by name. On our way out we got 4 wolves, one an old three legged one and it was a sight to see how she could run. On our way back we run into 9 wolves in a bunch. It was right at White Butte about 9 miles west of Thunder Butte. The first one we got all right after a short run and the rest run east about 3/4 of a mile, and when the dogs got up to them they were pretty well played out and we were so far behind the dogs. The wolves turned on the dogs and their [sic] was a fight like as I never want to see again if they are my dogs. It was a very hot day and water was scarce and the dogs were dry, but they must fight it out. Well the way we came down that draw was not slow, the wolves when we got their split up; but it seemed they had not enough of it. Then the dogs got after the old ones that led off to the south, and one they crippled, they would throw him, then his mate would help him, and as we came nearer the dogs were after the one that was not hurt. He led off and the dogs after. I gave my wife the lines and with shot gun in hand jumped out, ran around a little hill to get a shot at the one that the dogs had hurt. I got a shot and he cashed in, I looked up and away off to the south goes the hounds, wolf, team and wife doing well, wife was doing good driving and the dogs good running, they mix, all of 1-1/2 miles from where I was. I started to run but my shoes were thin and cactus very thick. I soon had enough and some to spare in my feet so I sat down and pulled cactus for a while. Over the hill the fight went on and after a little while the horses came over the ridge and a big wolf on the hind end of the wagon. My wife felt very proud as she took him alone with the dogs. That was three out of the nine and our dogs were pretty well tired out, so we loaded them all in and drove slowly off.

“At dinner time I went to get the lunch box out of the back end of the wagon, I said, "Chub what is the matter, it is light" and well I might. We had lost our frying pan, coffee grinder, canned goods, all but one can of tomatoes and one can of milk. As luck would have it we had bread in a sack under the seat, so with coffee, bread and meat we went the 35 miles, left back to town but the dogs did not like to run as their feet were sore and they were cut up quite a little.”

Prim’s account was published in the April 1904 issue (Vol. 8, No. 1) of Hunter-Trader-Trapper, on page 14.

--Mike Crowley

Bismarck Trail Monuments

2010-02-05T21:45:00.011-05:00

Ben Ash Monument

I’ve stopped at the Ben Ash Monument before without realizing its significance. On July 17th, while on my way to Faith, I took a closer look. About 30 miles west of Faith, South Dakota, on Highway 212, travelers may stumble across the monument at a little cut-out or rest area just off the main road. The monument celebrates the first sighting of the Black Hills by Ben Ash and a small party on December 26, 1875, along what came to be known as the Bismarck Trail. I wrote earlier about the Bismarck Trail here. Of course, this was neither the first sighting of the Black Hills by people, whether Native American, white settlers, fur trappers, or other passersby. Also, the Bismarck Trail did not yet have that appellation, as a survey for the trail wasn’t commissioned by the Dakota Territorial Legislature until 1877. However, Ben Ash and his party were the first to mark the route from Bismarck, and Ben Ash's name was closely linked with the trail for years.

The Ben Ash Monument is an interesting marker and does show approximately where the trail cut across the rolling prairie and today’s modern highway. It is often said that you can see remnants of the trail in the patterns of the vegetation as you gaze out across the prairie. On July 17th, as I peered into the distance from the Ben Ash monument, I could see no signs of the trail. Of course, the prairie grass was about three feet tall from an unseasonably wet spring and summer.

The Ben Ash Monument Shows a Map of the Bismarck Trail

Later that day, I passed another marker about 35 miles north of Faith on Highway 73 while making my way back from Bison.

Bismarck-Deadwood Trail Marker on Highway 73

This marker also notes the location of the Bismarck Trail. One can’t be certain of the exact route of the trail as you gaze out on the prairie, but if I were a betting man, I’d say that it likely would be the route of the modern ranch road that is visible in the background of the two pictures below. According to this marker:

“At this point the Bismarck – Deadwood Stage Trail passed in a line about 240 miles from northeast to southwest. In 1877, the Dakota Territorial Legislature commissioned the survey of the trail, which transported passengers and freight between Bismarck, the western terminus of the Northern Pacific Railroad, and Deadwood. Rich mineral deposits in the Black Hills had been confirmed by an 1874 expedition led by General George Custer.

“The first four-horse Concord stagecoaches, owned by the Northwestern Express, Stage and Transportation Company, started over the trail from Bismarck in April 1877 with daily service in operation by May. A typical run took 36 hours and a one-way ticket cost $23. As many as 26 stagecoaches and more than 200 teams comprised the rolling stock. The company also utilized many mule and oxen wagons to haul freight. Twenty relay stations and two overnight stations serviced the line.

“A shorter trail to the Black Hills was later opened from Pierre, and by 1880 the Bismarck route was abandoned by official traffic. The trail subsequently served area ranchers and settlers until a modern road system was developed.”

Ranch Road Possibly Follows the Route of the Old Trail

The Trail was long out of use by the time my grandfather and his family moved down from Bismarck at the turn of the last century. I’m not clear of the route they took to the environs around Faith, but know that it passed through Fort Yates on the Standing Rock Reservation. Still, I’m sure that in their day they would have seen clear evidence of the old Bismarck Trail in the wagon ruts that crossed the land not far from Thunder Butte, where they lived.

--Mike Crowley

Children's Museum of Indianapolis Announces Family Dinosaur Digs for 2010

2010-02-03T21:13:00.012-05:00

Paleontologist Dallas Evans at the Ruth Mason Dinosaur Quarry*

What happened out on the prairie 65 million years ago? Why are there so many bones of the duck-billed dinosaur (Hadrosaur), Tyrannosaurus Rex, and other ancient dinosaurs scattered in the sediments of western South Dakota? Well, here's an excellent way to learn first-hand from the scientists themselves.

The Children's Museum of Indianapolis has announced dates for its 2010 program of Family Dino Digs in South Dakota. Dig dates this year are July 3, 5, 6 7, or 8, 2010. The cost is $125 per day for members of the Museum and $155 per day for non-members, which includes lunch and transportation to the dig site from the hotel and back again. You'll stay at the very pleasant Prairie Vista Inn in Faith. A continental breakfast is provided by the hotel, and you will be responsible for your own dinner at one of Faith's two restaurants or hamburger stand -- and for your own transportation to the town of Faith.

On my trip to Faith last summer, I ran into Dallas Evans, a paleontologist with the Museum, and one of the leaders of the Museum's fieldwork at the local Ruth Mason Dinosaur Quarry. I also was fortunate enough to meet the rancher whose property these dinosaur bones are buried on -- he wishes to remain anonymous -- and receive a personal tour of the site where the Children's Museum holds its dinosaur dig sessions. I'll post more about my experience later. But, in the meantime, you can read more about the Family Dinosaur Digs on Children's Museum's very own Dino Blog. Registration is open now for this very educational experience for families and children. With winter upon us, summer seems like almost a year away, but capacity for this very unique experience is limited, so do not delay!

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note--I have no affiliation with the Children's Museum of Indianapolis, but am recommending the Museum's Family Dino Digs based on my visit to the dig site and belief that adults and kids alike would find this unique educational activity very interesting. Now, if only I could convince my own youngster to sign up with me!

*The photo above actually is a click-through link to the original photo, which appears on the website of The Children's Museum of Indianapolis Dino Blog.

Arctic Blast -- The Old Soddy Would Come in Handy Tonight

2010-01-07T21:06:00.006-05:00

After posting my story on the Anna Carr Sod House last night, I couldn't help but notice the weather forecast for Bison, South Dakota today. At 5:00 a.m., the temperature was -17 degrees Farenheit, but according to AccuWeather.com, the RealFeel@ -- what it actually felt like was -51 degrees. Those are the kind of conditions that prove the superiority of the old sod house to just about anything people live in today. A sod house could be kept warm at a fraction of the cost of a house constructed with more conventional building materials. Of course, under these conditions, you wouldn't want to wander outside no matter what your style of dwelling.

The forecast says that it will get down to a real -22 degrees at midnight tonight. I know where I'd be spending the night if I lived in Bison -- at the Anna Carr Sod House. In any case, I know that snow is in the forecast for me tonight.

--Mike Crowley

Anna Carr Sod House in Bison

2010-01-06T22:16:00.014-05:00

View of Anna Carr House shows Two-Feet Thick Walls

After showing me around Earl's Museum in Bison on July 17th, Jan asked if I wanted to see the Anna Carr Sod House. I had never heard of the Anna Car Soddy. I didn't want to put Jan to any more trouble after she had gone out of her way to open the museum just for me, but she insisted on showing me the old sod house. She led me to another large steel shed nearby that has been erected to help preserve the old house, fiddled with a lock, and swung the door open. What greeted me has got to be one of the best preserved old time sod houses from the pioneer days on the northwest South Dakota plains.

The Anna Carr Sod House was the first building erected in Bison and also served as an early post office for the area. In fact, there was no town of Bison yet when Mrs. Carr and her two sons built the sod house in 1907. Housed today under a modern steel structure for protection from the elements, this building is one of a small handful of surviving examples of the type of dwellings many early pioneers erected on Midwestern plains. I was especially interested since my Dad was born in a sod house near Thunder Butte in 1921.

Modern Steel Shed Protects the Old Sod House

The Anna Carr Soddy has walls that are about two feet thick or more. The thickness of the walls and the sod made for good insulation from both the winter and summertime elements for early settlers. In the summertime, the temperature inside the house would stay fairly cool. In the winter, you were protected from the wind and snow, and a small stove combined with the thick walls would keep you pretty cozy.

What is sod? Basically, it is just mud mixed with hay or prairie grass and laid out to dry in the shape of bricks. Sometimes settlers just carved out “bricks” from shallow cuts in the ground, so that the grass and its roots would already be mixed with the soil. You would stack them to create a wall, which might be topped off by a tar paper roof and sometimes just sod piled on top of boards or branches. Sod houses were fairly sturdy in the short run, but would tend to dissolve or melt away after a long period of exposure to the elements unless it was constantly tended to and repaired. Most of the pioneers who constructed such buildings abandoned them as soon as they could afford more permanent dwellings constructed from wood. So, it is quite rare to find one of these sod houses still preserved.

Extra care over the years clearly has been taken with this soddy. For one thing, the exterior walls were all surfaced with what looks like stucco and quick lime. Also, the walls on the inside have been covered in siding to give the house the feel of a real home. Care also has been taken by Bison's residents to show how this house might have looked when it was lived in. Tour the house, and you can see an array of period furniture and household implements.

Old Organ and Furniture On Display in the Sod House*

Front View of the Anna Carr Sod House*

The Anna Carr Sod House, operated by the Perkins County Historical Society, is a must see attraction for those interested in the area's history.

--Mike Crowley

*Note that these two photos are not mine, but are located on the web site for Bison tourist attractions, including the Anna Carr Sod House.

Happy Holidays from Thunder Butte

2010-01-03T09:55:00.004-05:00

Winter Scene at Thunder Butte (click to enlarge)

Here's a happy holidays greeting from Thunder Butte, belated in posting only because I was away for the holidays. It comes from Harley and Monika Zephier who have a very nice website displaying their native American artwork, Owl Tipi Art (click here). I believe that the card shows the snow-covered village of Thunder Butte on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation, with Thunder Butte -- the butte -- seen in the distant left center of the photo. The scene is stunning in its beauty.

I encourage you to visit Harley and Monika's site, Owl Tipi Art, where you can find an online exhibition of some of their Dakota/Lakota art, obtain information about upcoming exhibitions throughout the area, and support their continued efforts by purchasing some of their very lovely native American artwork.

--Mike Crowley

Earl's Museum

2010-01-02T22:31:00.019-05:00

Earl's Museum

On July 17th, at the close of business trip to South Dakota, I drove out to Faith and checked in at the Prairie Vista Inn. It was only about 3pm and I debated whether to drive out towards Thunder Butte or go see Earl's Museum in Bison. I'd never been to Earl's Museum and had heard so much about Earl Engebretson from my father, so that's where I went.

When I got to Bison, I drove up and down what looked to be a couple of the town's major thoroughfares, but saw no sign for a museum. This was surprising, as my Dad's tales of Earl's stuffed animal collection sounded like something to rival the Smithsonian's Natural History Museum in Washington, DC. Finally, I pulled up in front of a shop and accosted a woman who was climbing into her car. When I asked her where Earl's Museum was, she insisted on leading the way and having me follow her there. A few blocks away, we pulled up in front of the museum's large steel building, but the sign in the window said it was closed. Not in the least bit concerned, she led me to another woman's house a short distance away.

Earl's Museum in Bison, July 2009

Jan*, who runs Earl's Museum, said that the museum was only open a few days a week. Seeing that I had come from a long way off, though, she insisted on opening the museum to give me a personal tour. The museum, which now shares its space with the Bison Public Library is a large room whose walls and center section are adorned with hundreds of mounted and stuffed animals and birds of every assortment. Most of the creatures are ones that are native to the prairie. And, while there are an assortment of bobcats, snakes, and even a two-headed calf, most numerous are the hundreds of specimens of every variety of wild bird and fowl.

A Variety of Prairie Fowl on Display

The museum is Earl Engebretson's personal collection and taxidermy handiwork from years spent attempting to document the life of the prairie. It is quite a sight to behold. In fact, I've never seen anything like the variety of mounted creatures in Earl's Museum even in a big city museum. What's remarkable about these creatures, too, is that this is a collection of mostly native South Dakota birds and animals – some of which no doubt are quite rare in the wild today. Of late, the museum also has been collecting artifacts from Bison's pioneer days, which makes a visit all the more worthwhile.

Peacocks, Chickens, and the Two-Headed Calf

Just a little history about Earl's Museum – Jan told me that a committee was formed and fund raising started in 1993. To move the collection to the museum from Earl's ranch, Earl had to transfer his state game licenses. Because of the requirements of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, federal fish and wildlife permits also had to be issued. The museum was dedicated in 1995, a year before Earl's death. Earl's Museum is well worth a visit:

Earl's Museum
PO Box 130
300 West Carr St.
Bison, SD 57620
(605)244-7252
Hours: T, W, Th, 1-6pm

The museum also has a web page on the internet that can be visited here.

--Mike Crowley

*I'm honoring Jan's wish for some privacy by not using her last name. Come to Earl's Museum, and I'm sure that you'll meet her!

Editor's Note--Although Earl's Museum has hundreds of mounted birds on display, my photos do no justice to the exhibits and many of them did not turn out well enough to post here. Alas, my wife was on another trip with my son, and they had the "good" camera.

American Eagle at Earl's Museum

Elk, Antelope, Deer and Bison

Raptor Captures a Jackrabbit

A Variety of Creatures on Display

Earl Engebretson

2009-11-22T09:31:00.002-05:00

Earl Engebretson, Late in Life

When you gaze across the prairie in northwestern South Dakota, the land appears so empty that it comes as a surprise to find out that many amazing people have lived there. Earl Engebretson was surely one of them. According to my father:

“Earl was a hot accordion player. I remember playing for dances with him and Clarence Doan at the Victor Benson dance hall, when I was in high school [in the 1930's]. That isn't exactly what Earl was noted for, however. Out on his ranch near Chance, Earl built and stocked the most elaborate museum of natural history that I have ever seen. He had things as varied as a two headed Cobra, a two headed calf, and a bewildering assortment of animals and things which filled many, many buildings. I even bought a flat iron from Earl that one of his relatives had brought from Norway. I understand the entire museum was moved to Bison following Earl's death.”

Earl was born in 1914 and, except for service in the military during World Ward II, lived in South Dakota all his life. There is a great photo of Earl with his accordion in the book, The Veals of Chance, South Dakota, edited by Verla Lang. There also is a photo of the younger Earl attired in bow tie and a school boy's cap standing behind a table, proudly displaying some of his taxidermy specimens. Despite his skill, accordion playing wasn't what Earl was best known for. Earl was a skilled naturalist, taxidermist, and ran a museum that was a wonder for all who beheld it on his ranch outside of Chance for years.

Earl got started with taxidermy at an early age, taking a correspondence course in 1927 when he was just twelve. His taxidermy collection grew extensive enough that he opened a museum on his ranch in 1954. Most of Earl's specimens came from the area where he lived, although my father remembers seeing quite a few that were from much farther afield on his visits to the Engebretson place. Although Earl was something of a home-grown naturalist, he also attended college in Spearfish, where he received a teaching certificate. In fact, Earl taught school in the area until 1968.

Earl donated his taxidermy collection to the town of Bison in 1995, a year before his death. The collection lives on displayed at Earl's Museum in Bison, a special place that I intend to devote some time to in my next post.

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note—One of the sources I drew heavily on for this post was a story titled, “Earl's Museum,” by Jim Nelson. Jim's story appears in Lang, Verla (editor), The Veals of Chance, South Dakota, 2008.

Crowley Ranch House at Thunder Butte Creek

2009-11-15T09:35:00.012-05:00

Joseph Crowley on Horse with Crowley Ranch House at Rear, Probably 1926

Some weeks ago on a visit to California, I pulled my grandmother's old photo album out of a closet and uncovered a trove of old photos -- including a few of photos of the house my Dad grew up in on a leased spread several miles south or southwest of Thunder Butte on Thunder Butte Creek. The ranch was called the 7A- (or "Seven A Bar"), and was leased from R.L. Foster, Jr. Interestingly, I went looking for the place last July, but couldn't find any ranch roads or tracks that ran out that way. And, with three foot high hay and grass covering the country -- Gene Ulrich who is in his 90's said that it was the tallest he had ever seen it -- I wasn't wandering far from the visible ranch roads. Still, these photos bring to life a little bit what the country looked like and what the conditions were like where my Dad grew up.

The photo above has 1936 printed on the back, but more likely is from 1926. It shows my Uncle Joe, who would have been about 16 at the time, on top of a horse in front of the Crowley ranch house. The original photo is only 2 inches by 3 and the left hand side is entirely washed out. I attempted to bring out some more of the detail with PhotoShop, but you can see that when there isn't much to work with, this is about as good as the results get. The next photo, below, also is probably from the same period and shows a horse tied up in front of the house. The photographer's shadow is in the foreground. One interesting thing is that the photo shows packed earth built up around the base of the house. The purpose would have been to help keep the place warmer in the winter. Again, there isn't much detail to work with here, but if you click on the image to enlarge it, you can barely make out a cat, a child's wagon, and a dog directly in front of the house.

Crowley Ranch House, Probably in 1926

The next three photos are all dated from 1926. The first shows two horses tied up in front of the house. The next shows my grandmother (Mayme Crowley) and a tall cowboy, Glenn Tate, with a horse in front of the house. Glenn used to stay at the Crowley's place. A younger fellow, perhaps my Uncle Neal or Joe, is at the left in the background. The last photo shows what looks like my Aunt Cece chopping wood in front of an outhouse. Cece would have been only eleven in 1926, and it looks like another kid is sitting in the foreground facing away from the camera -- this is probably my Dad, who would have been five.

Crowley Ranch House with Horse Tied Up Out Front, 1926

Mayme Crowley and Glenn Tate with Horse at Crowley House, 1926

Possibly Cecelia Crowley Chopping Wood in Front of Outhouse, 1926

--Mike Crowley

Babe Mansbridge - Champion Bronc Rider

2009-10-11T14:40:00.005-04:00

Babe Mansbridge 1924

A year ago, I posted some of my Dad's recollections of Babe Mansbridge here. Babe, who's real name was Ralph, was a champion bronc rider from what I call the Thunder Butte area. My Dad knew Babe, who among other things was famous for riding the local legend, Tipperary, who was one of the most famous bucking broncs of the early 1900's.

On a recent visit to California, I found the above print in my Dad's basement. The print is framed and inscribed (barely legibly in the upper right hand corner) by Babe with a note to my Uncle Joe (now deceased), which reads:

"To my friend Joe
a real cowboy
and
a real friend
Your Pal
Babe M."

I'm not sure whether the print represents a colorized photo, a painting, or some other form of caricature, but brush strokes seem evident on the horse's underbelly. But, this print does give us a sense of Babe in his heyday and perhaps gives us an idea of what Babe may have looked like while riding a bucking bronc in competition.

The print shows Babe riding the bucking horse, Sure Fire, in finals at the Black Hills Roundup in Belle Fourche, South Dakota, in 1924.

In the lower left of the print, the printed inscription reads:

"Black Hills Roundup
Babe Mansbridge
Champion Bronc Rider, British Columbia
Riding "Sure Fire" finals at
Belle Fourche - 1924"

I believe that Babe Mansbridge died in January 1968 a couple of months short of his 66th birthday, but here is some additional information about Babe that I found in a newspaper clipping in my grandmother's photo album:

"Babe Mansbridge Dies At Spearfish

Funeral services for Ralph "Babe" Mansbridge will be held at 1:00 p.m. today, (Wednesday) at the Masonic Temple in Spearfish, with Rev. Arthur W. Westwood of the United Church of Christ officiating. Burial will be in the Rosehill Cemetery under the direction of Fidler Funeral Chapel.

Mansbridge, a well known rancher, cattle buyer and rodeo rider, died in the Lookout Mountain Hospital, Spearfish, Jan. 21 following a siege of pneumonia and other complications. He was about 70.

Babe was a true westerner at heart although he was too young to take part in the activities of those days of "Cattle Barons and Roundups." As a little boy of 5 or 6 he learned to ride a horse and became the cowboy of the Mansbridge estate at the old Bismarck Trail crossing on Rabbit Creek where his father ran cattle in connection with his general store and postmaster duties. In 1923 he won the saddle bronc championship belt of British Columbia and according to Charles Wilson, of Buffalo, made the best ride on the famous bucking horse "Tipperary" at a Lemmon Fair. For several years he sponsored a matched saddle bronc ride at the Faith rodeo."

While the clipping isn't dated, if Babe passed away on January 21, 1968, the clipping probably ran in a local paper and funeral services were held on Wednesday, January 24th.

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note--Apologies to any copyright holders for the above newspaper clipping. I have no information as to the newspaper or the clipping's provenance other than that it was in my grandmother's photo album.

Walking Sam

2009-10-03T22:54:00.005-04:00

On July 15, 2009, I was on a business trip to the area and attended a Tribal Council meeting at Eagle Butte on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation. There was a visiting delegation of federal officials, and the Council wanted to have a session with the people from Washington, which turned into a long 2-1/2 hour procession of speeches by local tribal members about all of the various needs and complaints on the reservation. It appears to be traditional for tribal elders to be allowed to speak before the real business begins. But, so many community members were interested in speaking that this turned into the primary business of the meeting. A long litany of grudges with Washington were expressed, many of them perfectly understandable.

Anyone with a knowledge of the government's interaction with the Lakota over the years – especially in the early years when people were rounded up and placed on the reservation, and later when the reservation lands were chipped away to be sold off for white settlement – would understand that many historical wrongs were committed. One such wrong -- the Wounded Knee Massacre -- occurred in December 1890 when U.S. troops got a little too trigger happy during a roundup of tribal members and killed over 300 men, women, and children. The massacre still resonates strongly, and one of the things tribal members asked for on July 15th was a formal apology from Washington for the Wounded Knee Massacre.

People at the Tribal Council session also asked for federal help with some things that sounded strange to non-tribal ears. For example, one local woman, who left before I could talk with her personally, asked Washington for help dealing with Walking Sam. The woman, who was elderly but otherwise quite lucid, described Walking Sam as a big man in a tall hat who has appeared around the reservation and caused young people to commit suicides. She said that Walking Sam has been picked up on the police scanners, but that the police have not been able to protect the community from him. She described him as a bad spirit. She wanted help from Washington with foot patrols for the tribal communities to protect them from Walking Sam.

At the time, I was thinking that this may have been a reference to Bigfoot sightings. Yes, some people have claimed sightings of big hairy ape men in the Dakotas. Many of these sightings have taken place on the Standing Rock and Pine Ridge reservations. Or, perhaps it may just have been a plea for help with teen suicides – a plea that needs to be translated through a cultural filter. The woman was from Red Scaffold, which is a small community on the reservation.

The following evening found me perusing the bookshelves at Prairie's Edge, a large Native American arts, crafts, music, and bookstore in Rapid City. I looked through quite a number of books trying to find any reference that I could to Walking Sam. I found nothing. I did ask the clerk behind the counter if she knew of any appropriate books or had ever heard of Walking Sam. She appeared to be Native American. She wasn't familiar with Walking Sam, but advised me that there really are bad spirits out there on the reservation, and you need to be careful. She said that if you go looking for them, you might just find them.

Well, I didn't go looking for Walking Sam, but I did stay in a town that weekend that straddles the edge of the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation. I also ended up talking with the town's police chief and emergency services manager. (I won't name the town or the police chief because I haven't had a chance to ask whether he would mind being identified.) We got to talking about the local Native American beliefs and I mentioned the incident at the council meeting in Eagle Butte. He immediately was interested in knowing who had mentioned Walking Sam because he thought he probably knew the woman. He knows many of the locals in Red Scaffold and is familiar with the stories about the Walking Sam sightings and the connection to teen suicides. He often runs ambulances down to Red Scaffold and over time has gotten well acquainted with the locals.

Following the incident, I corresponded with Loren Coleman, a cryptozoologist who has written many books on the topic, and he thinks that it's a good bet that Walking Sam represents sightings of Bigfoot, more commonly spotted in the Northwestern U.S., but also often sighted elsewhere.

It's an interesting story, but shouldn't distract the reader from the fact that people on the reservations are distraught about teen suicides. Whether Walking Sam represents Bigfoot, an evil spirit, or is just a manifestation of the fear that people have about losing their loved ones to what seems an incomprehensible type of event, the teen suicides are real.

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note--Another blogger here has a much more expansive take on the notion of cultural filters that is a valuable one. While we westerners to tend to see things in the black and white (e.g., a report of a strange creature is an animal, or it is not) and through our own cultural filters, we do lose sight of the fact that cultural filters are strong and may cause us to lose sight of an underlying message which could be something that we could easily relate to. For example, believe in "bad spirits" as a causative mechanism for untimely events among the Lakota is strong. Walking Sam may be just one such explanation that resonates among some of the Lakota for teen suicides. Alternatively, it is intriguing that Loren Coleman has pointed out that police thermal imaging scanners have picked up a heat signature from one possibly related sighting in the past here. Loren also posts some additional thoughts on the matter here.

Neal Crowley

2009-07-27T21:51:00.001-04:00

Mr. and Mrs. Tom Crowley homesteaded near Thunder Butte, Ziebach County, in 1910-12. They had four children; three boys, Joseph, Neal, Eugene and one girl, Cecil. They all attended a country school.

The Crowley's raised cattle and horses. There were a lot of range horses in those days, and quite often, the Crowley boys would help to gather and brand them.

When Neal Crowley was 16 years old, he went to work for an early day rancher, John Barthold. Randy Foster now lives at what was the Barthold headquarters.

Bartholds (John had a brother Fred, who moved to a place on the Cheyenne River south of Faith) ran cattle and a lot of horses. Neal enjoyed the years that he worked there, as he did most of the riding.

Neal was tall, weighed 200 pounds and carried himself well. He had an interest in and had learned some about boxing.

Following is the way he told of an early boxing event: “I thought I was pretty good. The boys at the ranch were an easy mark for me. One day at noon there was a stranger among the group of men (haying crew). That evening, I said, 'Come on someone, go a round or two with me'. No one offered. I looked at the stranger, Billy Cavin, and asked, 'Do you know anything about boxing?' Billy, a smaller man than I, said that he did. 'Well come on, I need a workout.' Rather slowly, Billy prepared himself and we squared away. When our little bout was over, I was more confused and deflated than I had ever been. I hadn't been hurt physically, but my pride has been severely damaged. Bill was well scienced and later that evening offered to help me if I cared to go on. I admitted that I would like to learn. Bill Cavin was a real nice fellow and a good instructor.”

The first time that I saw Neal Crowley box was in an outdoor ring at Usta, SD, July 4, 1933. He was matched with Babe (Thomas) Joyce from Faith. Babe got the decision, which was no dishonor for Neal, as Babe, a good fighter in general, had also taken boxing lessons.

Neal Crowley married Dorothy Tidball the summer of 1936. That fall, along with Mr. and Mrs. Dick McCord, they (because of the drought) moved their cattle to Martin, SD. I worked three months for Dick and Neal at their location four miles north of Martin on Bear Creek. Both couples moved back to Faith in the spring of 1937.

The Crowleys stayed on a ranch on the Moreau River until the mid 1940's when they moved into Faith. They had two adopted children. A boy Patrick, and a girl Pamela, (Mrs. Ted Escott) of Box Elder, SD.

Neal had a mail route north west of Faith. He was also Faith's Marshal and Municipal Liquor Store manager and part-time bartender. He served in all three capacities for a number of years.

Neal's scrapping and or boxing abilities, were brought to a test numerous times during his life. As a Marshal, Neal was instructed to carry a pistol. Because he dreaded the thought of shooting and perhaps killing someone, he was reluctant to carry a gun, which he seldom did.

One afternoon in 1953, just seconds after Neal had entered the liquor store's front door, a stranger (A.G. Akin or F.K. Pickett) took a hefty swing at Neal. Crowley dodged the blow and came back with a right to the jaw which put the man on the floor. Neal instinctively dropped down on the fellow with intentions of holding him and getting an explanation. He was suddenly attacked by two more men, also strangers. They were hitting and kicking him and momentarily, Neal was unable to rise. He managed to get on his back and by using both his fists and feet, was able to clear himself enough to regain his footing. Neal worked his way behind the bar. There, George Hoyle, an assistant bartender, handed him the gun which he should have been carrying. Neal walked toward the front door intending to put the fellows out. There was a hand gate at the end of the bar. One of the three men, Darrell Powell, jumped up on the gate expecting to get behind the bar and “clean house”. Neal struck Powell a stunning blow square on the left side of his face with the gun still in his hand. For balance, Darrell had thrown his left arm up and as the end of the barrel struck his temple, the gun fired. The bullet went through the upper part of Darrel's arm severing an artery. Powell fell back on the barroom floor, blood spurting from his wound. His two comrades walked past him, out the front door and disappeared.

First, Neal called the doctor and then John Eggar, Meade County Sheriff. Darrel was taken to the Faith Hospital. The doctor assured Neal that Darrel Powell's injury wasn't real serious and that he would be O.K. When John Eggar arrived, he and Neal went in search of the two remaining troublesome fellows. They found them in their room at the West Hotel. The two surrendered peacefully. The three fellows were part of a seismograph crew, and had the reputation of having had things their own way in some other small towns.

Neal was a temperamental man, but, for those in need, was compassionate and generous. He helped many people in numerous ways during his 25 years in Faith. The Crowleys left Faith in 1968. They spent some time in California where Neal's mother, brothers and sister lived. From there to Redstone, CO.

Neal and Dorothy were divorced in 1972; he married Jennie (Escott) Imslad. They lived two years in Rapid City where Neal managed the Western Bar owned by Mr. and Mrs. Guy Simmons. They moved from there to Presho, SD, where Neal managed the City Liquor Store. He succumbed to cancer in September 1977, and is buried in the Catholic Cemetery at Presho.

– Gene Ulrich

Editors Note – On a visit to Faith the weekend before last, I spoke with Gene Ulrich, who was kind enough to let me post this story on-line, which he wrote a few years ago about one of my favorite relatives. The story was originally published in: Gene Ulrich, Faith Country Heritage: 1910-1985, “Neal Crowley,” page. 386. Gene was a good friend of Neal's for many years and visited him during his final days in the hospital in Pierre. Gene also was one of the pallbearers at Neal's funeral.

Author of Thunder Butte Blog Will be in Faith

2009-07-13T00:06:00.004-04:00

As many of my readers know, I don't actually live in the Thunder Butte area. In fact, I live far from it. But I will be in the area this coming weekend. With luck, I'll get in Friday afternoon and need to head out by about 11 a.m. on Sunday. I plan to be staying at the Prairie Vista Inn in Faith. I'm interested in talking with people who knew any of my family members, including the Crowleys (Gene Ulrich – are you still around?) or the Shockleys who lived out toward Glad Valley and some of who gravitated to Lemmon and other parts. I'm also interested in interesting stories about the area. Basically, I'm looking to keep this little blog and website going and I need new stories.

If you would like to contact or meet with me, please call me at (605) 593-4530, which should forward to my cell phone. Or please call and leave a message for me at the Prairie Vista Inn, (605) 967-2343, where I'll be staying next Friday and Saturday night, July 17th and 19th. I would really appreciate hearing from you.

My Dad, John – who used to go by the name of Gene – grew up on a ranch out on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation about halfway between the butte and the town of Faith and left the area to fight in World War II. His departure was followed by my grandmother, who went by Mayme, and my Aunt Cecelia, who typically was called Cece. My Uncle Joe also left the area to join the service during the war. And, my grandfather Tom left the area not long afterward. In contrast, my Uncle Neal stayed on and did some ranching, mail delivery, and law enforcement as Faith's police chief for many years afterward – at least through the 1960's, before he moved on to Colorado, back to Faith, and then ultimately to Presho, where he died in the late 1970's. If you knew any of these people, please let me know. If you have any information on the whereabouts of Neal's adopted son, Pat, I'd like to know that as well.

Again, though, I am interested in stories about other people who live in the area and things happening locally, so please get in touch with me if you'd like to talk. If we can find a place to sit down for a cup of coffee, it's on me.

--Mike Crowley

Postscript--Apologies to my readers, but I got the dates wrong. I actually was in Faith the evenings of July 17th and 18th, not the 19th as I'd previously indicated. Also, my little bit of technology -- the phone number -- didn't work as planned. I am using an internet service called Google Voice, and had intended for any calls to the phone number above to be routed directly to my cellphone. Either I set up the phone forwarding incorrectly, or the service may not work all the time as planned. One kind reader did leave a couple of messages for me, I just discovered by logging into the service. Thanks for calling and I will get back to you!

Bigfoot Afoot on the Prairie?

2009-07-12T13:05:00.010-04:00

Just a Boot Print or the Real Deal?

Readers of my last piece on dinosaur bones may have been left wondering, but I'm often drawn to stories that have a strange and unique angle. That's also one of the reasons I've shared the family's old stories of things ghostly or surreal from back in the days they lived around Thunder Butte. Something seemingly strange or unnatural happens in many peoples lives at one time or another.

For example, in my own life there was one night when there were unexplained footsteps in the house that ended in front of my bedroom door the night when I was in college and my favorite uncle, Neal – the former police chief of Faith, South Dakota, died – I didn't learn of his death until the following morning. And, there was the time many years ago when I was working late in a congressman's office on Capitol Hill, and looked up from my desk only to see a man in old garb standing staring at me and disappear before my eyes. Also, there was the time backpacking in the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virgina when I and my fellow campers were awakened in the middle of the night by a large creature that came galloping (with the sound of horse-like hooves) by the tent and let out a loud and frightening mountain cat-like caterwauling. (We were too afraid to step out of the tent with our flashlights until the creature galloped off into the distance and could be heard no more.) But, again, these were rarities and didn't affect my fundamental beliefs or the way I live my life.

For most people, such events are rare, perhaps even a trick of the mind, and we go about our personal lives. However, I do scan the local South Dakota news occasionally and read with interest recently that there have been a number of sightings in and not far from Thunder Butte country of Bigfoot, Sasquatch, or as the Lakota apparently all him in English, the Big Man. I also discovered that there is some lore among the Lakota about such creatures, who they reportedly describe in their own tongue as chiye-tanka or chiha-tonka, which means great or big elder brother.

You see, I grew up on tales of Sasquatch in Northern California – and it was something I used to think about when we took family camping trips to California's Trinity Alps. My childhood nightmares would be filled with images of the big hairy ape man ripping our tent open and carrying us off into the woods at night. But, frankly, this is something that doesn't pass down to me through family tales, and I've never heard of it before as part of South Dakota lore – until now.

Loren Coleman, at cryptomundo.com just posted last week a photo (here) supposedly taken of a Bigfoot footprint on the Pine Ridge reservation in April. To my admittedly untrained eyes, the photo looks suspiciously like a boot print, although I'm not in a position to say what it is. Coleman also reports a wave of Bigfoot sightings in South Dakota in 1977, including one up by Timber Lake (here), which isn't very far at all from my favorite butte. Although Loren Coleman often appears on the History Channel on programs such as Monster Quest, this programming is often entertainment-oriented, and there is no reason one should check their healthy skepticism at the door. I don't vouch for the credibility of Coleman's work, nor am I necessarily impugning it. People see strange things and he collects, writes, and talks about some of those reports. Even South Dakota Magazine has reported on Bigfoot sightings in the past, including the Badlands – perhaps with some tongue in cheek.

Interestingly, too, there is an outfit called the Bigfoot Researcher's Association, which maintains an online database of Bigfoot sightings, including 16 reported sightings in South Dakota from 1986 through 2008. You can view the sightings reports here. Some of these sightings have been near enough to the Thunder Butte area, including Corson, Dewey, Meade, and Pennington counties. Now, as far as I can tell, these supposed eye witness reports are of varying quality, and the Association does not provide identifying information about those who have reported to its database. One thing is certain, however. People see strange things.

Don't let me leave you with the wrong impression – I'm not saying Bigfoot is real. If such things existed, I can't imagine where they would hide themselves out on the prairie. But, one thing is sure. The stories are curious and add to the local lore of an interesting place.

--Mike Crowley

Dinosaur Bones -- a Key to Economic Development?

2009-06-01T19:36:00.002-04:00

Tyrannosaurus "Sue" on Display at Chicago's Field Museum

Economic developers often look to what a local community has in abundance that other communities do not, especially things that are desirable. Thunder Butte country has a number of good things in abundance – including wide open spaces, big skies, ranchers, and cattle. All well and good, but these things don't provide many jobs, and the small towns and tribal areas are having difficulty sustaining themselves. The Thunder Butte area does have a couple of things going for it that are relatively rare elsewhere – and these are the things for which economic developers would say that the area has a comparative advantage. One of the area's comparative advantages is in the telltale signs of the lost worlds that existed here in times before – the fossil remains of dinosaurs. This part of the country is awash in dinosaur bones.

There have been a number of attempts to capitalize on these resources, but most of the benefits have gone to museums and collectors far afield. The most famous of these is the Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton nicknamed “Sue” and the most complete one of its kind, which was discovered by Sue Hendrickson and dug up in 1990 north of the town of Faith. While a replica of Tyrannosaurus Sue paid a visit to Faith last summer, it is Chicago's Field Museum that draws in over 1.5 million visitors a year with exhibits devoted to the important 67 million-year old fossil from this area. The National Museum at Cardiff, Wales, in the U.K. also draws throngs of visitors each year with a more than 65 million year old Edmontosaurus fossil, also known as a duckbilled dinosaur, from the same area. The Welsh museum's fossilized dinosaur is nicknamed “Ruth,” for Ruth Mason whose ranch was the location of the find.

The Ruth Mason Dinosaur Quarry – Ruth died in 1990 – draws some visitors to the area besides the paleologists who regularly work the site on the banks of the Grand River. For example, the Children's Museum of Indianapolis sponsors an annual Dinosaur Dig for families and teachers at the Dinosaur Quarry each July. Participants stay at the Prairie Vista Inn in Faith. For $145 per person per day, the Museum's paleologist, Victor Porter, will lead families to the site, where they can help dig for fossilized bones and prepare them for their ultimate destination, which again is the Children's Museum of Indianapolis. I just wonder whether a small portion of the fossils removed from the ground could stay in the area to benefit Faith and other communities. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the Field Museum would allot a regular slot on its touring schedule to Faith for the replica of Tyrannosaurus Sue?

Who owns these resources muddies to some extent the potential for the area's economic development. Fossils taken from private land like the Ruth Mason Dinosaur Quarry are worked by professional fossil hunters, but the fruits of their labors often are sold off to far flung museums and collectors around the world. For example, the Black Hills Institute in Hill City, SD, which excavated – and became involved in a protracted legal battle – over the Tyrannosaurus “Sue” fossil, is an undisputed leader in its field for the professional excavation of dinosaur fossils, and has worked the Ruth Mason Quarry for many years. The Institute not only prepares fossils and replicas for sale to museums around the world, but has been instrumental in the organization and development of the Black Hills Museum of Natural History, which has become an important educational resource and focus for the economic development of Hill City. A resource like this closer to Faith could be a boon to local economic development.

Perhaps the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe has gotten it right. The Standing Rock Reservation tries to capitalize on its wealth of fossils and offers a Paleological Field School and family field trips to the fossil beds located there. More importantly from an economic perspective, the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe also asked recently for the return of 14,000 fossils taken on digs sponsored by Concordia College, which have been housed and studied on the college's campus in Moorhead, Minnesota, since 1990. The tribe plans to open its own museum and continue studies of the specimens with professional paleologists and its own Sitting Bull College. While unfortunate in some respects for Concordia College – and the school's Professor Ron Nellermoe, who has devoted a good portion of his professional life to these digs and the study of the fossils – the Tribe regains an important resource that could be a key for promoting its own economic development.

I don't like to take on issues of politics or religion in this blog, but – breaking my own rule – I will say that some local efforts have been misguided. Take for example the case of the Grand River Museum in the town of Lemmon. The owners have dedicated themselves quite laudably to building an important educational center for the area, attempting in their museum to preserve and present information on the area's homesteading, ranching, and Lakota arts and culture. However, the museum's devotion to Creation Science – an attempt to interpret fossils through biblical scripture – has led to a puzzling and curious display of fossils and information that doesn't benefit anyone.

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note--I hope that my readers will understand that I am quite sincere in my praise of the Grand River Museum for its efforts in helping to preserve knowledge about the local area's homesteading, ranching, and tribal history.

Weather Hat Company Has a Thunder Butte Style

2009-05-24T09:08:00.002-04:00

Here's another interesting link to Thunder Butte I have run across. The Weather Hat Company in Bell Fourche, South Dakota, carries an entire line of quality ranch and cowboy hats, including a classic style they have named the “Thunder Butte.” For details, visit their website here and click on the link for “Classic Hats.” Each of the company's hats are made entirely by hand. These are not inexpensive hats, but would be sure to be of the finest construction and true to fit.

According to the Jacket Journal, published by the students of the Black Hills State University in Spearfish, the Weather Hat Company was founded in 1912 and is currently owned by Jack Scholl, who grew grew up on a ranch near Isabel, and his wife Jennifer. Although the original company was founded in Denver Colorado, Jack discovered its remnants in 2002 in a shed in Lead, South Dakota, and purchased the business. Jack and his six employees make each hat entirely by hand using fur felt taken from rabbits and beavers. Jack spends some of the time on the road exhibiting his wares. The photo below, displaying the company's hats, is from the company's booth in Rapid City.

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note – The images displayed in this blog post belong to and reside on the web site of the Weather Hat Company. Please follow the links provided to visit the company's site.

Thunder Butte Earns a Place in Wikipedia

2009-05-23T20:56:00.001-04:00

Thunder Butte has earned it's own entry in Wikipedia! You can see the article here.

For those unfamiliar, Wikipedia is a free online encyclopedia whose content is provided and edited by users on the internet. I ran across the article a couple of months ago, and it is really quite quite good.

You can find a brief discussion of the geology of the butte and its surrounding environs, a bit of information about the significance of the butte to the local Lakota people, and even references to the butte in literature – which primarily involves published tales of the 1823 saga of Hugh Glass.

All in all, it's a nice little article. The author was even nice enough to cite this blog as a source for some of the information, which is gratifying. Note that anyone can edit an article in Wikipedia – including you! If you know of any significant details about Thunder Butte and its history, cultural significance, and geology, Wikipedia allows you to edit the article. In fact, you are encouraged to do so!

--Mike Crowley

Saddle Sore, A Poem

2009-04-05T21:40:00.001-04:00

He's slowen down some
That was quite a run
Swet'n bad
Pull up old friend
I think our day has come
Get over in the shade old hoss
I'll git that saddle off
You must be half sick
Let me scrape that sweat and froth
Look at that
That big old saddle sore
Now how long you had that old friend
Aint there never any end
That's good lay down there in the shade
Down the gulley I'll find something wet
You'll be better old friend
I'll get you feel'n better yet
Here take this grass it'l make you strong
Dang it how could I have pushed so hard
I've really done you wrong
Don't stop breath'n yet
Let me take my shirt and rub the sweat
Oh my God old friend please don't go now
I should have known better you aint young
C'mon pal breathe for me
Cuss them damn buzzards in the trees
Goodbye friend
This is just the bitter end

--John Crowley

Early Photo of Thunder Butte

2009-04-02T21:57:00.011-04:00

Thunder Butte, 1918 or Earlier

Here's an early photo of South Dakota's Thunder Butte found in a book published in 1918, now in the public domain and searchable via Google Book Search. The book is Stephen Sargent Visher's "The Geography of South Dakota." The caption beneath the photo reads simply as "Thunder Butte, Ziebach County. A typical butte. Note the team and rig near the base of the butte."

Unfortunately, the scan is not very good and you can't make out -- at least not without a good deal of imagination -- any horses and wagon (or buggy). Also, there is no other real mention of this specific butte in the book. But, the photo is interesting as it does date from a time when my grandfather and his family were settled nearby. I believe that the photo was shot from approximately north or northeast of the butte.

You can compare the old photo with ones I took from the same vantage point just a couple of years ago here.

--Mike Crowley

There's Something About These Stories That Resonates Today

2009-04-01T21:13:00.005-04:00

There is something about some of the tales told around Thunder Butte during the Great Depression that still resonate and amuse today during this, the greatest economic downturn since that time. Take this one, for instance, from the Faith Gazette of January 21, 1932:

"A neighboring editor, hard hit by the depression developed a sense of touch to a very high degree. The seat of his trousers are so thin that he can sit on a dime and tell which side is up, heads or tails. If the depression lasts much longer, he will be able to tell the date on the dime. The question which naturally arises is 'How did he get the dime in the first place?"

Editor's Note--This and other tales from the Great Depression in this part of the country can be found in "South Dakota's Ziebach County, History of the Prairie", published in 1982 by the Ziebach County Historical Society, Dupree, SD, which is also located on the internet here.

Stark Raving Beauty

2009-03-15T20:15:00.004-04:00

A Boy Rides a White Stallion
(photo from the film, "White Mane," 1952)

This is the story of the most beautiful horse that ever lived. Well, the most beautiful ever seen around Thunder Butte at least.

There is no record of where Peanuts came from, beautiful horses just roamed the range when I was a child and this one, Peanuts, just came to me as my right and privilege for having been born around the butte.

One day when I was about 12 or 13 years of age, I went out to the corral to find this prancing, white stallion. He would run up to the corral fence, as if to jump it, then with a mighty snort, turn and trot back to the other side. Temptation was too much, this giant Arabian was the horse I had dreamed of since learning to ride.

Loosing a loop in my catch'n rope, I hopped over the corral fence and settled the loop over Peanuts head.

Yep ! He was Peanuts at first sight.

Snow white with a golden mane and tail, pink nostrils that dilated with a fluttering sound.

When the loop settled over his head, Peanuts trotted up to me, blowing with that fluttering sound, as much as to say----- " We're buddies, stick with me and we will float across this land".

The first day of school that fall was one of the proudest days of my life. Peanuts and I rode up to the school-house, took a turn or two around the school, slid off, ground-hitching Peanuts at the same time, I sauntered in to the school room like the Cowboy that I thought I was, number one, with the number one Arabian horse in all of Thunder Butte country.

From time to time my brothers, who probably owned Peanuts, would tell me: you can't have that horse. But, somehow I always managed to ignore their comments and Peanuts and I just continued to ride the range.

Stallions are notoriously hard to manage. They seem to always have a mind of their own and they have been know to be dangerous. More than one person around Thunder Butte has had a piece of his head, bitten off by a stallion. Peanuts, although big and tough, was always gentle as a lamb, prancing around the corral, blowing, letting the world know that he was boss stud in this country. He would settle down under bridle and saddle and though he always danced with the grace of an acrobat, he had the nature of a good friend.

Sitting here, lost in memories of "the good old days," I just had to talk about Peanuts, the object of my nostalgia.

Actually, there is little point to my story other than Peanuts was----- the most beautiful, spirited Arabian who ever floated o'er the cactus patches of Western South Dakota and we belonged.

We belonged to that fraternity who ruled the plains, from the days of Kit Carson, Wild Bill and Deadwood Dick. Ol'e Peanuts had that magic quality of being able to transport a kid into the wild blue yonder,where dwelt the Cowboys from another time.

Some cowboy came along to the ranch one day, carrying his saddle, pick'n cactus out of his boots and my folks loaned Peanuts to him.

I never saw Peanuts again, but you know, when you think of the wind blowing free across the plains and rain clouds shaping up along the horizon, it don't take much imagination to see Ol'e Peanuts, snorting those pink nostrils, mane and tail flowing in the wind.

--John Crowley

Kirk Hall

2009-03-02T20:49:00.003-05:00

Boyd Hall was an old Texan who had fallen out of the trail drives between Texas and Montana. He founded a spread of a few thousand acres in the Chance area of Rabbit Creek and raised a family.

The only one of the Hall family that I ever knew was Kirk. Maybe he was the only child, I never knew.

I used to see the father, Boyd on the street in Faith and in Lemmon from time to time, typical old Texas cowboy---ten gallon hat, boots and spurs, and a walk that you knew was never more than a few feet from some cranky bronco.

My brother Joe, as you know by this time was a rough, tough cow puncher, bulldogger, and bronc rider. Joe's life long best buddy was Kirk Hall.

Kirk was a big, lanky, cowboy with the slow way of talking that made you think of campfires and bronc busting on the Texas trail drives. I guess Kirk just inherited the Southwest from his father. He and Joe were thick as thieves for many years.

Well, when I got on the old train, in Faith, on the way to Omaha to be inducted in to the Navy, the other inductee on the train was Kirk Hall. Although I was much younger, we became good friends and Kirk brought his wife, the former Alice Jones, to Alameda, California to be near my folks.

Kirk and I went through the same boot camp company #174. Although Kirk probably thought I was nuts for the stuff I became involved in, he never wavered in his friendship. He was out on the grid-iron exercising to the commands of the old movie star, George Montgomery, just like the rest of us.

Kirk's wife, Alice became a beautician and I believe this took place while Kirk was overseas.

When we got to San Diego, "boot camp," and processed through, Kirk and I were the only two men from that company to get schools. Everyone else was shipped directly out to ships, the Marines, or to some other over-seas station. Kirk was assigned to Electrician's school and I was assigned
to Hospital Corps school.

Several times during the war , Kirk and I would arrive in Alameda at the same time . He and Alice would come to visit at our place or we to their's. We were such good friends that several times during the war when I would land back in Alameda, I would take Alice to a movie, as Kirk had wanted.

After the war Kirk got a job at the Mare Island Navy base, working as an electrician. I became a pharmaceutical salesman, calling on drug stores and detailing doctors and hospitals.

Kirk never changed. He remained the loyal cowpuncher type who never missed a day of work, never complained and spoke slowly and very little.

After a couple of years, Kirk could no longer stomach the stress and nonsense of life in the city. He bought a war surplus Jeep, loaded Alice and their suitcases in the jeep, and drove back to South Dakota.

I never saw them again, but I have gathered (learned) over the years, from newspapers and Faith area mutual friends, that Kirk became a prosperous rancher in the Rabbit Creek area, raised a family and died of cancer quite a few years ago.

Kirk Hall's son now operates the family ranch and is well known and respected in the area as his father and grandfather were before him.

Kirk's is a great American family, a great solid evolution of the best of America from the days of the Pioneers.

--John Crowley

Editor's Note—From what I can gather from the February 1996 edition of the Angus Journal, Boyd Hall, Kirk's dad, started a ranch near Meadow, South Dakota, in 1933. Kirk must have returned from California to take over the ranch from his dad. Kirk's son, Bruce, and daughter-in-law, Lynn, partnered with him in 1976 and then took over the ranch when Kirk died in 1987.

Barely Hanging On

2009-02-28T21:32:00.005-05:00

A South Dakota Farm Scene from May 13, 1936

Hanging on when times are tough, and relaxing a little when it isn't, is what life is all about for most people. In the Thunder Butte area, life never has been easy – at least never for very long. It wasn't easy going 150 years ago for the Lakota who used to follow the buffalo for their livelihood or for the white settlers who put claims on land in the early 1900's – land that looked good for farming one year but would blow away in dust storms the next. Things are still difficult today for the people who live in the towns, on the ranches, and among the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe who inhabit much of the area. The land is tough to live on and the climate can be unforgiving.

During the dust bowl years of the 1930's, a lot of people who came to farm and settle in towns packed up and moved on. The last several years has brought a drought that no doubt has caused many of those who remain to think about moving on, too. The climate can be unpredictable. At times, the wind comes blowing across the prairie, threatening to destroy everything in its path. Last July, for instance, a tornado touched down in Ziebach County, traveling a fifteen to twenty mile course that fortunately missed anyone. Winters can be particularly harsh. Blizzards like the the one in January 1949 that left houses and cars buried for up to three weeks have earned South Dakota the nickname, “The Blizzard State.” Last November's blizzard provided an apt reminder of the winter time hazards in these parts when about forty people were stranded in their cars on Highway 212 between Newell and Faith, some for up to 48 hours before rescuers could get to them.

The hardships aren't just weather-related. The economics of trying to make a go of it are tough. Ranching is hard, and jobs are hard to come by. There aren't enough taxpayers around to pay for essential services. For example, the library in Bison needs a new building, but can't get funding. Timber Lake needs a new school, but can't afford one. Faith's students go to classes in temporary trailers because the old school building has been condemned. There is no money to pay for a new one. As an economy move, the State is forcing some school districts to close. Isabel's school district is closing and merging with Timber Lake's, some twenty miles away.

The threat of mergers doesn't just affect schools. The National Guard Armory in Lemmon is closing — part of an economy move that will consolidate units in more populated areas. The State also is looking to merge some existing counties to save money. Ziebach County, with only about 2,600 residents, could be among those considered to no longer be viable. House Joint Resolution 1002, introduced in the State Legislature on February 3rd, proposes an amendment to the State constitution that will establish a County Consolidation Commission and give the Legislature the power to consolidate and establish new counties. The savings for the State might total about $1 million a year, which does not sound like the all the fuss is worth the trouble quite frankly. The argument is made, too, that counties would benefit by being able to spread services over a larger tax base. But, truth be told, people already drive miles for basic services in this part of the country. Forcing people to drive farther only makes life tougher.

Many of the towns in the area are shrinking according to Census estimates. For example, between 1990 and 2007, Lemmon, Isabel, and Bison lost more than 25 percent of their residents. Faith and Timber Lake each lost close to 20 percent. While these are just estimates – not based on an updated census – they do underscore the fact that life is getting tougher in an area where many people are just barely hanging on.

--Mike Crowley

En Route to the South Pacific

2009-02-12T16:51:00.006-05:00

USS Rochambeau at Anchor
(US Navy photo from All Hands magazine, August 1947)

After leaving the Napa State Hospital, Imola, we corpsmen were bused to the US Navy Station, Mare Island , California, where we boarded the USS Rochambeau which was tied up at the seawall in Mare Island. The Rochambeau was a very dilapidated looking tub of a ship which had seen better days as a luxury cruise ship. Five thousand, eight hundred of us, Navy and Marines, boarded that ship at Mare Island in early 1943. About noon, she sailed down the San Francisco Bay, out the Golden Gate, and off across the Pacific.

I always lamented the fact that several times I have passed by the Hawaiian islands, but I have never been there. The Islands were visible on the horizon as we passed. They were visible as a black strip covered by a clump of clouds on the horizon. The war went on.

We progressed slowly. We passed across the equator and the international date line, at which time it suddenly became yesterday and we were suitably inducted in to the fraternity of Neptunus Rex.

As we neared the equator it became unbearably hot on board ship. The sun was blistering and with 5800 men competing for shade, there was rarely shade to be found on deck. The heat below deck was suffocating. There was very little potable water to drink and showers were limited to one salt water shower per day. After a few days of salt build up, most of us became raw every place skin rubbed skin. There were no laundry facilities so we tied lines to our jeans and shirts and towed them over the side. They came clean, but encrusted with salt.

The misery continued well between the Tropic of Cancer and into the Tropic of Capricorn. Despite this miserable heat and blazing sun, one of the passengers, a young officer, had rigged a punching bag on the boat deck adjoining officer's quarters on the boat deck, the equivalent of two stories above the milling enlisted crowd, which was limited to the main deck area. This officer punched that bag constantly, a maddening sound like a woodpecker pecking for worms. After while, in order to get to him legally, I went to the Marines who were organizing a boxing tournament and I challenged this officer to a fight in the tournament.

Shortly before the fight, this officer sent for me, bought me a beer, and told me all about his activities as captain of the boxing team at Yale University. In other words, he was giving me the world’s greatest brainwashing. He was trying to convince me that he was great and I was a loser. The “psych” job might have worked if it had not been for an old Chief Petty Officer who had heard about the coming fight. He took me aside and asked me if I had ever fought aboard ship. He then proceeded to explain how to do it. Basically it amounted to:

1—Always keep the sun at your back. Out in the tropics, the sun is blistering hot and fiery bright. Having the sun at your back means your opponent will always have the sun in his eyes.

2—The ship is always lurching and moving from front to back and from side to side. His advice was to always stay on the upper side. If you keep moving with the position of the ship, you are always on the upper side, and your opponent will have to reach upward to hit you and this gives you a tremendous advantage.

The day of the fight, 5,800 men exchanged bets, cheering for a winner. It was quite exciting. I did exactly as the old Chief had advised me. That Lieutenant didn’t have a ghost of a chance. I just hit him at will. The Marine Officer in charge grabbed me and kissed me on both cheeks when the fight was ended, and I got an easy decision.

We approached many groups of small islands apparently deliberately as the Captain of the ship was trying to avoid submarines. By very slowly cruising through these shallow, coral infested waters, submarines could not follow and it would cut down on the chances of our being hit by a torpedo. We came so close to some small islands that natives paddled out to the ship and tried to climb aboard. It was so shallow in places the bottom was clearly visible, but astern the props were kicking up pure mud.

After thirty days we arrived in Espiritu Santos Bay in the New Hebrides islands, now known as Vanuatu. Our stay in the New Hebrides was only about ten days while Marines disembarked and there were other exchanges and landings of personnel. Several men were taken off the ship by hospital personnel from a hospital ship at anchor in the harbor. One of those men was my old friend from Napa, Ole Olson. I never saw him again and I have always wondered if he survived. Dengue was not long lasting like malaria, but it was much more severe at onset and many people died from it.

One of the most impressive incidents of the war occurred one morning. I awoke to the most loud and persistent droning which vibrated the ships and the waters. Going on deck I discovered the droning noise was caused by the entire Torpedo Boat fleet moving out of Espiritu Santos en route to new headquarters on Guadal Canal. The entire harbor was full of torpedo boats and they were strung out across the ocean all the way over the horizon. What an impressive sight! I had no idea we had that many torpedo boats in our fleet.

One morning, we heard a solitary plane coming out of the west. He was low and headed directly toward us. Of course, the Japanese Zeros were always a threat. General quarters was sounded and we all donned our helmets. The plane as it got closer was determined to be one of our own, he was dipping his wings from side to side as though in a salute and was directly over us and in an instant he hit the main mast of a tanker anchored next to us. The plane exploded and there was nothing found of most of the plane nor the pilot. Later it was determined that the young officer piloting that plane was the same young officer I had beaten up in the boxing match a short time earlier. It gives one pause. I have often thought of this. I nearly hated this man when we were aboard ship, now I was seriously deflated, maybe guilt ridden.

Soon after leaving the New Hebrides on a clear moonlit night with a sea as smooth as glass, our engines stopped. For three days and nights we sat marooned on this glassy sea, waiting for the periscope that would pop up out of the water, signaling a torpedo attack on us. Nothing happened to us, but we witnessed several air battles and one night an ammunition ship blew up and the air and sea were filled with fireworks. We didn't know it at the time, but we were sitting marooned in the middle of the Coral Sea Battle. We were way off our course, but the Captain had followed a zig zag course in order to avoid submarines which were reported to be plentiful in the area. The war went on.

We had an exciting event one morning. About 3:00 a.m. we were all broken out (awakened) and mustered in the hold of the ship where marines outfitted us with combat gear, side arms, flack jackets—the works. Of course, we all thought a landing in enemy territory was imminent. Several days later, we arrived in Noumea , New Caledonia, well behind any combat area. In fact, it was the Admiral Halsey's headquarters of the war in the South Pacific.

I made landing at the Receiving Station, New Caledonia, where there were reported to be plus or minus 300,000 service men waiting further transfer. This was a city of tents and confusion. After about three days, I was transferred to Navy Mobile Hospital #7. It was similar to a MASH outfit, except it was Navy and it hadn't been built yet. First we erected an officers quarters. Then we erected a surgery and tent wards to house the sick and injured.

After some time I was transferred to Mob #5, where I was assigned to ward duty. The patients were mostly marines who were being returned from fighting in the out lying islands. Duty at Mob 5 was not unlike ward duty at a stateside hospital. It was boring. The most exciting thing that happened to me there was that a nurse who, being a commissioned officer, was rationed a quart of whiskey every week. We enlisted personnel were not allowed to have liquor. She gave me her bottle every week. I thought she was a very generous lady until one day she cornered me in the linen closet. After that, I refused to take any more of her whiskey.

After a lot of this boring duty, we had a distinguished visitor to the hospital, a Colonel Carlson of the notorious Carlson's Raiders. Two of my buddies and I talked to him and since corpsmen were supplied to the Marines, we asked him if we could join up with him. He was only too glad to oblige, gave us some slips of paper to sign and congratulated us, "You are now Marines".

Shortly after the incident with Colonel Carlson, the ward medical officer (the doctor) took me aside, took my temperature, and immediately assigned me to a bed on the ward as a patient. Diagnosis: fever, cause undetermined. I underwent intensive testing for the next month, but no cause was ever determined. Just a few days after I was interred as a patient, word came back that my two buddies had both been shot and killed while making an island landing. Since no diagnosis was ever made other than “fever, cause undetermined,” it was necessary for the staff to send me back to the States for further testing.

(to be continued)

--John Crowley

Editor's Note -- The public domain, "Dictionary of American Naval Fighting Ships," says this of the Rochambeau:

"(AP - 63: displacement 14,242; length 470’10”; beam 63’11”; draft 26’; speed 15 knots; complement 381; troop 303; armament 1 5”, 4 3”, 8 1.1”, 8 20mm.; class Rochambeau)

"Rochambeau (AP-63) was built as Marechal Joffre in 1933 by the Societe Provençals [sic; Provençale] de Constructions Navales, La Ciotat, France for the Societe des Services Contractuels des Messageries Maritimes. Manned by the Free French after the fall of France in 1940, Marechal Joffre was in the Philippines when the United States entered World War II. After the receipt of the news from Pearl Harbor, merchant vessels in the area were requested to depart for U.S. ports. Marechal Joffre sailed on the 18th for Balikpapan, whence she proceeded to Australia, New Zealand, and the United States. She arrived at San Francisco with a cargo of wool and zircon sand on 19 April 1942. The following day, she was taken over by the U.S. Maritime Commission and transferred to the Navy. Commissioned 27 April 1942, Lt. Thomas G. Warfield in command, she was renamed Rochambeau and designated AP-63 on the 29th.

"Rochambeau, converted for use as a casualty evauaction [sic; evacuation] ship, departed Oakland, Calif., on 20 October for her first operation, under the U.S. flag. With replacements and reinforcements for the Guadalcanal campaign embarked on her westward passage, she made Noumea; disembarked her passengers; replaced them with casualties from hospitals there, at Suva, and at Bora Bora; and returned to San Francisco on 3 December. At the end of December, she sailed west again. Extending her range to New Zealand and Australia on that voyage, she limited her next run, 9 to 27 April, to New Caledonia and the New Hebrides. On that trip she carried Lt. (jg.) John F. Kennedy to Espiritu Santo where he was transferred to LST-449 and taken to the Solomons.

"During May, Rochambeau remained in waters off California, then, on 5 June, resumed her passenger/casualty runs to the south and southwest Pacific. Continuing those runs well into 1944, she added ports in New Guinea to her stops in September 1943 and the central Solomons in the spring of 1944. On her last run, 16 November 1944-17 January 1945, she brought back casualties from hospitals on Eniwetok, Guam, and Kwajalein.

"On 9 February, Rochambeau headed for New York. Arriving on the 25th, she was decommissioned and transferred to the Maritime Commission's War Shipping Administration (WSA) on 17 March. Her name was struck from the Navy list at the end of the month. Then returned to French custody, she resumed the name Marechal Joffre and, operating for WSA, was used to transport American troops from Europe to the United States."

According to an entry on Wikipedia.org, the Rochambeau served as a "troopship for the French Army till October 1951 and, after refurbishing, as [a] liner on the Indian Ocean and Far East line; then as [a] troopship once again between France and North Africa. [The Rochambeau was s]old for demolition in 1960."

February 25, 1942 – In the Navy

2009-01-30T18:07:00.000-05:00

On February 25, 1942, I was enlisted, sworn into the U.S. Navy at the Naval Receiving Station, Omaha, Nebraska. The weather was absolutely miserable, a cold bluster wind was blowing, and most of us were poorly dressed for the weather, but I made it. I was sworn in and was now an Apprentice Seaman , A.S., in V-6, the United States Naval Reserve – except we weren't in reserve. We were headed for God only knew, to begin our part in World War II.

The morning following induction, hundreds, maybe thousands of us were loaded aboard old, decrepit, passenger cars attached to old coal burning, steam locomotives. The train, loaded with Army, Navy, and Marines chugged out of Omaha, Nebraska. We did not have the faintest idea where we were going. It could have been to the Great Lakes Naval Training Station or San Diego Naval Training Station. No one seemed to know and there was no one to ask.

All we knew is that we were headed South. We stopped in small towns where we were allowed to disembark for a few minutes, to stretch our legs. At all of these stops, the train was met by crowds of locals who came out to welcome the train load of new servicemen. I don't know how they knew, we didn't know where we were.

This train wandered all over the southwestern part of the United States. The only reason behind it, as far as we could reason it out, was that the government was sending us on some circuitous route as a safe guard against possible sabotage of the train.

The one thing we hated about the trip was lack of air conditioning. You could not keep a window down because as soon as you put one down, a couple of people would open it again. The hot Southwestern winds blew through the cars, turning them into veritable ovens. And, the worst part of all, as we wound through mountainous desert country, we passed through one tunnel after another. When the steam, coal burning locomotive passed through a tunnel, the tunnel filled thick with black coal smoke from the engine. The inside of the cars rapidly filled with the same smoke and every time we passed through a tunnel we were covered with soot.

It seemed like we spent about a week on that train, wandering around the Southwest before we finally arrived in San Diego. It seems like we stopped in many other God forsaken places where servicemen from the other services were taken off the train.

On arrival at San Diego, US Naval Training Station, I was assigned to Company 174. I guess that was the 174th company to be trained there, so far in 1942. This, in effect, began my introduction into the discipline of regimented civilization. Looking back at my life in "boot camp," it is clear to me now that James Baker, Navy Chief in charge of my company, immediately spotted me as a proud, unbending potential problem who would require some extra guidance. I was immediately assigned to the task of cleaning the heads (toilets). I gingerly took the long handled scrub brush and delicately applied it to each of the toilets until I thought they were clean. Chief Baker then descended on me and wanted to know when I intended to clean these toilets. I said, "But Chief, they are clean!" At that, he took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and proceeded to clean a toilet with a bar of sand soap and his bare hands. Then he washed his hands, put on his jacket and informed me, "That is the way you clean a head." O.K., I did as I was told, so pretty soon I was relieved of that duty.

But, I still didn't get it. Every morning, we would be called out to muster before day light. Then, we would stand in ranks waiting for someone to come and muster us, that is, call out our names. After several mornings of this waiting, I decided this was a crock. I sat down on the curb and lit a cigarette. You guessed it, that was just what Chief Baker had been waiting for all those mornings. I was directed to his quarters, where he gave me a list of duties I would perform as punishment. At 1 a.m. every morning for seven days, I would report to the armed guard at the flag pole in back of the barracks with my rifle over my shoulder, bayonet attached, and my loaded, GI sea bag hanging from the end of the bayonet. Thus equipped, I was to march around the flag pole for four hours without stopping. If I stopped or slowed down at any time, the armed guard would poke me with his bayonet. I did this without a whimper, but I suffered. It was not long before the rifle had cut a crease in my shoulder about an inch and a half deep and I had several small lacerations from the armed guard's bayonet. In addition to the above punishment, I had to perform two hours of scrubbing floors in the barracks each night as my regular chores – and the war went on.

Chief Baker it seems was trying to make a man of me. As evidence that I was not hated by him, he appointed me color guard for the company. That means that I carried the colors, the flag, on the parade ground all day.

There were some breaks to our routine in boot camp. One thing we had to do was take some kind of tests to determine our suitability for schools and for placement in to the different parts of the Navy. One test lasted for approximately five hours. It reminded me a lot of the IQ. tests I had taken in college. At this testing, I was asked for my duty preference and for schools that I would like to attend. My first choice was Aviation Machinist's school. My second choice was Cook's and Baker's school.

At the end of boot camp, I was assigned to the Hospital Corps school. As near as I could figure out, they trained you to go where they needed the most men. That was interesting, but just before I was to graduate, the night guard who came through the barracks at night saw me glowing in the dark, took my temperature, and found that I had a 104.2 temperature and was red as a beet. They immediately suspected scarlet fever and rushed me to the U. S. Naval Hospital, San Diego, where I was kept in isolation for several days until they found out I had bronchitis and a bad sun burn.

Then, it was back to Hospital Corps School, where I had to start all over with the next company. Since this was my second time through the school, I got the best grades in the class and got to pick which base I would go to for further training . I had a choice of Corpus Christi, Texas, some place in Florida, or anywhere I wanted. I traded Florida for Mare Island, California, so I would be close to home. Mare Island was the least desirable place, so whoever I traded with gave me a hundred dollars to trade with him.

At Mare Island, they lined us up and picked the largest men in the group for psychiatric duty. They lined us up and said “You, you and you to Ward 4.” Since we three were the biggest of the bunch we went to the violent ward. This was the top floor of the neuropsychiatric hospital. The patients on Ward 4 were, for the most part, considered incurable, violent, mental patients, who were housed here for study and for further transfer to other hospitals in the States. The ward consisted of thirty locked rooms with only a mattress, 15 rooms on each side of a long hallway. Across the back was one large room called a solarium. The solarium had fifteen beds, for the less violent patients. Forty five patients in all. This was Ward 4. On each fourteen hour shift, one corpsman was locked into this ward and was in charge of all of the patients. In case of an emergency, like an impending death, I could push a button at the gate across the rear of the hall and hopefully someone would respond from a lower floor.

I won't attempt to go into detail about the patients. It is enough to say you had to have eyes in the back of your head. Some of them just liked to trick you, but many of them wanted to kill me. At or near the end of a fourteen hour shift, I was pretty exhausted and sometimes just lay down on one of the patients beds in the solarium and went to sleep. Someone of the more trustworthy patients would usually wake me if one of the doctors came to the gate. One of my more interesting experiences was waking up from one of these naps with a big patient trying to choke me to death. He was very serious. Some patients had one track minds. If they wanted to kill you, they thought of nothing else and weren't easily dissuaded.

One day when walking down this hallway, something bounced off the wall by my head. It was a solid metal ball about two and one half inches in diameter. In those days we did not have aluminum foil, we had lead foil. Gum and other things came wrapped in lead foil. A catatonic He then threw that ball at my head, and if he had been two inches more to the right in his aim, I would have been dead. He was a most interesting patient. He appeared not able to move or speak. I would take him out of his bed in the morning and stand him in the doorway so he could see movement. Every half hour or so, I would have to move him around some to help his circulation. He is the one who threw the lead ball. Apparently, in the dead of night he would get in a corner of his room and work on his lead ball.

A small, slight-built, balding young man befriended me about this time. He worked one of the other wards. His name was "Doc" Pemberton. Of course, we were all called "Doc." Nobody knew anyone's first name, so we were just "Doc"to each other and to the patients. Pemberton had worked for several years in the California State Psychiatric hospitals and knew his way around the business of caring for patients, which was a lot more than anybody else knew. The Doctors needed someone who could handle emergencies, so they chose him and he chose me as his partner. He taught me all the tricks of handling violent patients. We never received any special treatment for our work, but in the middle of the night they used to call us out to handle the extreme cases. For example, one night we arrived on the scene to find doctors, nurses and many corpsmen gathered at the front of the mental wards, in a state of near hysteria. A patient on Ward 3 had broken up a bed and was using a piece of steel bed frame to destroy his room. He had even beaten out some of the bars on the windows, he had beaten the door until it barely hung by its hinges, and it was sure death to anyone who tried to enter. I took a small mattress, held it in front of me and entered the room. The blows rained on that mattress were unbelievable, but I moved right in on him and cornered the patient. Pemberton went under the mattress, grabbed the patient's legs and pulled his feet out from under him, at which point my mattress and I fell on him and we subdued him. There was hardly anything left of the mattress afterward. It was torn to shreds, but they kept it to use in training sessions. Pemberton and I were unhurt and worked our regular shifts that day as usual.

About this time, the Chief Psychiatrist in charge of Warts 1 to 4 called me in and informed me that the U. S. Naval Hospital at Bethesda, Maryland, had a special training session in Neuropsychiatry. He had written a letter requesting that I be sent there for further training. About a week later, I was sent to Napa State Hospital where the Navy had taken over two wards to treat and house patients who were being selected for further transfer to state hospitals in their home states. I never heard anything further about the training at Bethesda.

Imola, as the Napa facility was called, was a most enjoyable duty for about six months, until a Chief Nurse, a Navy Lieut. Cmdr. by the name of Wamble came aboard. She took a very dim view of how I subdued the violent patients. She never took the pains to discuss it with me, but one time when I had to control a huge Paranoid Schizophrenic who had a butcher knife and was chasing members of the galley crew, I had secured him in a so-called "padded" cell. She and another nurse went in with him, were holding his head in their laps, stroking his brow and cooing to him. Hell, I didn't know he was theirs. I would have gladly called them to handle him. Soon after the incident with the paranoid and his knife, I received orders transferring me Headquarters, South Pacific Command, Noumea, New Caledonia. It all sounded romantic and interesting, and I would be going to war at last.

(to be continued)

--John Crowley

When Al Smith Lost Thunder Butte

2009-01-16T21:53:00.002-05:00

Al Smith Waves to Supporters

Funny, but I was seven years old when Al Smith ran against Herbert Hoover for the office of President of the United States. This election was preceded by months of talk about the candidates. When you stop to think about it, general conversation was all there was then. I don't think we even had a radio at that time. The depression was falling on the country then and everybody we knew thought Herbert Hoover was pretty much responsible for it. On the other hand, Al Smith had captured the hearts of America.

Finally election day came and I could not wait to find out what my parents did. Did they vote for Al Smith? When they finally got back to the Butte after having been gone all day to vote -- they probably went to Coal Springs to vote -- I rushed out to the wagon to hear the news of the day.

"Did you vote for Mr. Smith?” I asked. When my parents said, "No, he could not have won and we didn't want to waste our vote, so we voted for Herbert Hoover," I was heart broken. Since my own parents didn't vote for Al Smith, I was resigned to his having lost the election.

The United States then plunged in to the darkest depression of the Western world. Perhaps Herbert Hoover and Al Smith had very little to do with it -- but I was always convinced that life would have been OK if Al Smith had won.

--John Crowley

Editor's Note: With the inauguration Tuesday of a new President, it seems only fitting to revisit another election from days gone by and how it was perceived around Thunder Butte. Al Smith, then governor of New York, was the Democratic presidential candidate in 1928. John Crowley was so affected by his loss that he has been a Republican ever since.

Christmas Cowboy Daze

2008-12-04T22:14:00.005-05:00

Peanuts

My Dad as well as my Uncles Joe and Neal used to tell me stories when I was little about riding ponies across the windswept prairies near Thunder Butte when they were growing up. It was exciting, all these stories told by my relatives who, at least in my mind, used to live in the olden days—just like the cowboys on TV. That was my introduction to cowboys, and I wanted to be one. I used to prop a child's straw cowboy hat on my head and strap on my plastic six shooters. Then, I'd climb on my mount – usually a stick or a broom handle – and gallop about my suburban San Francisco Bay Area yard terrifying my sisters and our dogs. And, then, one Christmas when I was about eight, my grandmother, bless her kindness, thought it would be a really good idea to get her California grandkids a pony.

I remember the great excitement I had on that Christmas morning about the idea of having pony rides, and not just at the amusement park, but whenever I wanted. I pulled out my plastic revolver, strapped it to my hip, cocked my cowboy hat over one eye and sashayed out back to take possession of my trusty steed. My cowboy daze didn't last long.

The pony's name was “Peanuts,” the kind of name that suggested a gentle, hooved companion, and maybe the kind you would feed peanuts to or bits of straw from the palm of your hand. But just as quickly as these thoughts passed through my mind, the reality of a bucking monster that would just as soon bite your hand off as nibble on peanuts set it. As my Dad tried to tie a harness to the pony, it just reared up, raising a ruckus and waving its hooves about wildly. My Dad did all he could to calm the animal, but it just seemed to want to attack him. The wild beast seemed to tower over me. My Dad tried to get me on top of it, but it quickly threw me off and then stepped on me to make matters worse. Crying, that was the end of the cowboy romance for me. From then on, I tried to steer clear of the pony, but it would charge every time I went out into the backyard. I became adept at hopping over the fence at the last minute in a sheer panic, always thinking that these were indeed my final moments in this world.

I was so terrified of Peanuts. Every time the creature saw me, it reared on its hind legs and threatened me with a nasty bump on my head or worse. It was a wild animal. I think my Dad had the idea that the pony and I would eventually get right with each other. He was so convinced of it that he gave me the job of seeing that the pony was secured in his pen every night with fresh food and water. Instead, when I got home from school every day, I would get down on my knees and pray. I'd beg God to just please get the beast back in his pen without my help. Then, all I would have to do would be to slip out the back door, sprint to the gate, and fasten it just in the nick of time before the pony would notice me and come charging. It only worked about twenty-five percent of the time, so I guess God was listening to somebody else's prayers most of the time.

Although we tried to keep the pony in the backyard, it kept breaking out. More than once my Dad had to go chasing the pony down the street to keep it from taking off after and terrifying the neighbors. Once, one of the neighbors, Mr. Taylor, came looking over the fence to see if my Dad was about. The pony immediately charged, broke through the fence, and chased him all the way down the street. Mr. Taylor never came back. Never. Even after we got rid of the beast, which we were eventually forced to do after about three months because even my Dad could not control the thing. This was all a surprise, of course, because he had grown up in the Cowboy Days, hadn't he?

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note--Merry Christmas!

And Now the Fun Begins

2008-12-01T06:31:00.000-05:00

In the summer of 1941, I had decided to travel to California to seek my fortune. Having made the decision and since people told me that I would need identification, I visited Father Now, the pastor of the Catholic Church in Glad Valley. After some visiting with Father Now, between us we made up a baptismal certificate showing my date of birth and parentage.

The good father had to take my word for all of the entries on the certificate because, as he explained, the original church , which had been located in Brayton, had been blown away in some type of cyclone and all of the church records had been lost. After obtaining the baptismal certificate, I hitchhiked to Mitchell where I said goodbye to an old girl friend. The thing that sticks in my memory most was the temperature in the shade outside my hotel room. It was 110 degrees at midday.

I then got out on the highway and started hitchhiking to California. I had about $18.00 left. The first car that came by stopped. It was a 1935 Ford sedan containing three middle aged men (in their thirties). All three were en route to Lockheed Aircraft in Burbank, California, to work on airplanes for the war effort. I agreed to give the driver, the owner of the car, $15 to cover my share of the gasoline.

I think it took about two days with the men driving alternately. They would stop for food when necessary, usually a sandwich when they got gas. After the first day, my last three dollars had shrunk to fifteen cents. So from then on, when they stopped to eat I just pretended to be sleeping.

On our arrival in Burbank they let me out on a street corner in a semi business area. I remember the incident clearly. I had fifteen cents in my pocket, the sun was setting, it was getting dark, and I was scared. I didn’t have an address or a phone number—nothing. That may be the reason that for the rest of my life I have felt desperation when I have reached in my pocket and found no money.

On a corner in the distance, I could see what appeared to be a medium size hotel. I walked into the hotel lobby, sat in one of the easy chairs, and tried to figure out my next move. After several hours, I asked the desk clerk if he had any objection to my sitting there. He seemed like a decent, middle aged man who was easy to talk to. He asked me where I was from, and when I told him Faith, South Dakota, he turned, picked down a room key, handed it to me and said. "I’m from Faith. You get some sleep, and in the morning I’ll send you to a friend who will give you a job.

The next morning, true to his word, the desk clerk, who owned the hotel incidentally, sent me to a bowling alley a few blocks down the street. There was a nice little restaurant in this bowling alley, and when I talked to the manager, he put me to work immediately as a "fry cook."

I worked in that restaurant for something like three weeks. Every day I would ask the customers where Alameda, California was. Nobody had ever heard of Alameda. Several people told me that the only Alameda was The Alameda (Alameda Street), in downtown Los Angeles. I had the address of an aunt in Alameda and I was pretty sure now that it was nowhere near Los Angeles, as I assumed it to be when I started this adventure.

After about three weeks, someone advised the restaurant manager that I was underage and serving beer. Since that was against the law and he could lose his license, he had to let me go. Armed with three weeks pay from the restaurant, I went to the nearest bus depot and bought a ticket to Alameda.

What an eye opener. California was l o o o ng. It took all day to get there on the bus; California was also not paved with gold. The Greyhound bus came to Oakland and drove through the most awful looking streets, with old tenement type houses and arrived at the Greyhound bus depot on San Pablo Avenue in Oakland. What a let down! The dirtiest, dingiest city I had ever imagined. From there I caught a number 58 Key System bus to Alameda. I was en route to 2303 Buena Vista Avenue and was so worried that I would miss the address, that I got off the bus at Ninth Street and walked the last 14 blocks to my Aunt’s house.

My aunt, Mabel VanSicklin, was pleased to see me. She ran a rooming house where I soon became friends with all the tenants, young couples for the most part. They treated me like the family pet. They showered me with food, took me sight seeing, and when I didn’t have them entertaining me, I went to movies with my cousin Lester Petersen, who was the same age as me.

After about two weeks, and unable to find a job, I got a telegram from Lockheed, in Burbank, where I had left an application. The telegram read, "Report for work on Monday." I had just time enough to catch the bus back to Burbank.

In Bakersfield, California, I received a telegram, on the bus, from my new friends in Alameda. They had a "wonderful job waiting for me, come back at once." So, in all my new found ignorance, without any other information, I turned around and rode the bus back to the Bay Area.

I tried very hard to conceal my disappointment when I found out the job was "floor boy" in the Oakland Garage on Harrison Street. This was a multi-story parking garage. When customers would enter to get their car, a floor boy would rush to the upper levels and rush the customer’s car down to him. Several times per day customers would call in to have their car delivered to their home or other places around the Bay Area.

I soon became a very doubtful asset to that garage. I wrecked several expensive cars and I kept hitting the manager for raises, and he kept giving me raises. This routine kept on for several months. 'Then the foreman found out that I was making more money than he, and the manager found out that I had never, in my entire life, ever had a driver’s license. End of the job. I was fired.

My next job was with a drayage firm, Kellog Express. I greased trucks. After a short time, hating every minute of the job, I told them I was quitting, so they made a truck driver out of me and I started ferrying double semi trailers back and forth from the docks in San Francisco. That job was interesting and it was pretty decent money, but the war was on then. We would have to run trucks at night without headlights, and under the more severe blackouts we would be kept off the streets entirely. In those cases we would have to wait, sometimes for hours, in the truck depot, or wherever we were when the sirens sounded, sometimes for hours for the blackout to be lifted, just so we could drive home.

From the day war was declared (WWII that is), I had wanted to enlist. I wanted to fly a plane, but on enquiring of a recruiter, I found out that if I didn’t work out as a pilot I might wind up in some very miserable job. I decided the Navy was a good place to stay off my feet, so I enquired and someone told me that if I enlisted back east or in the Midwest, they would send me back to California for boot camp. So, on the basis of this "bar room" information, I decided to go back to South Dakota and enlist in the Navy.

During the late summer, my mother, brother Joseph, and my sister Cecilia had come to California, had gotten jobs, and my mother had rented a large house on Encinal Avenue in Alameda. My mother immediately went to work in the Richmond Shipyards, Joe took a job tending bar at the Bank Club, and Cecilia worked in the restaurant at the Alameda Hotel.

At the time I had a 1934 Packard straight eight convertible. After work one night, I stopped at the Cochran-Celli auto dealers. When a salesman came out, I handed him the keys. I just gave him the Packard. Recently I saw an ad selling this same model car for $250,000.

The next day I took the bus to my brother Neal’s ranch near Faith. Then I went to Mitchell where I enlisted in the Navy, but I had to wait a month until they called me to duty. While waiting for the Navy to call, I stayed with Neal and his wife Dorothy. Neal had a little black horse that he wanted to break (tame) for Dorothy, so he gave me the job. Well, that black horse was pretty, smart, fast, and a son of the devil. He bucked and he fought, he struck with his hooves, and he bit anything or anybody he could reach.

After about a month, I got a telegram from the Navy with railroad tickets and instructions to report for physical exam in Omaha, Nebraska. Needless to say, I was tickled to death to escape from the damn black horse. Among other things, from all that bucking, I was bleeding from the rectum all the time. I didn’t want to say anything because I was afraid the Navy would reject me if they found out I was busted. I confided to a friend on the train and he advised me of a sure cure. "Get a small bottle of castor oil," he said.

The train stopped at almost every town to pick up cream cans, so at the next stop, I ran to the drug store and bought a four ounce bottle of Castor oil, ran back to the train, drank the bottle of Castor oil, and ran to the bath room for the next two days. But, the bleeding stopped.

Finally we arrived in Omaha, I passed the physical, and I was sworn in on March 13, l942.

--John (Gene) Crowley

Ziebach County Vote

2008-11-06T21:59:00.004-05:00

Politicians in the rural parts of the country have to spend a lot of time on the road. Out in western South Dakota, a place that is either the wide open spaces or the middle of nowhere—take your pick—getting elected usually means putting hundreds of miles on your car in a single day to get from one small town to the next. An interesting piece that ran in the Rapid City Journal last February tells the story of the extended travels that local politicians have to undertake to keep in touch with their constituents. You can find that story here.

Interestingly, despite the great lengths local politicians have to go to in order to get elected and stay in office, neither of the major party candidates for President visited South Dakota during this election cycle. There weren't enough votes. It wasn't a battleground state. Everyone knew how the state would vote. All good enough reasons, I guess, if it didn't leave South Dakotans feeling too disgruntled. South Dakota voted decisively, and as expected, for John McCain on November 4th.

Yet, when you look at a county by county map of the state, that sea of “red” is broken here and there by a pocket of “blue,” a place where voters bucked the local tide and voted for Barack Obama. Ziebach County is apparently one of those little pockets of mostly Democratic voters interspersed throughout the western part of the state. And, yet, if you are not familiar with South Dakota, why this would be the case isn't entirely clear.

It's the tribal areas. Every “blue” county in the western part of the state is a reservation county. Ziebach County is mostly on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation. North and to the east is the Standing Rock Reservation. Down south are the Pine Ridge and Rosebud Reservations. The contrast between predominantly white districts and those that are mostly Native American can't be more clear. Take, for example, the town of Faith, adjacent to Ziebach County and the Cheyenne River Reservation, but located in Meade County. According to the 2000 Census, Faith was 90 percent white. It probably hasn't changed very much since then. (No criticism; that's just the way it is.) Voters in Faith turned out for McCain. In Ziebach County, 72 percent of residents are Native American. They voted for Obama.

If you've visited the tribal areas, you know that many people live in abject poverty. There aren't many jobs. Social problems are rampant. Not many people have a great deal of hope. So, it should come as no surprise that when one major party candidate preaches change and the other reminds those people of more of the same, the status quo, then the choice is pretty clear. Tribal areas didn't vote for the candidate they perceived as more of the same.

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note--Ordinarily, I would be extraordinarily scrupulous about keeping politics out of this blog. This blog isn't intended to be a place for political commentary. There are plenty of other places for that. I'm merely commenting and speculating here. Whether you draw the same conclusions or not, that's up to you. If your analysis differs, please share your comments!

Notre Dame Junior College Days

2008-11-01T10:17:00.002-04:00

The Mitchell Corn Palace

During the summer of 1940 I had been talking to old classmates from Lemmon High School. None of us knew what we were going to do with our lives. We could see no opportunities. I had applied at several universities and colleges. When I saw the tuition cost from these colleges I was dismayed. There was no such thing as financial assistance anywhere as far as I could find out. In other words, if you didn't have money you didn't go to school.

I talked to Ben Lesselyoung from Lemmon and he had written to a Monsignor Brady at Notre Dame Junior College, in Mitchell, South Dakota. This was a teacher's college, you attended for one year and you were certificated to teach in country, one room school houses. If you attended for two years you became certificated to teach all grades in the city schools throughout the state. Since this was the nearest thing to a job that we could find, we both wrote to Monsignor Brady again. The Monsignor wrote back and stated that he would suspend payment of the tuition until we were gainfully employed, after graduation. He further agreed to find jobs for us in the city of Mitchell to cover the cost of our board.

My Brother Neal agreed to drive Ben and I to Mitchell a few days before the start of school. I will never forget the trip in Neal's old car, on roads covered with ice for a hundred and fifty miles of constant skidding. On our arrival in Mitchell, Ben and I had to come up with $8 each to cover the cost of a room. Monsignor Brady sent us down to a rooming house on North Lawler. The back of the house faced on an alley which separated the back of the rooming house from the back of the Corn Palace. Monsignor Brady had given me the address of a restaurant on South Main Street where the proprietress had agreed to give me work. On applying for the job I couldn't help noticing there were several young men about my age who were working about the place. After a couple of days of hemming and hawing it turned out the lady had given the available jobs to kids from Dakota Wesleyan University. She kept saying , "I may be able to find something for you to do", but she never did.

I told Msgr. Brady about my dilemma. After much sputtering and uttering what I suspect were curse words in Irish, he sent me to the Oriental Cafe, a sort of supper club operated by two Greek families. These were some of the finest people I have met in my entire life. They always spoke to me in Greek in an effort to teach me the language. They made candy apples and taught me to do it . I bussed dishes, assisted with cooking and helped with the cooking of doughnuts, then I would deliver the doughnuts to other restaurants around town about five in the morning. Since I was working for my board, I would come in about 4 a.m., help open up the place and usually eat a couple candy doughnuts. They urged me to eat better food , but time was of the essence. The highlight of this job was the week long celebration of Corn Palace. Throngs of people were on the streets. The two partners and I stood shoulder to shoulder at the soda fountain where people were waiting ten deep for ice cream treats. At the end of the five days, without ceremony, Varcellios (which means William) stuck a ten dollar bill in my hand. That was perhaps the most cash I saw at any one time during the nine months I spent in Mitchell.

I guess you wondered if I ever went to school. Notre Dame Junior College was , and still is, a magnificent building totally built of South Dakota red granite. It covers about half a square city block. The rest of the block contained the parish house and a convent. The school was taught by Catholic Nuns. The student body consisted of approximately 190 girls and eight boys. Sounds like a play school. Right? Don't you believe it. There was no play at that school, never. I remember dropping in at a party in progress, with my friend Jimmy O'Donnell, one night. We sat down for a few minutes and were raided by the Mother superior and two Nuns. I never went to another party there.

The school work was very elementary, because they were training elementary school teachers. There was time spent cutting out stuff and pasting on posters, like you would have little kids doing, there was lots of singing so we would learn music and be able to teach little kids. They made sure we learned arithmetic and how to spell. Wish I could remember some of that stuff. There was also something like three months practice teaching.

In practice teaching, I was assigned to a young , very neurotic, but saintly Nun who gave me something like half her class of first grade students and she supervised me while I supervised those little kids. At the end of the three months I had decided I was never going to teach grade school. Those little kids were driving me nuts.

Mentioned in a prior post [], I had related the incident of Msgr. Brady giving me the job of Boxing Instructor. That job was a big help and it paid for my room. My roommate, Benny, did not fair well at all. Ben was from a small town, Lemmon, and Mitchell was a big town. There were several universities and several professional (trade) schools. The town was literally swarming with young people, so if you had the time and inclination, there was all kinds of hell to be raised. I will spare you most of Benny's exploits. He has been dead for many years now.

I fell in love once, that I recall. I never had enough money to go to a movie or anything so we would sometimes go to church, walk down Main Street and look in windows of the stores and, "shhh," sometimes we held hands.

As Winter wore on , snow became waist deep sometimes, on the side walks. Delivering the breakfast rolls, and doughnuts in the mornings became a monstrous job, more than once I fell, spilling the pastries in the snow. Of course I would brush the snow off them and arrange them neatly on the tray again. I can still see some to the customers and hear there remarks; "these don't look fresh, are you sure they are fresh?" “These rolls are damp, why are you bringing me damp rolls?”

Winter became more depressing, the snow was deep, the wind howled and many days were blotted out by blinding snow storms, blizzards. There were no longer any people on the streets, no one came in to the restaurant to eat. These wonderful restaurant owners, with tears in their eyes, tried to explain to me they had barely enough food left for their families. This was the depths of the depression.

There was a session at Ruby's Doughnut Shop, where I spent hours cleaning the crusted material from baking trays. For my board, breakfast, lunch and dinner I got doughnuts. I got so I almost never felt good. Then I went to work at the Railroad Cafe where I washed dishes and made sandwiches then, when a train stopped for a 15 minute break, we would have to feed and collect from literally hundreds of people. What a rush! Then it would be several hours, usually, for the next train. What did I get to eat there? Usually cheese sandwiches . We ate what the people didn't buy and that was usually cheese sandwiches.

Once in a great while, I would have a little spare time and I would explore the Corn Palace, a fascinating place, it was actually a Municipal Auditorium. One day I found two men painting mural on the interior walls of this place. I got talking to them and discovered one of them was Billy Lackey, not much older than me and from Faith, my home town. They were doing this job on a grant from the W.P.A. The murals have long since been replaced by other work. However, those Lackey paintings have been preserved in the county administration buildings in Mitchell. It got to be almost a habit to stop and talk to Billy and they would give me little jobs to do and try to teach me the rudiments of painting.

I ran into Billy's coworker, whose name escapes me this minute, I have it somewhere, he was a full professor at the College of Arts and Crafts, on upper Broadway in Oakland, California. This professor wrote a glowing eulogy for Billy, calling him as good or better than Remington. Billy died in Clayton, California about two years ago. He had become famous as an artist, having worked for many of America's largest corporations.

Jimmy O'Donnell and I would sometimes get a couple of hours off from our jobs and school at the same time and we would go around washing and installing storm windows for people. I remember that job well because of the cold, washing those storm windows, in freezing wind, before installing them, was not much fun. Jimmy , of course, didn't become a teacher either, he spent his life on the railroads as a locomotive engineer. I never saw him again and I saw a notice of his death about five years ago.

I can't leave this without mentioning Corcoran's Cafe on North Main Street. Some of us from Notre Dame and others from Dakota Wesleyan University would meet for lunch at Corcoran's. Two or three of us would order a bottle of milk. There was always a heaping bowl of oyster crackers on the tables. We would eat all the crackers and Ma Corcoran would immediately fill the bowls again. We never left there hungry and all it ever cost us was a partial bottle of milk.

At the end of the school year I was beginning to be concerned about getting home. I had collected some few things, but I had no suitcase or anything and no money, so I bought a car. I walked by a car lot one day and fell in love with a 1935 Ford, three window coupe. They were asking $25 for it and since the owner of the car lot was the brother of the Mother Superior (Farrell) at Notre Dame, he agreed to let me have the car with nothing down and I would pay him when I could. So, that was how I got home.

--John Crowley

Voices Out of the Mountain

2008-10-18T21:57:00.001-04:00

I found a large rock and sat.

Here on the very top of Thunder Butte, one looks out forever, into that vast expanse of range land, the Great Plains as early settlers must have seen it.

So far removed from the earth that as we know it, everything is tiny, seeming to disappear into nothingness.

Sleepiness hovers in the air, black clouds hang on the horizon, nothing stirs, birds are quiet and a deathly silence pervades the atmosphere.

Sleep descends, the mist settles over my mind and I curl up on this big rock in deep s l e e p -----------

Suddenly the earth is trembling, Thunder Butte feels to be alive beneath me, clouds are settling around the butte, it is growing dark.

Awake at last, my horse is gone, a sudden trembling beneath my feet again---- did I just hear someone moan? Was it the wind?

I am growing desperate. The wind has a biting chill---can I ever find my way down the mountain?

Picking my way over the precipice in the darkness, it is necessary to pass by a number of caves which lead in to the bowels of the mountain.

Feeling my way along the rock face, I am in the mouth of the first cave, the blackness in the cave is even darker than the night which cloaks the mountain.

Deep within the cave a voice, faint, almost indistinct, plaintive, pleading----h e l p m e~
and I ran, panting, sweat soaking my clothes, stumbling on the narrow path, falling------

Rolling downward, finding myself in the entrance of the second cave.

From the blackness, groaning and another voice, faint, unintelligible.

My body bruised and scratched, I am white with fear, clothing soaked in sweat, the mountain shakes and trembles and voices come from the bowels of the earth in an increasing crescendo. h h e l --------he l p ----
more moaning as from an unearthly, demonic presence deep within the trembling earth.

Falling, falling, tumbling end over end, hopeless thundering landslide coupled with cracks of thunder and lightning striking everywhere.

Wake up, John! Wake up!
You will be late for school. You know what the teacher said last time you were late. "You day dream too much."

I should not have had that piece of cake before I went to bed, but I peek out the bedroom window just to be sure old Thunder Butte Mountain is still there.

--Gene Crowley

Editors note: Happy Halloween!

Haunted Happenings Abound

2008-10-13T12:11:00.012-04:00

Remains of A Ranch Building Near Isabel

South Dakota has its share of reputedly haunted locales. Among them, the historic Bullock Hotel and Saint Ambrose Cemetery in Deadwood may be among the most notable. Thunder Butte country has seen its share of ghostly happenings, as well. Perhaps it’s the isolation that plays tricks on your mind. When you live in a place like this, chances are that the nearest people are miles away. You’ll often find yourself alone with only the murmur of the wind for company.

The mind has a natural tendency to imprint human features on its surroundings. In a lonely place, in isolation, this tendency helps fill in the gaps in the mind’s processing of its environs with things that are familiar. This goes a long way to explain some of the strange things people might experience from time to time – like one moment seeing someone and the next not, or occasionally hearing voices on the whispering wind.

Some of the things that people experience in this country are beyond simple explanation, though. For example, I’ve talked about the “spook lights” that people have reported since the country was opened up to white homesteaders here. Odd prairie lights also were reported by my family when they lived here, and I’ve talked about them here, and here. There were other strange occurrences that happened when the Crowleys lived on Thunder Butte Creek, which I’ve talked about here. My Dad recalls that kids used to tell stories about ghostly apparitions seen in the vicinity of Boggy Draw in nearby Perkins County – and he reports on his own nightmarish experience there as a kid here. Finally, my Dad tells one of the best ghost stories I’ve ever heard in my life here, based on an experience that happened while watching over a neighbor’s ranch late one night.

Other people tell stories, too. With just a couple of hundred residents, the nearby town of Isabel has a more ghostly reputation than most other towns in the region. Sites such as The Shadowlands, Ghost Traveler, and Release Me tell some of these tales. Among the most notable are the following:

• Some people tell of a spook light that sometimes can be seen in the vicinity of the old rodeo grounds, and which is known to chase the unwary once in awhile.

• The Burress Feeds store may be haunted by the ghost of a little girl who died in the early 1900’s from smallpox, and who cries for her mother from time to time.

• People see strange figures reflected at night in the windows of the Post Office from time to time. One person reported frantically trying to get out, finding the doors locked one night after picking up their mail.

• A boy who suffocated in a janitor’s close at the Isabel School is reported to be seen by people on occasion.

Now, I’ve only visited Isabel only once, and I can’t vouch for these stories. Suffice it to say, though, that the area around Thunder Butte has had its share of stories of the strange and the unusual – something that often piques our interest as Halloween season approaches.

Showdown

2008-09-21T20:50:00.001-04:00

In the late 1940’s and perhaps well beyond, Henry F. Harding was probably one of the wealthier of the local citizenry of Faith, if not the wealthiest. He owned the West River Telephone & Electric Company, was a member of the City Council of Faith, and was involved in local banking. I don’t know the full story, but my uncle, Neal Crowley, who was then the Chief of Police of Faith, somehow ran afoul of Harding in 1949 over an unpaid phone bill of $14. Just to give the unpaid bill some perspective, this amount would have been about $125 in today’s dollars. We don’t know the reasons for the unpaid phone bill. Neal may have felt that Harding owed him for something, and not paying the phone bill was Neal’s way of getting even. Or, maybe Neal simply was falling behind on his obligations for other reasons. Whatever the problem, Harding had Neal’s phone disconnected.

Now disconnecting the phone of the Chief of Police even in a small town is a big deal. Neal could not provide – in today’s parlance – 24/7 police coverage without access to a telephone at his house. Certainly, he had one in the office. But in those days, a small rural town would not have had police radios. Having the phone in Neal’s home was a vital link between the community and its lawman.

Curiously, despite the fact that Henry Harding was on the Faith City Council, he didn’t see the value of having that phone in Neal’s home remain connected. One suspects that there must have been a mighty test of wills at play, or perhaps one gigantic grudge match, for Harding rejected the City Council’s own demands that he reconnect the phone. The Council passed a resolution in January 1950, which Harding ignored. The town took Harding to court. Despite obtaining a favorable ruling, Harding also ignored that.

There may have been a very personal dispute going on or some kind of personality issue. Faith was a small town. Neal and Harding would have had to have known each other quite well. Perhaps they had had run ins with each other before and this dispute proved more than each man and the friends and supporters each had could countenance. Neal was, after all, a fairly popular man in Faith. While there were those, no doubt, who did not like Neal, Harding also probably rubbed some people the wrong way with his money.

In any case, Harding was a businessman and he must have justified himself as simply trying to protect his own business interests. Neal did owe him the money, and apparently did pay the delinquent bill after the mayor intervened. But, Harding was not satisfied. He was not going to be bullied by the City of Faith over how to run his telephone company. If the town was going to demand that Harding reinstall Neal’s telephone service, then Harding wanted the town to promise to make good on any future liabilities. He asked for a $30 deposit to reconnect the phone, which would have been about $250 in today’s dollars.

If you’ve ever had a falling out with a modern phone company, then you know that Henry Harding was either very prescient about the direction of the consumer telecommunications business, or he was simply just being a smart businessman. If you let the phone company disconnect your service today for nonpayment, then you know you are going to face a hefty deposit for getting your service back. Well, both Neal Crowley and the town refused to pay a deposit and were intent on getting that phone reconnected.

One suspects that the cost of lawyers and going to court – even in those days – was substantial. It is likely that this case quickly escalated into tremendously bruised feelings and hardened positions on both sides. Each side – Harding and the City of Faith – put their hired lawyers to the test. For the time and the place, this may have been akin to the showdown at the O.K. Corral—just not as violent.

The town argued in the Meade County Circuit Court that, “Without such telephone connection law and order is jeopardized and the safety of the people of Faith imperiled. The telephone has been out for more than three months.” After consultation with the South Dakota Public Utilities Commission, the court found that the City Council resolution requiring reconnection of service was a lawful order, and Harding was ordered again to reconnect Neal’s phone.

We don’t know how quickly Neal had his telephone service restored, but it was restored. Neal continued to be the Chief of Police of Faith for many years afterward. Henry Harding’s business interests continued to expand. In 1958, he purchased the Farmers State Bank in nearby Dupree. Neal and Harding must have run into each other from time to time after that, although we don’t know what might have been said between the two men. Most likely, each man made a grudging peace with the other if for no other reason than the intention to continue living in Faith. I would not have liked to have been standing nearby, though, if either man ever encountered the other in the local bar.

--Mike Crowley

Babe Mansbridge

2008-09-18T22:04:00.000-04:00

Babe was the local cattle buyer around Thunder Butte when I was growing up. Babe was slightly built, English and scholarly looking, about 5'10”, 165 pounds, brown hair, gray eyes, and tough as rawhide.

I don't know where Babe came from or where he went - he is deceased now - but when he rode bucking horses around Thunder Butte country, he was as well known and respected as Santa Claus.

According to everything I have read, Babe was the first man to ever ride Tipperary . "Ride him" means he was the first man to ever stay on Tipperary until the end of a timed ride while obeying the rules of Saddle Bronc riding and not being thrown off the horse. Tipperary is a legend onto his own. Books have been written and records kept on this famous horse, "that couldn't be rode".

Just to fluff out the incident of Babe being the first, or only man, to ever ride Tipperary: Yakima Canutt, Cowboy star, movie actor, and director of Rebel without a Cause was alleged to have ridden Tipperary in his Thunder Butte days. However, it was also alleged that Tipperary at the time was either old and near death or sick from the constant attempts by young cowboys to ride him.

But, back to Babe Mansbridge; Babe was a cattle buyer and he first came to my attention, as a kid, because my brother Joe worked for him. Babe traveled around Thunder Butte country either on his saddle horse or in his 1937 Plymouth auto. He and my brother Joe would travel from ranch to ranch, mark the cattle they wanted to buy, arrange with local cowboys to cut out the marked cattle, drive them to a central gathering place, then ship the cattle off to the best market - usually Sioux City, Iowa or Chicago, Illinois.

Babe was a popular cattle buyer, he always paid a fair price, knew his cattle and handled the deal expeditiously. When one considers the mechanics of cattle buying, it becomes evident the buyer was a very intelligent man. He had to know the age of a cow, the weight and condition, and all of this he had to determine while riding past or through a herd of milling cattle. It was necessary to know these things because he sold the shipment by age and weight.

Babe had two children, to my knowledge - June who was nearly my age and Freddie who was several years younger. They were both friends of mine in high school. The last time I talked to June she lived in Spearfish, South Dakota, and Freddie lived somewhere on the East Coast.

Since my brother Joe worked for and with Babe for a long time, I guess Babe assumed that I knew cattle, so one night he had a big shipment to go out of Lemmon, on a cattle train for Chicago, and Babe gave me a nice wage to oversee the loading of the cattle train. Well, he also hired a couple of goofy guys to do the actual loading, a specialty in itself.

The long and short of this story is the two goofy guys were not taking orders from a high school kid and they proceeded to load their own way. When the train pulled out about 4:00 a.m., one poor bedraggled yearling steer was left over. There was no way for me to get him on to a moving train, so I had to go back and tell Babe the news. It did not set well with him. After all, that steer was a total loss and it probably ruined his profit on a couple of car loads of steers.

Babe Mansbridge was one of those unforgettable people who moved in and out of my life for years on and around Thunder Butte Mountain. And by the way, Babe Mansbridge eventually went on to win the World's Champion Saddle Bronc Bucking Contest of British Columbia in the mid 1930`s.

--John Crowley

Denizens of Thunder Butte - Part II

2008-08-13T22:20:00.003-04:00

Richard Foster was a well known person about Thunder Butte. My parents leased his ranch on Thunder Butte Creek for many years. Dickey, as the locals referred to him, lived with his parents on upper Thunder Butte Creek. I believe their ranch was in Perkins County.

When Dickey was young, he attended the South Dakota School of Mines, a respected college in the Black Hills. I believe he obtained an engineering degree there. Dickey was very fond of the Sioux Indians, almost to the point of obsession. It is said that he lived with them on the Moreau River for a time. He spoke Sioux fluently and was frequently mimicked by local people, especially the grunting sounds he made while talking. This was a local Lakota trait, and it was thought the language was made up largely of grunts. Actually, I believe this grunting was a colloquial thing, much as the expression one hears everywhere today, "O.K." One gets the impression when talking to someone that the person needs your permission for everything said----"O.K.?" Well, I believe the grunts which interspersed the Lakota language were much the same kind of expression.

Dick Foster was interested in anything Lakota. Since he owned the ranch we lived on, he frequently stopped by, mainly because he liked to hunt arrowheads and other relics on the wind swept flats on this land. It was common for me to see him out hunting arrowheads. So, I would join him and he would explain what I found and show me faults and interesting points in the artifacts we found.

Another denizen, Tommy Escott, who herded sheep in the area, discovered my interest in Indian artifacts. So, he proceeded to teach me how to make the arrowheads. Well, I am not proud of the fact, but it is part of 'denizen' history, so I'll tell you anyway. When I was about ten years old, having learned the art of arrowhead manufacture from Tommy Escott, I sewed about a hundred of my handiwork arrowheads onto a bright cloth for display purposes. The next time I saw Dick Foster out hunting arrowheads, I pulled out this roll of artifacts. On seeing it, he proceeded to buy it from me for quite a lot of money. I never told anyone, so it remained a secret.

There are many Fosters in the area today – I see their names in the local papers, but I don't think any of them are related to Dick. I asked him at one time and he told me the Fosters around Meadow were no relations of his.

Dick Foster was "old" from the time I first knew of him, and he became a stodgy, hard drinking old rancher in the years when I grew up around there. This man was good natured, almost to a fault. People used to take advantage of his good nature, and I speak from experience. One time when I was in high school, I saw Dick driving down the street in Lemmon in a brand new Ford pick-up truck. It was the prettiest thing I ever saw. Later that night, I saw the truck parked in front of a local card room, the back room of a beer parlor. So, I went in and asked Dick to lend me his truck; I just wanted to try it out. I guess he had a good poker hand because he pulled out the keys and handed them to me.

Fast forward to Hettinger, North Dakota, where I picked up a girl friend and drove her around town. We parked on the side of a hill, sat there and talked, and being on the side of a hill, the truck slowly, very slowly, laid over on its side. Holy Cow! Jumping out of the truck, I tentatively lifted on it and, much to my surprise, it lifted back on to all four wheels. That pretty much ended my visit with 'whats-her-name'. I rushed back to Lemmon, parked the truck, and gave the keys back to Dick. I told him what had happened, and he exploded. I thought he was having a heart attack, but he wasn't – that came quite a few years later.

The last time I saw R. L. Foster, 'Dickey', was about in the 1940's. I was visiting my brother Neal in Faith, and we saw Dick sitting in his Ford pick-up with a couple of people who probably herded sheep for him. Dick said, "Humph, uh! Howdy,” and the other two said pretty much the same, and that was pretty much all that Dick ever said.

--John Crowley

Denizens of Thunder Butte

2008-08-09T08:56:00.002-04:00

The first ranch house west of Thunder Butte [when I was a youngster] was that of the Walenta’s.

When my parents came to South Dakota they linked with the Walentas in some place like Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Or, so I was led to believe. They were quite thick with the Walentas in the early years, probably due to the good nature of Mrs. Walenta, Margaret. Her maiden name was Nolan, a big good natured Irish woman who later became my godmother.

Wes Walenta was a somewhat dour individual. I never saw him smile. I don’t recall that he ever seemed to have a happy thought.

It seems that my father and Walenta staked claims at the same time. Walenta picked the highest point on the ridge west of the Butte and my father picked the claim on the Walenta’s South. My father’s claim, where I was born, was at the bottom of a little valley. I suppose my Dad was thinking that water would be plentiful in the lower place.

The funny part of my father’s decision was the Walenta’s well. The Walentas built a large frame house, but the most outstanding thing was the well. I remember riding up on my little pony from time to time and letting him drink from the stock tank beside the well. The tank was always overflowing with good ice cold water supplied by a pump and windmill that was always turning, pumping water. My father’s place never had a decent well. We always had to haul water from about a quarter mile away from the house. No one would ever expect to find water at the top of a high ridge, but Walenta did!

I always felt welcome at the Walenta’s because of Mrs. Walenta, Margaret. She always had milk and cookies for me and stories about her family to tell my Mother.

The Walenta family consisted of Rex, the oldest, John, next, and Maxine. Rex Walenta was built like his mother, big and round. He was sent back East where he was educated to be an attorney. Rex may have become a good lawyer, but he didn’t make as good a rancher. He leased the '73' ranch on Thunder Butte Creek after his education was complete. He stocked the ranch with thousands of young turkeys. Most of the turkeys were eaten by coyotes and bobcats, some were stolen by eagles, and the rest drowned in the first rain. Young turkeys will stick their beaks in the air and drown. John became kind of sullen. He later disappeared from the area and we heard nothing more of him.

Maxine was a beautiful girl, an incredible horsewoman and kindly like her mother. She later married George Boeding, a Glad Valley farm boy. George just passed away this last year and Maxine passed on long before.

In spite of becoming a lawyer, Rex produced a nice family. His wife was my teacher in about the seventh grade. She was intelligent, probably the best teacher I ever had. She had three of her children in the little one room school. I believe their names were Dennis, the oldest, Thomas, the middle boy, and Mary Anne, the baby. The kids were all intelligent, good looking and pleasant in spite of having a lawyer for their father.

Although I was born in the sod house on the neighboring ranch to the south of the Walenta’s, I don’t remember much about it. My family, much later, lived on the Joe Shockley claim which bordered my father's claim on the south.

Next to the Shockley claim was a dugout (a cave) in a bank in which lived an old hermit called Raggy Simmons. No one ever knew much about Raggy, except to stay away from him. People said that you could smell Raggy coming when he was still across the creek. I recall one day he came up in our yard and my Mother got the shotgun and ran him off. Apparently, Raggy must have passed away at some point in his cave; he just disappeared.

(To be continued)

-John Crowley

Saint Bartholomew Church in Glad Valley

2008-07-14T21:59:00.004-04:00

My father recalls that his family (before he was born) used to attend church in Brayton, but that the church relocated to Glad Valley after a big wind storm. At least, this is what his family told him. After that, until most family members moved to California early in WWII, the family attended church at Glad Valley. I don’t know whether something was lost in the telling of the story about the church, but a volume that I located, “Builders of God’s Kingdom: The History of the Catholic Church in South Dakota” by Sister M. Claudia Duratschek tells a slightly different story about wind storms and the founding of the Catholic church in Glad Valley.

Catholics in the Glad Valley area had been served out of Isabel from 1914 to 1922. In 1918, Saint Bartholomew Church was formally established at Glad Valley and a small frame church was built. According to Sister Duratschek, “It could not withstand the 1922 tornado blasts and was wrecked…. A church building was moved in from Brayton, remodeled and improved to serve as St. Bartholomew Church.” However, following “two years of uncertain services, 1924-26, the parish became a mission of Isabel.”

Memories can be a tricky thing, and it certainly is possible that the story as Sister Duratschek tells it is correct. Or, perhaps my Dad’s version hones closer to reality. It is difficult to tell for certain. The difficulty of finding out about the church is also evident in my search to see what became of the church building, which is no longer at Glad Valley. Last year, Rex Witte, one of the few remaining residents of Glad Valley, could only tell me that the building had been hauled away years ago.

An anonymous commenter to this blog said in May 2008, “I have always been told that the Glad Valley Catholic church is now located in Isabel and is used as the Hope Reformed Church. It is located one block east of the Hardware store.” I emailed Father Lane, who heads the parish of Saint Luke at Thunder Butte [community of, not the butte] to see what he might know. Father Lane’s secretary checked with her daughter-in-law who lives in Glad Valley, prompting this reply from Father Lane, “[she] says the glad valley church became the Isabel Church of God. They only have occasional services because of small numbers of people.”

Hope Reformed Church or Church of God? Perhaps knowing with certainty awaits my next trip to Isabel, which could be months away. Notwithstanding, I would like to see for myself the church that my Dad, his siblings, and mother and father all attended.

--Mike Crowley

Editor’s note – To be fair, Father Lane’s secretary also emailed me separately, but one doesn’t always know who might or might not be bothered about being quoted online. Hopefully, Father Lane doesn’t mind!

Ute Uprising

2008-07-13T00:00:00.003-04:00

One of the last military engagements on the Plains happened in 1907 just ten or twelve miles from Thunder Butte near the junction of the Moreau River and Thunder Butte Creek and the present day Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation community of Thunder Butte. Today, the incident is probably long forgotten by most people, including those with long ties to the area. Yet, when it happened, it prompted coverage in the New York Times and other newspapers across the country.

The episode began when about 400 Utes began a trek across Utah, Wyoming, and Montana in 1906. They were rounded up by the U.S. Cavalry and taken to Fort Meade in the Black Hills, where they were interned until plans for their resettlement in South Dakota were made. Ultimately, the Federal government attempted to resettle the Utes on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation at the Thunder Butte substation. However, from the beginning, the conditions of resettlement proved irksome for the Utes and there were threats of an armed rebellion.

One of the complaints of the Utes was that the government’s promise of rations was not met. Instead, the government was requiring that work be exchanged for “payment” of rations. Commissioner Leupp of the Bureau of Indian Affairs commented to the New York Times, “This office believes in applying the same rule to the Indians that is applied to poor and ignorant men of any race. We believe in finding work for them, and then in permitting them to go hungry if they will not accept the opportunity to make a living. These Utes contemptuously declined to work….” Ute leaders may have been contemptuous of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, but they were adamant in their belief that the government had reneged on a promise of regular provisions as a condition of settlement on the reservation.

Another issue for the Utes was that their children were taken away and placed in boarding schools instead of being allowed to stay at home or attend school nearby. Federal policies of the time attempted to strip away Native American culture by, in effect, removing children from families, prohibiting them from speaking in their native tongues, and initiating them into the values of the white American culture.

When negotiations between the Utes and the Federal Indian Agent, Thomas Downs, failed, the Utes took up positions at the entrance to the Thunder Butte substation and threatened the use of force. At this point, about 1,000 troops were called in from Nebraska and the Utes were forced to settle. About 100 Ute men, women, and children decamped for Rapid City and a promise of a life and jobs off of the reservation. The remainder stayed on for the winter with inadequate rations and shelter and then began the long trek back to Utah under Federal supervision in June 1908.

--Mike Crowley

Joe Shockley Goes to War

2008-06-05T23:08:00.005-04:00

My great-uncle, Joe Shockley, served in the trenches in Europe in World War I. I knew him briefly as a child in California, but he was not a man in his later years to say very much. When my grandfather homesteaded just northwest of Thunder Butte, Joe – who was my grandmother’s brother – set himself up on a place not far away in Glad Valley. So, it was with great interest that I found the following news story on the web that describes the circumstances under which Joe went off to fight in the Great War, as it was then known.

The following is excerpted from “Time Marches On,” by Thelma Frame, writing in "South Dakota's Ziebach County, History of the Prairie", published in 1982 by the Ziebach County Historical Society, Dupree, SD and available here:

“The banner headline of the September 27, 1917 [Dupree] Leader reads "Citizens of County Bid Boys Farewell." Saturday last about 9:30 a.m. 16 young men left for the Cantonment at Fort Riley, Kansas, the second contingent from Ziebach County to the training camp. A parade in the morning previous to the arrival of the train was one of the largest seen here for some time past. The parade started at the High School at about 8 o'clock headed by the Dupree band. Following were members of the Red Cross, then the teachers and pupils of the Dupree School, Veterans of the Civil and Spanish Wars and the new soldier boys, then the citizens generally, bringing up the rear. The march on the street continued north until opposite the Fox Ridge Hotel, thence to the depot where the new soldier boys formed a line facing the crowd. After several patriotic airs by the band, a short talk by attorney Henderson, and a song by the school children, the crowd formed to bid the boys a farewell and godspeed, then awaited the arrival of the train. While waiting for the train, Mayor Shelton, in his usual good way, suggested that a purse be taken for the boys and passed the hat. A neat sum was collected, which was turned over to Mr. George Wakefield Till who was selected by the local board to take charge of the men.

“About ten minutes before the departure of the train, the boys were once again called in line and marched into the coaches. As they took their places a cheer went up amidst the smiles and tears of all.

“The men who were honored that day were: Gustave Yeshko, George Diermier, William Nelson and George Jennerson from Dupree; Frank Rosenstock, Jack Neigel, John Held and George Till from Eagle Butte; August Hanneman and George Sargent from Redelm; Willie Krone and Charles Kercher from Isabel; Oscar Nelson, Harry Olson and Joseph Shockley from Glad Valley and Leo Sinkey from Lantry.”

--Mike Crowley

Wild Cars of Thunder Butte - Part IV

2008-06-01T09:54:00.002-04:00

My brother-in-law, Floyd (Ted) Dickinson, bought a new 1935 Ford V-8, three window coupe in the spring of 1936. Ted’s Father, Elting Dickinson, was owner of Consumer’s Grocery in Lemmon and he dispatched Ted to Yakima, Washington, to buy a train carload of apples. Ted asked me to go with him for company and we set out in Ted’s new `35 Ford.

The Ford was a bomb. Fast and peppy, it covered the miles with great speed and comfort, and Ted attempted to drive the entire distance without stopping to sleep. The only problem with driving non-stop in a brand new car at that time was – a new car had to be driven at intermittent intervals until the engine was broken in. On this trip, non stop as it was, the car soon began to smoke. At 70 to 80 miles per hour, day and night, it soon began to use oil and started smoking.

By the time we had arrived back in Lemmon, we had to add two or three quarts of oil every time we stopped for gas. Ted’s answer to the oil problem was to carry a five gallon can of oil behind the front seat for the purpose of adding oil at gas stops.

Long after we had arrived home, the habit of the oil can continued. So that winter, when I had a date with Vivian Kusler, Ted let me borrow the 35 Ford. During the evening on the town, we got the Ford stuck in a snow bank. The process of jerking the car out of the snow bank, back and forth, caused – unknown to me -- the five gallons of oil to over turn in the back seat. It was discovered the next day when Ted took his car out of the garage.
Another of my great adventures with cars consisted of working most of the next day in an attempt to restore the inside of the Ford. Removing five gallons of oil from the upholstery and flooring of a car is big time stuff for a 14 year old boy.

Another adventure with cars, which did nothing for my reputation, happened shortly after my parents had purchased a new 1929 Model "A" Ford. This car was the last word in middle class cars, speed, comfort and endurance. The Ford had it all. One day, I "borrowed" the Model A and set out to practice driving. Soon the novelty of driving up and down the country trails wore off, and I looked for more adventure. I discovered that hard pan flats would fill with water during the winter and then freeze over – making great skating ponds all over the prairie. One could race across these ponds at full speed, and then turn the steering wheel all the way over, braking at the same time, and the car would sail along sideways. Or, in some instances, the car would start to spin around and around.
I was having great fun spinning the Model A when the rear wheel hit a clump of frozen dirt sticking up out of the ice. The result was the rear axle broke off – I was stranded!
Fortunately, my brothers, Joe and Neal, found another axle and repaired the car, but my name was mud for a long time.

One exciting automobile of those times was the 1934-35 Chrysler Air Stream. One day, someone came to Lemmon to demonstrate the Chrysler. I recall watching with great excitement as a man was blindfolded, then drove the Chrysler down Main Street at full speed, blindfolded. I guess this was done to demonstrate how well the car held the road. Maybe it was just to draw attention to the remarkable car.

Not long after the Chrysler demonstration, in 1939, in fact, Studebaker came out with the Champion Starlight Coupe. As I recall, this was the first instance of using all glass around the car in a Stream lined automobile. I was crazy about the Studebaker and "rented" it many times from Bob Rainey. Many years later, my sister, Cecelia owned one of the little Starlight coupes when she was living in Alameda, California. When she tired of it and bought a Plymouth Fury, I bought the Studebaker from her. Somehow, though it just was not the same – the thrill was gone.

--John Crowley

Wild Cars of Thunder Butte - Part III

2008-05-03T21:44:00.003-04:00

One article I’ve read lists the Model T Ford as one of the fifty worst cars ever built. I guess the following disputes that assumption entirely.

I believe this picture is of a 1925 Model T Ford. You see, I was very familiar with this car. Sometime in the summer of 1939, I wandered into the Lemmon Auto Company, a garage at the north end of Main Street in Lemmon, South Dakota. I was chatting with the Manager, a Mr. Olien, when he said, "How would you like to buy a great car? We just got this Ford in and it has hardly been driven." He then proceeded to show me a Ford, exactly like the one in the above photo.

I could not believe my eyes. This car looked like it had just rolled out of the factory. Mr. Olien got in, turned on the key and the old Ford purred like a kitten—that’s right, it started running just as soon as he turned the ignition switch.

I told Mr. Olien that if I had any money I would buy this car in an instant. He said, "How much money do you have?" I said, "About two dollars." And, he said, "You just bought yourself a new car. You can pay me the remaining eight dollars at one dollar per week."

I got in and drove away in perhaps the best car I have ever owned. It took eight more weeks to pay for it, but I loved that car. What was so nice about this car? To begin with, it even had the new car smell after all those years. It had always been garaged. It had been serviced regularly since it was new by this same garage. This automobile was so finely tuned that it started when you turned on the ignition switch. The engine hardly made a sound.

One of the outstanding features of this model was the transmission. In addition to the standard three foot pedals, it also had a two speed Ruckstell rear end, which means that you could gear down two speeds and it would go anywhere, just like a tractor.

I often had to go out of town to play for dances, almost every weekend, in fact. On those occasions I always rented a modern car from Bob Rainey of Rainey’s garage. Mr. Rainey seemed to have a soft spot for young people. He had two adopted sons, twins, Bob and Dick, just a year or two older than I. Whenever I came back from a dance job, for some mysterious reason they were never able to find the bill for the car rental. Actually they never did find a bill and I must have rented dozens of times.

I distinctly remember driving my Model T coupe home when I graduated from high school, and the last time I left the ranch by Thunder Butte, that beautiful old Ford was sitting there by the house. The tires must be real flat by now!

--John Crowley

Wild Cars of Thunder Butte - Part II

2008-05-01T22:09:00.003-04:00

Most modern cars have front wheel drive; this is a given. Long ago, Thunder Butte dwellers learned that cars pulled better than they pushed. When you came to a very steep hill in an old Model "T" Ford, you automatically turned the car around and started to back up the hill. Usually when going in reverse you could manage to climb the steepest hill without a problem.

Long before I acquired the old "T" model from Roger Portney, someone had given me a 1928 Chevrolet. I have mentioned having to replace the connecting rod bavette routinely and a few other idiosyncrasies of the Chevrolet. (See my last post.) One of the more discouraging traits of the `28 Chev was its inability to hold water. The radiator was good for about ten miles before it would start to steam. In a couple of more miles the engine would begin to missfire, and water would have to be added if one was to continue driving.

One of the worst instances of running out of water was sometime in 1934. I would have been 13 or 14 years old at the time. I had just picked up three or four of the Briscoe boys, and probably a couple of other neighbor boys, and we were off to a dance in Usta. About half way to the dance, somewhere in the vicinity of Wedgetent Butte, the Chevy started to steam. In a couple of miles further, she refused to go any further. We turned off the car, sat there in the gathering dusk of evening, and discussed how we were going to get to the dance, or better yet, how we would get home without water, as the nearest water was miles away in either direction. After some long discussion, one of the boys stood up on the front bumper of the car and urinated in the radiator. Without a word, each of the boys lined up and did the same. Again, without a word, we all piled in and drove on to Usta to the dance. After the dance we refilled the 'stink'n' car and drove home without further incident.

Having traded the Chevrolet for the topless Model "T" Ford, and after months of 'fooling' with it, it finally came to life and I was driving back to town when I discovered another problem. In the old Model "T's", the radius rods (steering) were connected together loosely, and if you turned the steering wheel very far in either direction, the rods between the front wheels would flop over and the car would go in the opposite direction from which you steered. Turn left, and the car would suddenly go right. Like I said, this was all new to me, so on the way back to town, and as I was passing the Petrified Wood Park on my right, I jerked the wheel left to avoid hitting a rock in the road, the Ford instantly went right. The throttle was a lever on the steering column. In my haste, as I was racing through monuments of petrified wood at a breakneck pace, I pulled the nearest lever which happened to be the spark advance and that just made the car run faster. Steering like a 14 year old madman, I raced through all of the petrified wood park. Steering left to miss a pylon, the car would race to the right around the pylon and that was the way I navigated the entire acreage of the Petrified Wood Park in Lemmon that day. After much experimentation, I discovered that I could tie strips of inner tube rubber to the radius rods, and that would prevent them from flopping over and the car would steer in straight line.

Lemmon's Pretrified Wood Park in March 2007

One other problem was the throttle lever on the steering column. I never could get used to pulling and pushing that lever. The result was a stick tied over where the hood was meant to be, with a wire connected to the carburetor, and the other end of the stick protruding into the driver's compartment. Although it looked very clumsy, this stick arrangement worked exceptionally well, and I would go racing around town and all over Perkins County and North Lemmon, North Dakota, with my hoodless, topless, sometimes radiator-less Model "T" Ford.

If anyone ever reads this stuff, you may wonder how I survived the legal world. The answer was this—the State of South Dakota did not issue driver's licenses in those days. The local chief of police, Pat Jones, used to chase me a lot. But, as soon as I raced out of town, he would give up the chase. As he said to someone later on, "I would just chase him until he left town, and then realizing he was out of harms way, I would give up the chase."

--John Crowley

Wild Cars of Thunder Butte

2008-04-16T21:40:00.003-04:00

An Old 1915 Model T

Before I ever had a car, there were numerous cars passing before my child's eyes. Perhaps the first was a Model T Ford that my mother drove to Glad Valley for the occasional trip to take the eggs and buy groceries. On this particular trip, I was about two years of age and was made to sit in the back seat. The only part I remember of this particular trip was that on the way home from Glad Valley, with a month's supply of groceries, my mother drove over a bridge that spanned a deep creek. As she drove up a steep hill on the far side of the bridge, the Model T stalled. My mother got out to crank the Ford and when she started to crank, the car started backward down the hill toward the deep water. She ran and grabbed me out of the back seat as the car swept past her and down the hill. Young as I was, I distinctly remember the Ford veering off the road at the side of the bridge, where it plunged over the bank and into the deep water. In just a couple of minutes it had sunk out of sight and all that was left were bubbles. My mother hoisted me to her back and set out for home, about ten miles away, as we lived on Thunder Butte Creek at the time.

Many Model T Fords came and went. The Model T cost about $600 brand new. It was open on the sides and had a roof that folded down something like the convertible. In winter, my folks would put on side curtains that snapped into place to keep out the bitter cold winds. One of the greatest problems with the old cars was preventing the radiators from freezing solid in the below zero cold. The only anti-freeze available in those times was alcohol. The alcohol worked fine until the car had run for a while. Then, after heating up, the alcohol would evaporate and the car would start to freeze. You knew it was freezing up when plumes of steam would begin to spout from the radiator cap. You see, when the ice formed in the radiator, it displaced the water and actually the car was dry.

My brothers, Joe and Neal were always working on some old car. The old cars were not very techno and most problems could be fixed with pliers and wire. If you needed gaskets, the best material was rubber from old over-shoes and leather from old boots and shoes.

One of my first cars was a 1928 Chevrolet sedan that someone gave to me, or probably I found it abandoned some place and just gave it a home. It was a nice car, ran quiet and didn't leak much. It did have a crankshaft that was out of round, and when the rods started to knock bad, I would have to take the pan off and cut leather bavetting for the rod. This bavette was cut out of an old shoe and inserted on either side of the crankshaft. Then, the connecting rod was bolted down on the leather. It worked fine for a while. When the rods began knocking again, it was time to cut new leather. I finally got tired of the constant rebuilding of the Chevrolet and traded it to Roger Portney who had an old Model T Ford pickup that was sitting out in a pasture outside of Lemmon. He had been unable to start the Ford. It sat in that pasture for all summer and part of the next winter, when we traded.

I used to go out to visit the Model T after school. I would crank the thing until it kicked so bad it had me scared. A couple of times the crank actually hit me in the arm when the car backfired and the crank would fly around, backward. You had to jerk your arm out of the way fast to prevent being hit. After about a month of this dangerous pursuit, I discovered a little metal cup on the front of the engine, which turned out to be the timer. The timer had a rotor inside that would turn and hit each of the four points in turn. When I took the timer cap off, the rotor fell on the ground. The pin, which was supposed to hold it to the cam, was missing and that was why the thing misfired. I went over to the nearest fence, pulled a nail out of the fence post, inserted the nail in the base of the rotor, bent the end over, put the cap back on, and cranked her up. The Ford roared to life and provided many hours of recreation for myself and friends for months to come.

The weirdest thing happened once while driving the Ford. One day I was driving down Main Street in Lemmon with the standard load of kids hanging all over it when some kids yelled, "Hey, there goes a tire down the street! Let's get it, and maybe we can use it on this one. At that moment, the rear of the Ford dropped to the street, dragging one side. It was our tire which had come off, wheel and all, and was rolling past us down the street.

This same old Ford sat out in the snow storms all winter. When I wanted to use it, I would find the most likely pile of snow, dig down until I could crank it and the resulting shaking and banging would knock off most of the remaining snow. I soon learned that in the dead of winter, the radiator was just a nuisance. With the radiator removed, the car would run fine until the engine block became red hot. Then I would have to stop, let it cool down, and then drive on. This was possible because of the great tolerance between parts in the Old T Models. Today's cars would stop dead before they even remotely approached those temperature changes.

--John Crowley

Old Stone Church

2008-04-05T08:23:00.013-04:00

Old Stone Church at Firesteel

The impermanence of most old buildings on the prairie is palpable. As you drive across prairie landscapes, it’s not unusual to happen occasionally on the ruins of buildings from yesteryear. Usually what remains is merely a tilting, rotting shell, as it prepares itself for eventual internment in the soil. Often, what scraps remain have been carried off for use elsewhere. It is as if the prairie gradually swallows up anything not lived in, used, or maintained. Still, when my sister and I went looking for the old catholic church my Dad and his parents and siblings had attended at Glad Valley when we visited last March, we expected something to have remained. There was nothing.

We know that the church was still standing in the mid-1950’s. Rex Witte, one of the few inhabitants of Glad Valley remaining today, told us that the old church had been sold and hauled off years ago for some other use, and that the graves were moved to Isabel. That seemed sad. As the population thins out across the Dakotas, and more people move off the land, one of the last tangible reminders that there were once people here often is the churches. People will struggle to maintain them and keep them up, even after the congregants have all moved away, because they often are a last tangible link to the families and communities that preceded us, as well as the faith that kept them here.

Still, when folks we met in Eagle Butte mentioned the Old Stone Church outside of Timber Lake, and offered to take us there, it was an opportunity that we did not pass up. A small Episcopal chapel built of stone in 1923, the Old Stone Church – actually the Holy Spirit Chapel of the Standing Rock Mission – continues in use today by a handful of families. Built with great attention to detail of local sandstone, the church is a beautiful little building, and one that would be difficult to imagine ever being swallowed up by the prairie.

According to the Timberlake Historical Society, which maintains an information page about the chapel here, the Old Stone Church is located not far from Timber Lake "on the Buck & Lory Ward Ranch, which is north of the new BIA road linking Highways 63 and 65. The best way to reach the church is to turn north off the BIA road one mile west of the Broken Heart Ranch corner. There is a small sign. You then follow the trail as it proceeds north, then west and then north. Eventually you will find yourself overlooking Firesteel Creek, the valley and the church.” We took this route without a guide, got lost, and did a considerable amount of backtracking before we came on the scenic little valley the church is located in. It is a thing to behold.

It was difficult not to be inspired by the beauty of this little chapel—for example, the loving attention to detail in the stonework such as the cross carved out of the face of the sandstone above the entryway and the floor-to-ceiling archway that frames the sanctuary of the altar.

Old Stone Church Nestled in a Prairie Valley

Unique Architecture Reminiscent of a Medieval European Chapel

Note the Carved Stone Cross Above the Entry Way

A Bluff Rises to the North and Rear of the Chapel

Interior of the Chapel (Note the Stone Arch)

View Upward of the Stone Arch Providing Roof Support

Stone Altar Nestled in the Sanctuary

Potbelly Stove--Probably the Original 1923 Heating System

--Mike Crowley

Old Three Toes

2008-03-15T14:59:00.009-04:00

Old Three Toes, Stuffed and Mounted

I've often wondered about the photo of “Old Three Toes,” above, which belonged to my Uncle Joe. The photo is apparently of a museum exhibit, and Old Three Toes was actually mounted and on display. What was the significance of this wolf? I knew from the family that Three Toes used to wander South Dakota not far from Thunder Butte. During the early 1920's, Old Three Toes of Harding County was thought to be the last wolf left in the Tri-State area around Thunder Butte, and was credited with any predator related attacks on local livestock.

The gray wolf used to roam the plains, living off of the buffalo, antelope, and other animals that were wild to the prairie. With the die off of the wild bison from over hunting and the introduction of livestock into the area by homesteaders, wolves soon adapted and began preying on the cattle and sheep living in areas like northwestern South Dakota. It's difficult to imagine today, but wolves were once considered such a threat to ranchers that extensive government control programs and wolfers worked to drive this animal to local extinction on the prairie and in much of the West.

According to Bruce Hampton's book, The Great American Wolf, published in 1997: “Three Toes, a wolf of northwest South Dakota who had previously lost a toe to a trap, allegedly killed twenty cattle during a single night and sixty-six sheep during a subsequent two-night rampage. By the time it was finally trapped in 1925, ranchers claimed it had destroyed hundreds of livestock worth $50,000, the greatest economic loss ever attributed to a single wolf.”

Fifty thousand dollars was a considerable sum of money back in those days, and will still buy a decent amount of pasturage in the Thunder Butte area. According to Peter Coates, whose essay appears in The Massacre in History, published in 1999: “...the most notorious [wolf], Three Toes, apparently gave 150 men the slip for thirteen years.”

Recently, I came across a story in the Arco Advertiser about Old Three Toes, which I've excerpted here:

“The most noted outlaw wolf in northwestern South Dakota was Old Three Toes. By 1912, his big three-toed track was plain in dusty sheep corrals where dead lambs were strewn about uneaten. He became known as a killer who seemed to kill for the sport of it. One night he killed many sheep and lambs at three different ranches, but ate only the liver of one lamb. He was killing livestock, including saddle horses and steers at a cost of $1,000 a month when caught by a government hunter in 1925. His mate had been killed in 1920, and after that he hunted alone.

“Archer B. Gilfillan, a sheep herder and noted author of the Tri-State area, tells of the many attempts to trap, shoot or run down Old Three Toes. One man ran him 95 miles during three days in fresh snow, changing horses five times. Sons of Cave Hills ranchers followed him on a 20-mile circle. He then struck out for the Short Pine Hills 40 miles away. They changed horses once and by the end of the second day followed disgustedly as the track circled back to within a mile of their own ranch. When chased by wolf hounds Old Three Toes tricked them with leaps across high embankments, backtracking and once, a thirty-foot jump into water.”

Another source on the web recounts how the end came for Old Three Toes -- "He was over 20 years old when he was finally trapped July 23, 1925, in the Kahoun pasture, near Gallup, SD, by Clyde F. Briggs, deputy predatory animal inspector for South Dakota. The animal was still alive when discovered in the trap, and an effort was made to take him to Buffalo, the county seat, before killing him, but he died before reaching that town. He was 6 feet long and weighed between 75 and 80 pounds." The photo below shows Briggs pictured with the dead wolf.

Clyde Briggs at the Capture of Old Three Toes

Whether Old Three Toes' renown is actually deserved or not, the reintroduction of Canadian gray wolves into Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming has caused great controversy, as wolves are an intelligent predator and still seen by many ranchers as a potential threat to their way of life. Wouldn't be wonderful, though, to find some way to co-exist with these remarkable creatures?

--Mike Crowley

Tuffy the Wonder Dog

2008-03-12T22:00:00.007-04:00

An interesting story in the lore of Thunder Butte country is the tale of the ranch dog who went to Hollywood. In 1930, a local cowboy named Ger Orvedahl began training a six week old puppy in the finer arts of helping out around the ranch. Tuffy was a quick learner and over time developed an extensive repertoire of really interesting tricks that he could perform when Ger employed various hand signals and voice commands. Ultimately, Tuffy learned to recognize by name and fetch many household and ranch implements. Later, Ger got the idea of showcasing Tuffy's talents by putting on a show in Faith, about 1932, where Tuffy would fetch various objects and lead a horse down the street. Local residents were so amazed at Tuffy's talents that Ger decided to take Tuffy to Hollywood in 1935.

While the early months were difficult ones, Ger ultimately got the attention of actor Tully Marshall, who became acquainted with Tuffy while filling up his car at a gas station near where the Orvedahls were staying. Marshall passed the word about this talented dog along to a film production manager, and Tuffy's film career was born. Tuffy had roles in numerous films, mostly Westerns, including:

Nevada (1936)
Drift Fence (1936).
The Trail of the Lonesome Pine (1936)
Hawk of the Wilderness (1938)
Daredevils of the Red Circle (1939).
The Mighty Treve (1937)
Rolling Caravans (1938)
Stagecoach Days (1938)
Pioneer Trail (1938)
Phantom Gold (1938)

Tuffy's film costars included numerous famous actors of his day such as Henry Fonda, Fred MacMurray, Buster Crabbe, and Jack Luden. Tuffy left Hollywood in 1941 after an illness on the set of the film, Brigham Young (1941), but continued giving shows and making appearances until 1946, when he died at 16 years of age.

Ger Orvedahl continued to train and perform with dogs until his death in 1954 in Illinois. Ger published his dog training wisdom in the book, The Orvedahl Method of Training a Puppy, in 1950. The Orvedahl family maintains a website devoted to the story of Ger Orvedahl and his Hollywood wonder dog, Tuffy, here. Ger is pictured with one of Tuffy's successors, Tuffet, below.

Ger Orvedahl and Tuffet Perform

--Mike Crowley

More on James Shockley and Family

2008-02-16T21:55:00.001-05:00

[James Shockley, my Uncle] Jim, married Wyona Hunt. They lived, in my earliest memory, on a little dirt farm near Coal Springs. Coal Springs is between Meadow and Glad Valley. I stayed with them when I was about eight years old for a month or so. They only had the one child then, Dora Lee. I think she was about four years old.

Jim and family often visited us, but he and my Mom had a slight falling out. I think it was because Jim’s wife had a little baby boy that died, probably within the first year. The local priest wouldn’t bury the baby in the Catholic cemetery because they had never had him baptized, so they would never go back to church. Wynona’s parents [belonged to a different denomination,] so I suppose [this also helped] them to slide away from Catholicism. Anyway, my mother [was never especially close to] Wynona’s mother. [So, the kids and I] never became close.

When I was in about the third grade, my folks sent me over to stay with the Jim’s family. At that time they lived somewhere around where the Veits live now, east of Thunder Butte by about six or seven miles. Well, I spent the first night sleeping with a bunch of the kids in the attic of their house (because it was warm up there). Willis (Bill) was a baby and squawked all the time. Wyona hung his diapers in the attic to dry. Because of the crying baby and the diapers, I got on my horse the next morning and never went back. In fact, they later moved to the log house that was our school house, and the school moved into a new board sided house.

I didn’t see any more of them that I recall until Jim stepped on a clock gear that went through the hole in his shoe and stuck in his foot. Jim never knew that he had diabetes, so his feet were numb and he never knew about the clock gear until he got gangrene in his foot, blood poison set in, and he died. I would have been nine or 10 years old when he died [and he would probably have been close to 40 years old. This would have been about 1930 or 1931].

Wyona moved to Lemmon after Jim’s death and worked at whatever she could find to do. One man had a small motel at the time and he paid her to clean the rooms. She managed to raise all those kids and did a good job of it. I visited Wyona and the kids when I was in high school, probably two or three times. You know how it is—I was a big boy and [thought I was] sophisticated, and couldn’t be bothered with a woman and her kids. I have always regretted not seeing them or helping them more.

Dora Lee has always been my favorite cousin. She met her husband in high school and he is now dead. She took care of him up to the end. [I believe she] still lives on the farm South of Lemmon. [Jim’s and Wyona’s other kids are Joseph who lives in Idaho, Aldene who is deceased, Jennie Lee who is married and splits her time between Nebraska and Arizona, and Willis (Bill) who also winters in Arizona and spends summers in Lemmon.]

--John Crowley

Note—bracketed material inserted by the editor.

1893 Shockley Family Photo

2008-02-04T20:56:00.000-05:00

Here is a photo of my grandmother's family that probably was taken in 1893 in Boscobel, Wisconsin. This was long before her parents moved to Lake Williams, North Dakota, and about 19 years before she took up homesteading with her husband and family just northwest of Thunder Butte in South Dakota.

On the left is my great-grandmother Catherine (Kane), who would have been about 33 at the time, with baby James Shockley on her lap at about one year of age. My grandmother's half sister Mabel stands in the center. Although we are unsure of her age, she was probably between eight and ten at the time. My great-grandfather, James Riley Shockley is seated on the right and would have been about 35 at the time this photo was taken. My grandmother, Mary, is seated on his lap and would have been four years old at the time.

Baby brother James, pictured in the photo, and brother Joseph, who is not pictured because he would not be born yet for another couple of years, also took up homesteading not very distant from where my grandmother settled with her family in South Dakota.

--Mike Crowley

James Shockley in Military Uniform

2008-01-25T22:02:00.000-05:00

We often forget that the Crowleys had other relatives living in the Thunder Butte area. There was Joseph Shockley, who was my grandmother's younger brother by six years and lived in the area for many years. Also, there was James Shockley, another younger brother who was just a few years younger than my grandmother. James is someone I've never known much about. In fact, as a child, I never heard my grandmother mention a brother besides Joseph, although she apparently had three brothers.

During much of the time that the Crowleys lives near Thunder Butte, my grandmother's brother James also lived with his wife and children in the vicinity of Coal Springs, which was just a few miles away. We did a brief post on James Shockley and his family a year ago, which can be found here. It's always interesting to find old pictures of long-lost relatives, and we've unearthed another picture of James from his days serving as a military policeman in World War I. James was born in 1892, so he would have been about 25 or 26 years old in this picture.

--Mike Crowley

Winter on Thunder Butte Creek -- Part Two

2008-01-04T21:49:00.000-05:00

In the late summer, all hands turned out for 'Haying Season'. Sometimes only my Dad did the haying, cutting grass with a large sickle mower pulled behind a team of horses. Following the mowing, someone would come along with a hay rake pulled by a team of horses and pile the hay into drifts.

When the hay had been raked and winnowed in the field for a couple of weeks, it would be hauled in with a hay wagon and stacked in great tall stacks near the ranch. Enter the rabbits: During the dead of winter when the snow piled high over the grass, rabbits would come in great droves during the night and eat at the bottom of the hay stacks. After a while, if they ate long enough, the stack would become top heavy and fall over, and the rabbits would continue eating until they had eaten tons of hay.

Enter the shooters: If we were lucky, the moon would come into the full phase when the rabbit hordes were overrunning the hay stacks. We would lay in the top of the haystacks during this moon phase, with our .22 rifles and shoot rabbits as they approached the stack.

On a good night, a bad one for the rabbits, we would shoot hundreds upon hundreds of rabbits. They were of a single purpose, all they seemed aware of was the food at the hay stack, so it was quite easy to keep shooting until we had eliminated an entire wave of rabbits. No one seemed to think of this rabbit shooting as fun, it was self preservation. If we didn't save the hay, the animals would starve, and if the animals starved, so would we. Another facet of this venture was the selling of the rabbit carcasses. When we had finished shooting, the rabbit bodies would freeze rapidly. Then we would pile the bodies in a huge stack where they would remain frozen until someone could ride into Faith and notify the 'hide and fur' people who would eventually come by with a huge truck and cart off the rabbit bodies. The hides would be turned into fur coats and the meat would be turned into pet food.

I do not recall anyone ever laying around during those times. Couch potatoes had not developed yet—maybe because their were very few couches. We only had chairs, and pretty uncomfortable ones at that. It was easier to sit on a horse than to sit in the house.

--John Crowley

Send Us Your Stories

2008-01-01T20:59:00.000-05:00

Much of the focus of ThunderButte.com has been stories from my family, especially my father, about the kind of life the Crowley's lived at and around Thunder Butte from the time my grandfather's homestead was established about 1913 until the family moved off the land sometime after 1940. The stories are so interesting to me because of how different the land, the time, and the place was from where, when, and how I grew up. There are still more stories to tell. As the blog progresses to its third year, I've held some tales in reserve, and I continually pester my father for others – always fearing in the back of my mind that one day in the not too distant future there will not be much more to tell, at least from the Crowley family perspective.

Well, it's a new year and I would like to try something a little different at ThunderButte.com. I want to open this blog and site up to others who might have stories to tell about life around Thunder Butte, whether stories about the distant past, recent times, or the present. And, when I say the “area,” I am not simply referring to the butte itself. Draw a circle with a radius of 50 miles around Thunder Butte and the area I have in mind encompasses a broad swath of the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation, the towns of Isabel, Dupree, Faith, and Lemmon, the settlement of Thunder Butte, itself, and a good deal of ranch country and prairie. If you have a story to tell that you think will interest others, let me post it here. Whether you are a rancher, a Native American, or someone with family or other ties to the area – even if only ties in passing – I would like to provide you with an opportunity to tell your story. So, here is my proposal:

(1) Send me an email with your story to thunderbutte@gmail.com, or simply Click Here.

(2) Also, you can send mail to me at:

Mike Crowley
Attn: ThunderButte.com
P.O. Box 27095
Washington, DC 20038

(3) Alternatively, and this really is an experiment, you can telephone your story to me by leaving a message at (605) 593-4530 in Rapid City. I have a message length of 2-minutes, so if you need more time for your story, just call back.

Of course, I reserve the right not to publish anything that I consider to be in poor taste, offensive, or disrespectful or hurtful to others. Also, I may edit your story to keep it to a reasonable length. But, if you have a story to tell that may interest others, I'll post it here with your name. Send us your stories!

--Mike Crowley

Winter on Thunder Butte Creek

2007-12-22T16:20:00.000-05:00

Winters were harsh in the area and in that period. It was common for the snow to bank up to the eves of the roof. When the snow was fresh and soft, nothing moved through it. Later, when the snow had frozen solid, people and horses would walk right over the top of the largest drifts. One of the things ranchers had to watch out for was cattle walking on the roofs of the houses and barns, they would walk right up the snowdrift and on to the roof.

About this time of the year, men and boys would gather on the creek with axes and long lumber saws to cut ice. Ice would be cut into huge chunks, about 4' x 4' x 6' feet. Then, with a team of horses, the block of ice would be pulled to a spot where the men had cut out a large section of a bank, near the house.

The future ice house would have been about 30 fee wide by 60 feet deep into the hill. When it was filled with blocks of ice, the men would cover it with deep layers of hay, sod, and straw. This ice would stay solid and unchanged all year and supplied the only cooling in the heat of summer for foodstuffs like meat and milk.

Everyone took turns felling trees and chopping the trees into wood for the big pot bellied heating stove and the large cook stove. This chopping went on for hours every day all winter.

The milk cows had to be milked morning and night. They had to be supplied with hay and their barns cleaned. Horses were groomed, fed, and stalls cleaned. Milking the cows was not that much fun in winter time either. You had to make sure their tits were dried thoroughly when you finished milking otherwise the tit would freeze and that was the end of the milk cow. Actually they nearly froze while you were milking them and your hands as well. The milk came in handy though, it probably helped to keep us alive.

Another chore that kept men busy was the banking of the house. They would cut sod into chunks like large bricks and stack it around the bottom of the house. Sometimes this sod would be stacked up to the bottom of windows. The reason was to hold in heat and to prevent drafts of cold air from entering.

It took a half day for one person to just travel the eight miles to the mail box through the deep snow.

Throughout the winter a large amount of time went to feeding and watering range cattle and horses. During the cold winter the water holes and streams would freeze solid and the animals were unable to find drinking water, so the rancher, cowboys, needed to ride the water holes with an axe and cut holes so the animals could drink.

Another chore was the feeding of range animals. During periods of snow storms and heavy freezing, the grass, what little was left , would be buried beneath hard frozen snow drifts. Men would load wagons with hay, drive it out on to the prairie and spread it for the animals. Sometimes during the feeding season, there would be as many deer, antelope and wild horses feeding as the ranchers' cattle, but that could not be avoided.

A lesser preoccupation was the hunting for meat. Most every one carried a gun for the sole purpose of hunting. No pheasant, prairie chicken, beaver, porcupine, deer, or antelope was ever ignored. I suppose there were a few lesser species that came home to dinner during those times.

One nice thing about winter was that water was no longer a problem. You just took your bucket, scooped up a bucket of snow, set the bucket on the wood stove and in a few minutes you had a 1/4 bucket of water.

The more I try to think of how it was in winter, the more depressing it seems. Even finding a Christmas tree was a chore. I remember one year my Mother was all upset because one of the boys brought home a huge Black Hills spruce. She was upset because the spruce had been growing on a cliff where she would see it all the time from her kitchen window.

There was a story about one Christmas Eve when we tried to take a dinner to Joe who was working at the John Barthold ranch, but when we stopped to open the pasture gate, a car came down the road toward us until it got to almost where we were—then it just turned off and drove off across the badlands. That may have been our most exciting Christmas ever. We just went home and said our prayers.

--John Crowley

Who Owns Thunder Butte?

2007-12-08T08:27:00.000-05:00

I used to wonder who owns Thunder Butte. In the back of my mind, I nursed a pipe dream that maybe the butte could be bought. Maybe it could be purchased to establish a kind of a monument to all those who have lived here – Native American and rancher – as well as all those who have lived here before. I wasn't thinking about transforming it into anything else, or building on it. I just wanted to make sure that the butte would continue to exist in much the same state as it is today.

Before I traveled out to see the butte and its environs last March, I had read on the internet one hiker's account of having taken a trip out to the butte and climbing it. He made reference to asking permission of the of the local ranchers. So, I thought the land technically belonged to one of the ranchers. Then, when I arrived and began making my own inquiries, no one was sure who owned the butte. But, the consensus among the locals I talked to was that it did belong to one of the ranchers.

Without meaning to impugn anyone, I thought it was a bit sad that Thunder Butte didn't actually belong to the Lakota. As much as we non-native folks might appreciate the butte, it is one of their holy places and one which is the regular scene of Lakota holy practices to this day. In thinking about buying the butte, one of my thoughts was about ensuring that the Lakota would always have access to it. I also thought, too, about possibly buying it only to turn around and deed it back to the reservation on which it sits. All of these thoughts I nursed in the back of my mind until last March, when I traveled to South Dakota. And, then, I promptly became consumed with finding my grandfathers' first homestead, located just northeast of Thunder Butte.

Then, one day, while reviewing the plat maps in Dupree – trying to identify which parcel of land my grandfather had owned, I noticed that Thunder Butte was marked as land belonging to the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe. In asked just to be sure, but yet, the butte already belongs to the Lakota. That promptly put to an end any thoughts I had ever had about buying the butte. But, I was gratified to learn that the butte already belonged to those who considered it most holy.

Last month, I had an opportunity to hear Navajo President Joe Shirley, Jr. speak in Washington, D.C. The overall theme of President Shirley's talk was the need for more help for the Dineh, as the Navajo call themselves. However, one of the most poignant things that President Shirley said was that we – both native Americans and not – are brothers and have obligations to respect, value, and nourish each other. (These were not his exact words, but my interpretation of what he said.) President Shirley has got it right. We owe to each other.

I know that there are lingering tensions on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation about the division and sale of tribal lands around the turn of the last century. Some of the ranchers say that the local Lakota occasionally tell them that the land the ranchers work is their land – Lakota land – and, no doubt, they feel quite strongly about that. On the other hand, the ranchers have been on the land quite some time now. My hope is that the people who live in Thunder Butte country will eventually come to seem themselves as brothers who owe respect to each other. Also, I hope that Thunder Butte will remain available for all to visit, cherish, respect, and protect.

--Mike Crowley

Honey Molasses Pumpkin Pie

2007-11-21T21:10:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving was not celebrated too much around Thunder Butte when my Dad was growing up. Thanksgiving wasn't celebrated on any kind of a regular basis anywhere in the U.S. before President Franklin Roosevelt began declaring annually a national day of thanksgiving beginning in 1939. Then, Congress enacted the holiday on a permanent basis in 1941. So, despite the lore about the Pilgrims and the Indians sitting down to the first Thanksgiving meal, despite our traditions of the roasted turkey and trimmings, and despite all of the other customs that we associate with Thanksgiving, the holiday as we know it really does not go back very far. If it did, one of the things the Crowleys may have had for their Thanksgiving meal would have been a delicious pumpkin pie. In fact, my Dad does recall his mother making delicious pumpkin pies this time of year and at Christmastime with plenty of fresh whipped cream.

It would be nice if we were able to say that the following comes from a traditional family recipe. Unfortunately, I don't know any of the recipes that either of my grandmothers might have used, and my Mom used store-bought canned pumpkin and a recipe on the side of the can. Nonetheless, this pumpkin pie recipe is one that I concocted some years ago, and is rather tasty:

Honey Molasses Pumpkin Pie Recipe

1. Prepare the Pumpkin

Cut in half pumpkin. Scoop out and discard stringy matter and seeds. Place both halves down (cut side) on a pan and place in the oven at 350 degrees for about 45 minutes to an hour. Remove pumpkin when meat is so soft that the skin pulls away easily.

2. Prepare the Pie Contents

Combine 5-1/2 cups of pumpkin meat with the following:

. 6 eggs
. 1 cup of honey
. 1 cup of unsulphured molasses
. 1 and 1/2 tsp. of salt
. 3 tsp. of cinnamon
. 1 and 1/2 tsp. of ginger
. 1 tsp. of cloves
. 1 tsp. of nutmeg
. 4 and 1/2 cups of evaporated milk (substitute cream, if desired)

3. Prepare the Pie

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Pour pie contents into a prepared pie crust lining a pie tin -- should fill 4 to 5 9-inch pie shells (use prepared frozen ones, if desired). Bake at 425 degrees for 15 minutes. Then reduce heat to 350 degrees and bake for another 45 minutes to an hour. Pie is finished when a knife inserted into center and removed comes out clean.

--Mike Crowley

New ThunderButte.com T-Shirt

2007-11-11T13:52:00.000-05:00

The official t-shirt of the ThunderButte.blog is here! Better said, I've put my meager creative talents to use to create a line of merchandise featuring Thunder Butte. Last March, I was in an art shop in Rapid City featuring the work of a variety of artists highlighting the landscape of South Dakota, including many of its buttes. Sadly, however, I found none featuring Thunder Butte, which I find truly picturesque. In fact, I asked the shopkeeper if they had any art featuring the butte and unfortunately they had never heard of it!

In creating a number of t-shirts, a poster print, and eventually additional merchandise featuring Thunder Butte, the point for me is not to make any money at this. Originally, I just was looking to design a t-shirt to order for myself – and, indeed, I did get one. Now, I want to afford the opportunity to anyone else who would like a Thunder Butte t-shirt or other merchandise to take a look – and if you like what you see – place an order. Again, you can browse the Thunder Butte merchandise and purchase it, if you would like, by clicking the link here.

If you have any suggestions, please send those along, as well, using the comment link below.

--Mike Crowley

Haunted Castle

2007-10-27T08:10:00.000-04:00

Although Stanley Kubrick's film, The Shining, was filmed at the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado, the setting could easily have been the historic Redstone Castle in Redstone, Colorado. Built around the turn of the last century by industrialist John Cleveland Osgood, the Castle—then known as the Cleveholm Manor—was an opulent 42-room Tudor-style mansion. With 16 bedrooms and 14 fireplaces, the Castle called to mind the regal country residences of old England. In its early days, the Castle played host to the famous and the powerful, reportedly including President Teddy Roosevelt and John D. Rockefeller. Osgood passed away in 1927. By the late 1940s, the rich and the famous were long gone, and the Castle and the small community nearby seemed destined to become a ghost town.

The Redstone Castle

In the late 1960s, Neal and Dorothy Crowley left Faith, South Dakota, for a couple of years for a stint as the live-in caretakers for the Castle. Neal, always interested in fodder for new tales was taken with the place. Dorothy was less so. Despite the Castle's reputation as a haunted place and one that Osgood never really left though he had passed away years before, Neal was the kind of person who did not need the supernatural in order to find material for a tall tale. Neal used to give occasional visitors, including groups of college students, tours of the Castle. Pointing to a zebra skin hanging on one wall, he would tell people with a straight face that his father had shot it on safari in Africa. Neal loved to tell tall stories. It was in complete earnestness, though, that Neal would relate stories of some of the strange events that used to happen at the castle. There were the strange voices and the smell of cigar smoke that would appear without warning in some of the rooms. There were chairs that would move by themselves. You would leave a room only to come back later and find that someone or something had dragged a chair from one corner of a room to another.

A Darkened Hallway, Peering Through the Windows

Neal and Dorothy often felt as though they were being watched. Dorothy did not like to acknowledge this or the other strange things associated with the Castle, but did say that this was so. Neal’s sister Cece and her husband Al drove out to Colorado to stay at the Castle for a few days. Cece recounted the feeling of always being watched with intensity—especially the fear that she felt walking down a dark hallway on a late night trip to the bathroom. One can only imagine how Neal and Dorothy used to feel on cold and lonely winter nights, cut off from the outside world, completely snowed in. It does bring to mind scenes from the movie, The Shining.

An Interior View

The stay at the Castle could not have done anything to improve Neal and Dorothy’s marriage. I never heard it cited as a reason for their troubles, but within a few years, they were divorced. Both returned to Faith, South Dakota, temporarily, and then moved on to lead separate lives.

A Hallway and Bannister

A Stairway

Another Interior View

--Mike Crowley

Editor's Note--All images are from hauntedcolorado.net and are hosted on that site. Click the images to be taken to hauntedcolorado.net.

An Apparition in Boggy Draw

2007-10-08T21:54:00.000-04:00

You may have heard about Boggy Draw, it isn’t really a draw at all, it is more of a hollow, or small, deep valley.

Word around Thunder Butte was that people would step out of the ranch house at night, if they happened to be high up and approaching the Moreau River breaks, they had seen long lines of horses, head down, depressed and spooky looking, single file, headed down the ridge to Boggy.

I had never seen anything, but then our ranch house was down in the creek bottom s of Thunder Butte Creek, so Boggy isn’t visible there.

One day, when I was about twelve years of age, riding down toward Boggy, I thought I heard bubbling, boiling sounds coming from the direction of Boggy.

It was getting along toward dark and I didn’t have much time, so I slapped the old mare with my bridle reins across her flank and we headed down the slope into the bowels of Old Boggy. I was going to find out what was making those sounds.

The Old Mare was balky and stubborn this evening, she just plainly did not want to go down into the draw, but I spurred her on down and as we approached the bottom, where there was a very small stream, she just totally balked. I could not make her move another step.

After about a half hour of leading, coaxing and spurring her on, she finally gave in and stumbled down the hill in to the bowels of Boggy.

As we came to the edge of this tiny stream, she started to pull the same stunt, sitting back on her haunches, refusing to take another step. Finally after much coaxing and losing of my temper she gave a mighty lurch and we landed in the middle of the stream----mind you, this stream was only a trickle of clear water.

As we hit the middle of the stream at the bottom of Old Boggy, the Old Mare didn’t just splash, she sunk.

Probably some sixth sense, having been practically born on a horse and in strange conditions like this, I flew off the horse, landing well in front of her and at the edge of the stream.

Some sixth sense, or perhaps some power from a Higher Source caused me to land on a place of solid footing and with my throwing rope in hand.

By the time I had turned around to look, the Old Mare was almost completely sunken out of sight, only her nose and the saddle horn remained above the water.

QUICK SAND! A country boy doesn’t have to be downing to understand even the smallest symptom of quick sand; we live in fear of it all the time.

I threw that rope without a moment’s hesitation and it snagged the saddle horn, first shot. Then, spying an old tree over my shoulder, I lashed the rope around the tree trunk and started to haul in the mare.

One inch at a time, for the next three hours, I pulled and adjusted the rope.
The mare heaved and struggled an inch at a time she rose higher in the quick sand and closer to firm ground.

Like I said, for three hours I pulled and adjusted that throwing rope and the mare struggled and finally despite her moans and groans and a lot other strange unearthly moaning and groaning, bubbling mud and splashing sounds from out of sight, you see it was almost completely dark now, the old mare came free.

She was so weak she could hardly stand, but we both stood there amid the most unearthly sounds you have ever heard until we could both walk again.

Having finally escaped the quicksand, I lead the Old Mare up Boggy Draw until the ground under foot became very rocky, then throwing a ton of big rocks into the stream I found a place where the rocks remained visible in the water, no quicksand.

I crossed safely here, leading the mare and we scrambled out of Boggy amid a chorus of dieing screams and unearthly moans from the bowels of Old Boggy.

Nobody has ever heard of this adventure until today.

You see, out in the country I would have been laughed at. Everybody knows such things never happen. Everybody knows about the strange, one way, single file apparitions hauntingly filing into Boggy to never be seen again. Everybody knows things like this are just coming out of the fertile imaginations of kids, so it has remained along with my silent fears for all of these years—Unspoken, unexplained.

--John Crowley

Editor’s Note—My Dad sent this story just in time for Halloween. He swears this story from his childhood near Thunder Butte is a true one.

Old Mexican Longhorn

2007-09-03T13:26:00.000-04:00

I wrote a poem called ‘Old Mexican Longhorn.’ The part where I was a kid is absolutely true—that old, long-horned cow terrified me when I was younger than [five]. I think she was in league with the devil. She would, or so I thought, lie in wait for me someplace out of sight. Then, when I left the house, she would start to bellow and paw the earth and start for me. I actually think she used to have flame coming out of her nostrils. Well, you can read the poem [below]. You will see that I embellished it by continuing the story into my older years.

OLD MEXICAN LONGHORN

Some said she was spawn of satan, but I know different,
I know that old cow was satan himself.
She had to been the onriest critter that ever appeared on
this planet.
I can still see me run’n when I was jist so high, my fat
little legs churn’n, run’n bent for leather to get away from
her. That ole longhorn eyes blaz’n fire, snort’n smoke and
ashes and boy was she after me.

I wandered out by the bunkhouse one day and ‘for I knowed what was happen’n she was make’n hay.
I made the house and the screen door slammed and the
earth shook as she pawed the ground and bellowed.
I just hid under the kitchen table and shook.

She was a caution, hell on hooves they said.
One day I had to go, you know, natures thing
I’m sitt’n on my haunches, careful not to sit on my spurs
down by the cottonwoods, out of harm’s way I thought
chew’n on a blade of grass, swatt’n an occasional fly off
my bare ass and I heard what sounded like thunder off a
ways, it was down by them thar bushes in the creek bed
that-a-way , then it turned in to bushes crash’n and I’m
gitt’n pretty scared, start to pull up my pants and --- too
late it’s that ole Mexican Longhorn and she sees me.

Shirt tail fly’n straight out behind, spurs sing’n a song,
I race for that bunkhouse but the trail is too damn long.
Just short of the door, in an old hog waller, I trip on a
spur and go full length in to that mud. Can you just
see it now? My pants down around my knees, knee deep
in mud, flat on my face, that damn Mexican Longhorn won’t
even touch me there.

I hear her off in the trees, snort’n , paw’n the ground, but
made it in to the bunkhouse and sorta got cleaned up.
It’s been come’n on for a long time now and this is the day.
Got down my ole 30-30, walk out and I’m gonna shoot that cow. I start for the bank of trees. Damn if she did’n see
me first and I thot it was the end of the earth.

The ground shook and wind roared as that ole Mexican cow
came out of them trees. I take one look and I turn tail and
run. In seconds flat, one of them long horns caught me by
the pants and next thing I know I’m fly’n through the air,
splash’n in that hog waller again.

Next fall came and went and I found out later that old Mexican Longhorn got rounded up with a bunch of yearling
steers and went off to Sooo City. Probably been ground up
for a joosey MacDonald’s and none too soon I guess.

First time I ever went to church, was in the city one day and
pass’n one of them Cathedrals I just had to stop and pray.
Deer Lord I just wanta thank ye for save’n me . You took
care of satan a while back jist when my luck was run’n out.
Thanks lord, she’d a got me fer sure if you hadn't stepped
in and took her out.

--John Crowley

Beehive and Hilltop Schools

2007-09-02T09:02:00.001-04:00

The original spelling of my Dad’s name—who I’ve always known as John—was “Eugean,” a variant spelling of Eugene. Dad never liked the name. Later in life, he adopted the more standard “Eugene” and switched it with his middle name. His old school records list him as “Gean,” though.

I was able to find some of these old records about my Dad's school days around Thunder Butte while in Faith last March. They come from a few pages in a photocopied binder that I found at the new Faith museum. The binder was titled, "The Way They Were - Ziebach County Rural Schools 1910 - 1978," compiled by Carol Johnson. This is what I was able to learn—

During the 1927-28 school year, my Dad attended the Beehive school with his sister Cecil. She was 12 and in the sixth grade and he was six and in the first grade. Mind you, this was a one room schoolhouse, which was common to the area around the butte until recent times. Their classmates included three of Frank Veit’s kids—Harold, age five and in 1st grade, Alvin, age six and in 1st grade, and Treva, age nine and in 3rd grade. Ada Jones had a son, Gerald, in the class. He was 14 and in the 8th grade. Mrs. William Soam had two daughters in the class for a time—Amy, age eight and in the 1st grade, and Clara, age five and also in the 1st grade. Both of the Soam girls dropped out, as did Harold Veit. Possibly some of the kids were too young and not ready for school. The woman shown as the teacher for four months of the school year—it’s not clear who taught the rest of the term—was Margaret Stephenson. Her salary is listed as $85.

During the 1928-29 school year, records show my Dad—at age seven and in the 2nd grade—was the only member of his family left in the Beehive school. There were fewer students, too. Four of Frank Veit’s kids were attending—Treva, age 10 and in the 3rd grade, Alvin, age 8 and in the 1st grade, Harold, age 7 and in the 1st grade, and Roy, age five. However, Roy dropped out because he was too young for school. The only other kid in the school at the time was Woodrow Hayes, son of J.A. Hayes. Woodrow was 14 and in the 7th grade. The teacher for the first half of the school term was Minnie Hayes, whose salary was $95.

My Dad doesn’t remember the teachers, but he remembers the Veit kids, most of who he says used to get the “jump on me and try to beat me up.” He remembers the Veit girl, Treva, as being the nice one of the bunch. Of Treva, he says “she was way older than me and she used to beat hell out of all the other Veits when they would [try] to beat me up.”

Another source, "South Dakota's Ziebach County, History of the Prairie", published in 1982 by the Ziebach County Historical Society in Dupree, SD, says this about those attending the Beehive school: “Students in 1931 were Treva, Alvin, Harold and Roy Veit, Gean Crowley and Helen Roseneau.” The book also says that the Beehive school “was located about 8 miles south of Glad Valley and ran from 1917 through 1936.” It also says: “On the official records the school was called Beehive, but locally it is known as ‘Beebe’. Elmer Beebe was the first teacher in 1917-18. After the Beehive school closed, “Dutch Parrot bought the building and later sold it to Pickers.”

It’s too bad that I wasn’t able to find any records of the Hilltop school, where my Dad later attended. He says “that’s where I used to live in the sheep wagon, so I wouldn't have to ride in the blizzards, because it was something like eight miles from home.”

Both the Beehive and Hilltop schools were one room schoolhouses, and probably were not much different from either of those old schoolhouses depicted in the photos from last month’s post on the schoolhouses of Thunder Butte.

--Mike Crowley

Geanie Wants Beanies

2007-09-01T10:25:00.000-04:00

Yes, they called me "Geanie" when I was little, somebody did anyway. I didn't learn to hate it without help. One of my fondest memories goes back to a cattle drive when all the neighboring ranchers were having dinner at our place. I would keep saying "Geanie wants beanies," because I loved beans--this was when I was not even [five] yet. Fred Schrader, an old heavy set, bowlegged rancher kept teasing me, saying "Geanie wants a beanie, Geanie wants a beanie," then being so tickled with his own joke, he hit his leg with a resounding thump. The pocket full of stick matches that he always carried burst into flame. His pants went up like a big cloud of flame and he ran for the creek screaming his head off and jumped in the creek. Tickles me to this day that he got his comeuppance.

--John Crowley (formerly Gene, Gean, and/or Geanie)

Schoolhouses of Thunder Butte

2007-08-18T15:08:00.000-04:00

When my dad was growing up around Thunder Butte, kids living in the area attended one room schoolhouses. Dad went to the Beehive school beginning about age five. Little or nothing probably remains of the Beehive school today. However, when I was in the area in March, I did photograph a couple of old schoolhouses not far from the butte (see below). Today, these schoolhouses are abandoned with windows broken out, and falling into ruin.

Click on the photos to enlarge them.

Old Schoolhouse on Highway 73 West of Thunder Butte

Another View of Old Schoolhouse on Highway 73 West of Thunder Butte

Old Schoolhouse on Veit Ranch East of Thunder Butte

Thunder Butte is visible to the left of the schoolhouse in the above photograph.

--Mike Crowley

Running Cattle and Fistfights

2007-08-17T22:09:00.000-04:00

While I was visiting Faith in March, Gene Ulrich related the following story about my Uncle Neal....

The years 1934 through 1936 were dry years around Faith, South Dakota. Neal was running some cattle with a rancher in the area. They got an offer to winter the cattle down in Martin on some good winter pasturage. Gene Ulrich signed on to help out with the cattle. Neal took Dorothy with him. After they got down there with the cattle, some of the locals felt bad that Neal and the other outsiders had gotten their hands on good land for grazing cattle for the winter. One night at a bar, three of the locals decided that they were going to take Neal down. Neal got the jump on them, though, and dropped each of them with a quick fist. They quickly retreated to their side of the bar and that was the end of that.

Gene Ulrich also told me that Neal was an extremely friendly man, especially so with children. He was viewed as quite economically successful, holding down the police job for 20-25 years, handling a mail route (which Gene occasionally helped out with), and variously tending or managing the Faith municipal bar. Some people were jealous of Neal's success and would look for opportunities to pick fights with him. Taking down Neal would have been a big deal since Neal was such a good fighter, according to Gene. Gene said that Neal didn't shy from a fistfight, despite being a really nice guy. If someone said a cross or ornery word, Neal would sometimes respond in kind, almost goading the person into the inevitable fistfight that Neal would always win.

I ran into another old friend of Neal's in Faith, Gene Schaff, who said that he used to pal around with Neal in Faith. When I asked Gene what Neal used to do for fun, he told me that Neal loved to get into fistfights.

--Mike Crowley

Photos from March 27th Trip to the Butte

2007-08-05T22:08:00.000-04:00

Below are a few photos from our March 27th attempt to visit Thunder Butte using an old road from the northeast. Needless to say, the land eventually got too rugged on the route we took and road washed out, preventing further progress. We attempted to walk the remaining distance, but we were not dressed properly for the cold wind and the shadows were starting to get long. So we failed to reach the butte on this attempt.

The land around Thunder Butte had kind of a spooky feeling to it. When we hiked down the old road toward the butte, I felt that we were almost following a trail into the past. After the road washed out and we walked another couple of miles towards the butte, the sense of isolation was palpable. I almost thought that we would encounter our family's ghosts at any minute as we trudged toward the area near the butte where my dad's family lived until the late 1930's. All we found, though, was loneliness, wind, and scrub grass.

You can click on the photos to enlarge them.

--Mike Crowley

Tommie Crowley's Grave

2007-08-04T23:05:00.001-04:00

As I mentioned in my earlier post, my sister and I found our uncle Tommie's grave at the cemetery in Isabel on March 27th. Its location had been lost to family members. My dad thought he recalled that Tommie was buried at Isabel, but wasn't sure where. The photos below show Tommie's grave marker, as well as views of the Hillview Cemetery where he is buried. The cemetery records show a plot registered to or occupied by a Mr. Crowley adjacent to Tommie's grave. Our best guess is that our grandfather had purchased two plots when Tommie died unexpectedly of appendicitis, although we are not sure why he would have done so. Was it the knowledge that death could strike unexpectedly at any time, as it had in young Tommie's case?

Something else about the cemetery--the Protestants and Catholics are buried in different sections of the cemetery. Naturally, Tommie was buried in the Catholic section. Our Uncle Neal's first wife, Dorothy, was from the Tidball family, and we found a lot of folks with her last name buried in the Protestant section. That was a bit of a surprise. However, we were told later in Faith by folks who had known Neal that Dorothy had converted to Catholicism when she married Neal.

You can click on the photos to enlarge them.

--Mike Crowley

Continuing Adventures in Thunder Butte Country

2007-07-19T22:39:00.000-04:00

On Monday afternoon, March 26th, after spending the morning chatting with some of the older ladies in Faith who knew Uncle Neal, my sister Eileen and I drove out to Lemmon. I took a bunch of pictures of the "old" high school my dad went to only to find out later at the chamber of commerce that the REAL old high school was torn down 25-30 years before. An interesting gentleman at the chamber told Eileen and me that we looked like twins. Then he said that Eileen looked like Anna Nicole Smith--not the dead one! We were a bit startled at that, but perhaps the fellow needed a new pair of glasses. After that, we entertained each other by referring to ourselves Anna and Banana Nicole for the rest of the trip. Before leaving the Chamber, we stocked up on t-shirts and other fine collectibles produced for the imminent centennial celebration of the town's founding. Also before we left Lemmon, we checked out the Petrified Park, but there wasn't too much of interest. It hasn't changed much since I was a kid. From the old photographs of the place that I've found on the web, it probably hasn't changed much since it was first built. I don't know when that was, but guess it was 70 to 80 years ago. Basically, the park consists of neat stacks of rock – all petrified wood – packed and cemented together into large conical and other shapes. It is an odd way to present fossil material from another era, but I imagine that it was considered an imaginative display when it was first constructed.

We drove out to Glad Valley that afternoon looking for the old Catholic church where grandpa, grandma, and the kids used to go when they lived near Thunder Butte. The church is gone. Rex Witte, about 75, who ran the old general store (closed mid-1990s) told us that the church was sold and hauled away for another use years ago. The graves were all moved to Isabel. This was of particular interest to me because I had been nursing a theory that our Uncle Tommie, who died as a child in the 1920s was probably buried in Glad Valley. My dad said that he thought Tommie was buried in Isabel, where he died of a ruptured appendix on the surgeon's table, but he had not been able to find the grave on an early trip back to South Dakota. We talked to Rex for a couple of hours. He was a real character, but in some ways the most interesting person we talked to on the whole trip. He gave us his perspective on life in the area, including some of the tensions between ranchers and Native Americans that have persisted over the years. Rex said that he knew our Uncle Neal and that he used to picnic with the Crowleys on top of Thunder Butte. Interestingly enough for anyone following the news about the honeybee die off taking place across the country, Rex has lost all of the bees in his hives.

Tuesday morning, we went out to the county building in Dupree and looked up the old land records for grandpa Crowley's homestead. I was able to make a copy of grandpa's original deed to his homestead, which would have been about one mile northwest of Thunder Butte. According to the local records, he lost the land in 1924 after failing to pay his taxes beginning in 1921. This was news to us. We hadn't known why the Crowleys had moved from the original homestead. Of course, failure to pay the taxes doesn't necessarily tell the “why.” The land may not have proved very productive, and the grass may have looked greener so to speak on another parcel available for lease.

That afternoon, we drove out to Isabel to find Uncle Tommie's grave. Everyone in the family who actually knew where the grave was has died, if they ever knew. I spoke to the lady who runs the town newspaper, and she suggested that I talk to the woman who works at the post office, as her mother has a good memory for people and events of yesteryear. I did talk to the woman at the post office and she was helpful enough to call her elderly mother, but she knew nothing of Uncle Tommie or his grave. She suggested that we talk to a woman at the grain elevator. When we drove up to the grain elevator, I was uncertain where to find the office. I was surprised to find that Eileen knew exactly where it was located because it was along the side and up a set of stairs, just as it had been in some movie that she had seen once. Hollywood proved helpful that day, since that was exactly where the office was. The woman in the office at the grain elevator was on the cemetery board and insisted that I wait while she ran home to get her records. When she returned, we found that she did have a Thomas Crowley listed as buried in the cemetery, and the dates were a match. Mystery of mysteries, though, because her records also showed an unknown Mr. Crowley buried next to him. She said that it would be highly unusual if the grave was not that of a relative. Later, someone in Faith who was familiar with such things said that it could have been an empty plot purchased by a Mr. Crowley, most likely our grandfather. Anyway, we drove out to the cemetery and found Uncle Tommie's grave with a nice concrete and brass marker on it. It didn't look very old. Another mystery--could Uncle Neal have placed it on the grave? According to the marker, Tommie died in 1927, when he would have been just a teenager. Perhaps Neal placed a marker on the grave before he died in the 1970s.

We took pictures at the cemetery to document the grave. Finding Tommie's grave was the fulfillment of a sort of personal crusade of mine. I was intent on finding him, since he really was just a kid when he died and dad said that his grave was lost. I was glad that we had found it. Even though Tommie died years before I was born—really it was an entirely different time and place—I felt that we were reconnecting in a way with a long lost relative. I felt a powerful tug of emotion finding the grave and said a few words over it before we left.

We drove back out to Thunder Butte later that afternoon, our second visit to the butte of the trip, coming in from one of the ranch roads to the northeast. Rex Witte had told us that we didn't need to get permission to cross the ranch land as long as we were careful to close the gates behind us as we drove across the property. We found what looked to have been the old road into the butte from the north and followed it probably to within four miles of the butte before it washed out. The washout and surrounding land were very rugged territory to cross, and I was leery of taking the Nissan Pathfinder into it for fear of scraping out the bottom or otherwise damaging it. So, we walked another two miles toward the butte, hoping to make it to the vicinity of at least the property where my grandparents lived in the late 1930s. Cold temperatures, 30-40 mile per hour winds, and fading light as the day drew to a close eventually turned us back, though. Probably, the closest we got to the butte that day was about two miles to the north of it.

--Mike Crowley

Thunder Butte Up Close

2007-07-07T14:06:00.001-04:00

Here are a few pictures of Thunder Butte on March 25, 2007. The views of the butte are from the south and southeast. One shows the rock near the top of the northeast side. Another shows the view from the top of the butte looking to the northeast -- where the Crowleys lived in the 1930s.

Whispers From the Past Carried on the Breeze

2007-05-23T07:40:00.000-04:00

My sister, Eileen, and I both flew into Rapid City, South Dakota, on March 24th, both coming in from opposite directions—she from California and me from Washington, DC. We drove to Faith that afternoon. The next morning we drove into Eagle Butte and picked up Karen and Jerry, who planned to be our guides for the day as we drove out to Thunder Butte. I had not seen the butte since I was 13, when we had spent several weeks one summer driving across the country.

In an odd coincidence, Karen is the mother-in-law of a woman I work with in Washington, DC, and teaches on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation. Her husband, Jerry, is a photographer. We piled into a rented SUV and drove back west on State Highway 212 out of Eagle Butte before turning north on Thunder Butte Road, which is basically a well maintained gravel road. Several miles out, we turned onto a ranch road and stopped at the Veit home where we asked for permission to continue over the ranch roads on an approach to Thunder Butte from the south. We bounced along quite a bit over narrow, rutted roads—stopping every once in a while to open a ranch gate, drive through, and then close it. Finally, we hit a fence line about a fourth of a mile southeast of the butte with no gate. The rest of the way in was on foot.

The temperature was an unseasonable 80-plus degrees for late March. As we slogged by foot toward the butte, the heat really helped to drive in the point about just how dry the country looked. The area has been in a drought for several years. The prairie appears to be mostly dry earth interspersed with bits of brown scrub grass. It's hard to imagine how the ranchers hang on. With pasturage so poor, many ranchers reportedly have been paying for feed for their livestock and downsizing herds. The Ziebach County assessor later told us that even in a good year, it takes about 28 acres out here to support a single cow. With the country appearing as it did on this day, it was difficult to imagine anything living out here.

We trekked up and around toward the northeast side of Thunder Butte before we started to climb. Eileen and Karen stopped about halfway up and decided to take a break from the heat. Jerry and I continued all of the rest of the way up to the top of the butte, where we walked around a bit and surveyed the surrounding countryside. This was my first visit to the top of the butte—a place that my dad had climbed a lot as a child—and I had high hopes for what might be visible up there. While there were few man made structures visible in the distance, every once in a while you could see traces or disturbances in the prairie where a ranch road had passed or where perhaps there had been some kind of structure. I gazed off in both the northwest and northeast directions, looking for traces of former Crowley family habitations, but saw nothing.

In 1913, my grandfather had purchased land just northeast of the butte. The family moved off several years later, but I was most interested in seeing what might remain of the original Crowley family homestead. Nothing was visible from the butte. Later, the family had lived just northeast of the butte on rented or leased land. Based on the photos that remain in our family's possession, I judged that this latter ranch also was fairly close to the butte, if not directly proximate.

I guess that I was hoping to see at least the outlines in the ground of an old ranch house. The original Crowley home was a sod house. But, whether sod or a wood structure, old buildings do often leave traces in the prairie, where disturbances in the earth can continue to be visible for years. You can often make out traces where such structures stood. Still, I saw nothing.

Standing on the top of the butte, the silence of the surrounding country envelopes you. It was so amazing to think that people—my people—had once lived here. I know that it may sound odd, but standing on the top of the butte, you could almost hear whispers of these people from the past on the breeze. You could almost see them, riding about on horseback, bouncing over a ranch road in a Ford Model T, repairing the wire on a fence line, bringing back water from the well. You could almost see them, but from a contemporary perspective, it was still difficult to imagine the lives they lived—so different from the lives that we live today, and with so few of the modern amenities that we have grown up with and take for granted. Maybe this is what the Lakota mean when they talk about climbing the butte on a vision quest. Standing there all alone, surrounded by nothing but the murmuring of an occasional breeze, it is not difficult to imagine, to see and hear voices from the past.

We took a few pictures, and then Jerry and I picked our way down from the top of the butte to rejoin with Karen and Eileen below. As we walked back to the SUV, it was so difficult imagining how people lived here – not just for a morning or afternoon – but for years, sometimes for entire lives. Yet, by climbing the butte that day, I could almost see it.

--Mike Crowley

If You've Been Wondering....

2007-05-17T22:55:00.000-04:00

If you've been wondering why I haven't had any new posts here since March, I've just been very busy. Lots of both work and travel. We'll begin reposting here in June.

Coming up in June are stories from my trip to Thunder Butte in late March. To be honest, it was only the second time in my life that I've personally seen the Butte, and the first time that I climbed it. It was quite an experience. More about that in June....

--Mike Crowley

Robbers and Sheep Wagons

2007-03-28T21:27:00.000-04:00

On a recent visit to Faith, South Dakota, Gene Ulrich related a story that Neal Crowley once told him--

When Neal was about ten--this would have been about 1923--his dad, Tom, was watching a herd of sheep up north of the Moreau river. Neal was staying with him out on the prairie in an old sheep wagon. The river was high and swollen, and still had ice in it. Along towards sunset, a bandit named Kelly who had robbed a till down in Faith came riding up south of the river ahead of a posse of several men. Kelly rode right into the river, even though his horse sank up to his muzzle and had to swim. To keep the ice from slamming into the horse, Kelly held out both of his legs from the saddle to kick the big sheets away. When his horse got a sure footing and came up the near bank, the posse stopped on the south bank and refused to cross--judging the river to be too dangerous. That night, Kelly stayed with Tom and Neal in the sheep wagon along with his loot.

On the Rez

2007-02-16T22:35:00.000-05:00

I've often wondered how my grandfather ended up settling with his family on the South Dakota plains right in the middle of the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation. While it is impossible to know what was going on in the minds of people who are now long dead, I suspect that the Crowleys may not have dwelt much on the fact that the land they bought in Ziebach County shortly after the turn of the last century was considered by anyone to be part of a reservation. This is not to say that the Crowleys were not aware of the Native Americans who were in their vicinity.

Family lore has it that when the Crowleys were moving to Ziebach County, they passed through the Standing Rock Reservation on the way down from North Dakota, where they spent the night at the Standing Rock Agency. Apparently, they spent the night in a building at the Agency with a number of the local Sioux. My grandmother is reported to have stayed up the entire night, unable to sleep, because she was terrified of the Indians. When I was little, I remember my grandmother telling stories about running off the “thieving Indians,” as she put it—who came to the door looking for food, or perhaps to buy or sell something. She was proud of her ability to brandish a rifle at these times. Still, she was not entirely without more tender feelings for some of the Native Americans. My father reports that the family took in a young Native American lad, Tony Roach, for some months to make sure that he was fed and sheltered while his family was away.

Again, however, the Crowleys were unlikely to have thought much about the fact that they were living on a reservation. When Congress passed a law in May 1908 opening up “surplus” lands on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation for homesteaders, many people—including the white settlers—felt that these lands had been carved out of reservation and were now, in essence, "former" reservation lands. In addition to making available millions of acres for homesteading, Congress made allotments available for town sites, schools, and other accoutrements of American society. In fact, the sale of a portion of the reservation lands accompanied action to make individual land allotments available to each tribal member. Many people felt that opening up Indian country to homesteaders and giving each Native American a piece of land would speed up the assimilation process. Eventually, it was thought, the reservation system would fade away, becoming a dim memory as homesteaders and Indians alike became part of the larger American “civilized” society.

While the tribes fought the breakup of their reservation lands in the Federal courts, most homesteaders did not spend much time thinking about living on a reservation. They lived on private land—not reservation-controlled property, which they variously bought or leased. They lived in Ziebach County, which had governmental offices seated in the town of Dupree. Most homesteaders would not have had any reason to have any dealings with the tribal authorities. If they had crime problems, they would have turned to the sheriff in Dupree, rather than interacting with reservation law enforcement. My relatives never mentioned that they had lived on a reservation—I only discovered the fact a few years ago.

The sale of reservation lands to homesteaders created a series of complicated legal issues that were still being sorted out in the Federal courts in recent times. It was only with a Supreme Court ruling in February 1984, that the legal question of Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation boundaries was finally put to rest when the Court ruled that the sale of lands had not “diminished” the reservation. Therefore, land in non-tribal hands stemming from the land sales in 1908 was indeed still on the reservation. Unfortunately, the courts have not sorted out all of the legal issues resulting from the 1908 Act to everyone's satisfaction. Tribal and non-tribal members living on the reservation today face a complicated set of legal jurisdictions in which the tribal government has some jurisdiction over some issues and the non-tribal county government has jurisdiction over others. For example, who does one call today when a crime is committed? The tribal police? The County Sheriff? The South Dakota Highway Patrol? The FBI? The answer—it depends on such things as whether the offender is a tribal member or not, whether the crime was committed on tribal-controlled or private (non-tribal) property, and a variety of other factors. And, in day to day practice, it is a lot more complicated to sort this out than it would be off the reservation. Today, many believe that the result is a crazy patch-work set of jurisdictions. And, the Lakota chafe at the limited ability they have to manage affairs within the limits of their own reservation.

--Mike Crowley