Category Archives: Places

Jefe

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Those of you who have spent any time drifting along the dusty, hot trail that winds along the border between Texas and Mexico know the occasional small towns, actually villages, that you come across here and there. The ones so small they don’t even appear on local maps let alone your GPS.

Lost in time, little has changed since the time of the border incident, the one where Texas took the top half of Mexico and just kept it. Since there wasn’t much to do with that land after they took it has remained just like it has always been, a place unto itself, with its own rules, laws and customs. Some of these small villages are so remote and difficult to get to that even the residents don’t know how to get there.

To say it is difficult to make a living here is such an understatement it is easier to believe what is being said out of Washington no matter how outrageous or preposterous than to think a living can be made here. There’s no fake news here as there’s no news, period, none, not any. Well somebody might put up a sign about a lost goat, or a missing 57 Chevy, but that’s the extent of it. That’s what passes for news down here. They have to go fifty miles or more in any direction just to see a DIRECTV dish let alone be able to watch it..

Their village may be small and inconsequential to us but it’s their life and what goes on there is as important to them as our rules and regulations are to us. They need the structure and comfort of having someone tell them what’s acceptable and what’s not in their world, to keep them safe, give them guidance, and take the worry out of day to day living.

In one of the smallest of the small villages tucked away in the high chaparral and cactus laden cliffs that line a small spring that occasionally trickles into the Rio Grande, is the village named c To say it is unimpressive is to give it credit for having anything of interest or value to recommend it. Which it doesn’t. Its main claim to fame being that not many donkeys have fallen off the razor thin trail that leads up along the cliff to the village. Yet people live there, simply by our standards perhaps but meaningful to them. And they like all of us feel the need for some type of leadership.

In this case it is a man of some respect in the village. His father, and his before him, and his father before him stretching back way past the memory of any living resident, and simply called Jefe by the others, is the one making important decisions for the village. He decides who’s at fault in the latest knife fight, and who shall be chosen to make the irregular trek into civilization to bring back whatever is needed, and to preside over the unexpected but mandatory wedding when the priest can’t make it there in time and countless other small but significant decisions that arise. The other villagers don’t even call him leader, or boss, or mayor, he is simply Jefe. His responsibility is to the village and he takes it very seriously.

Ghost Child

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The battle at the Little Bighorn was a tremendous victory for the gathered tribes against the white soldiers of the United States Western Frontier Army entering their hallowed ground. There had been many smaller engagements between the two adversaries with the Indians normally realizing small victories if any. This time it was different. The overwhelming number of warriors engaged the soldiers and took the victory in fairly short order, handing a defeat to the cavalry unlike any they had ever seen before.

The number of the soldiers of the 7th cavalry killed in the battle at the Little Bighorn river is placed at approximately 260 killed and buried in place where they fell. The number of Indians that were also killed is not exactly known although they were far, far less than their adversaries numbering perhaps in the dozens if that many. Most if not all of the bodies of the slain warriors were removed from the field of battle immediately after the fight was over and taken back to the camp and their families.

The battlefield became a quiet eerie place where the only sounds were the rushing of the wind through the tall Montana grass where the dead had lain and the occasional call of a raven flying overhead. The gunshots, battle cries and the screaming of the victors over the moaning of those still alive after it was over were long gone. Silence reigned supreme over the Greasy Grass. It became a place where the spirits wandered over the low hills and along the riverside. It was a place of big medicine.

As time passed there were the occasional reports of things that couldn’t be explained occurring. A shadowy figure riding slowly in the near dark of impending dusk. The sound of hooves breaking the surface of the gently moving river. A pale rider just visible in the light of a full moon as he crossed slowly from one bank to another. It is unknown whether the young rider was a participant in the battle, becoming a casualty, or simply a dream produced by the medicine of the battle. In any case if you happened to be there now on that long ago battlefield, and by chance stayed until the river was illuminated by the light of a full moon, you might see the ghost child riding on his endless vigil. Remember there is big medicine there. And there are things that cannot be explained.

The Guide

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Back around Fort Uncompahgre in the early days if you were new to the area and you wanted to go out to make your fortune, you would best be advised to acquire a suitable guide. One that not only knew the area but knew the tribes and how they were particularly feeling at the moment. Did they feel peckish about folks wandering around in their hunting grounds, or were they amenable to visitors if they behaved themselves. That knowledge could be invaluable if you were to unexpectedly meet some of the locals.

This was knowledge that was normally gained the hard way on your own with little chance of a do over if you screwed it up. A good guide could mean the difference between success, which was measured not only materially, but in whether you stayed alive or not, always a desired outcome.

A good guide was measured by many things. Did he appear to be a sober, substantial individual with a good grasp of the country and current conditions. Did he have all of his natural hair. Spots on his head minus hair were acceptable if they occurred naturally but were to be avoided at all cost if they appeared to be gone due to native surgery. Always ask the prospective guide to remove his hat before entering into serious negotiating.

The fellow above is one of the good guides, one of the best actually. Honest, intelligent, a man of few vices, smoking was not considered a vice, nor was spitting unless you were down wind of him. Drunken brawling in your Union suit was considered very bad form, but he was never seen engaging in that behavior so he had an excellent reputation and was sought after if he was in residence at the fort. Dependable, that’s what he was known for. And he didn’t beat his mules.

A good guide meant the difference between a successful trip where you’d finish above the grass or an unsuccessful one, where you’d get to meet some of the Utes who were mostly friendly, and maybe the Shoshone who were not so much, who could give you a more scary outcome. So be advised, if you’re headed out Ft Uncompahgre way and want to make sure you have a good trip check out the guide situation and if you’re lucky hire this guy.

The Hitchhiker

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Early Spring in Yellowstone

It’s early spring in Yellowstone, actually it’s nearly the end of the month and where the rest of the country is looking at early flowers and sunshine, up here it’s cold, the snow keeps falling and food is hard to find.

This grizzly and her cub are up early and looking for supper. Problem is there isn’t much in the way of food right now. Snow covers everything and the ground is still frozen so digging for ground squirrels isn’t on the menu yet. Hopefully there’ll be some winter kill around. A nice frozen buffalo that didn’t make it through the winter would be welcome. Anything dead at all in fact would be welcome, she’s hungry and the cub needs its milk so she’s got to get something going in the way of sustenance.

The cub doesn’t know quite what to make of all this white stuff or the cold for that matter. It’s been snuggling with mom for so long that it’s a real shock to discover cold paws. Luckily mom has been through this all before and doesn’t mind the cub’s climbing aboard to get out of the cold wet snow.

As this is the very end of May, tomorrow will likely bring bright sunshine, rapidly melting snow and food. There’s edible grass under the snow, and on the southern side of the hillsides the ground is warm enough that she can dig out some unlucky ground squirrels, and the cub will be off her back and scrambling around discovering it’s new life out of the den. No need to hitchhike anymore.

Christmas Festival at Bent’s Old Fort – The Blacksmith

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One frigidly cold night at Bent’s Old Fort out on the nearly deserted plains of Southeast Colorado, it was 12° in the plaza. It was the celebration of Christmas and the fort was decorated with evergreen boughs brought down from the mountains and hung on all the post holding up the second story deck. There were ribbons and Christmas decorations in the various rooms and the festive feelings of the holidays were everywhere. Under the empty cloudless sky brimming with stars whose light did little to provide warmth, log fires burned around the grounds valiantly trying to keep the cold away and provide light. It worked if you stood right up next to the fires, so close you risked setting yourself on fire, but at the time that didn’t seem like a bad idea. It was the annual Christmas Festival at the fort and the crowds filling up the central plaza hadn’t been there long enough to let the cold seep into their bones.

Shadows of the people casually milling around the open plaza were cast up onto the towering adobe walls. Mountain men and women carrying lanterns with candles inside kept tours of guests moving from one room to the next as their various occupants within explained their jobs, their lives, and how things were when the fort was in use back in the early 1800’s.

The rooms quickly filled up as the groups entered and clustered together for warmth. As the rooms were not heated in many cases, the more people gathered together the better and warmer it felt. Some places had small adobe fireplaces in the rooms that gave off heat as long as you kept them stoked with the split wood that appeared to be in endless supply. For some reason it took the tours a little longer to go through those heated rooms than the ones that were unheated.

There was one place however that was very popular. The Blacksmith shop. The roaring fire in the forge, the ringing of the hammer against the anvil, the lanterns hung about with their glowing dancing candlelight, the gathering groups of people all eager to soak up the warmth of the shop. Many questions were asked of the blacksmith and his assistant, so many in fact that the tour leaders had to move one group out so the next could enter. It was amazing how much folks wanted to know about the art of blacksmithing especially when someone would open the door letting that refreshing 12° air into the room. The door would quickly be shut and the blacksmith would pull the chain on the huge bellows and the fire in the forge would come roaring back to life again shooting sparks up the adobe brick chimney like a Roman candle.

The project in the shop that evening was creating delicate hammered iron hooks, hand-fashioned and bent and pounded into shape by the skilled hands of the blacksmith. Knowing the exact color needed in the heated metal rods he would pull them out of the fire, place them on the anvil and strike with his small heavy hammer until they were formed exactly as he needed them to be. The process was fascinating. It was mesmerizing and almost hypnotic watching the gorgeous red metal slowly fade to a darker shade until it had to be placed back in the forge and be reheated.

The Christmas Festival at Bent’s Old Fort was a wonderful event. After a while the crowds seemed to forget about the cold as the warmth of the season and the good fellowship of the folks sharing their love of the fort and its history spread throughout the plaza. All of the guests seemed to have a great time and enjoyed immensely the atmosphere of a treasured part of history. If you get the opportunity to attend the Christmas Festival at Bent’s Old Fort don’t miss it, the memories will stay with you forever.

Time Travel

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The photo above was taken at the North American Indian Days or NAID held every year by the Blackfeet tribe at Browning, Montana. There, members of the tribe gather and celebrate their heritage by dancing, singing, displaying their treasured regalia and horses, and their culture in all of its splendor.

Sometime during the celebration they hold a parade and it’s a grand parade. Everyone shows up as the participants walk, ride or are carried in decorated vehicles through the streets of Browning. Many with their own interpretation of how things were before modern civilization entered the picture.

This woman riding her prized horse with its foal walking along side in the parade is an example of how the culture and traditions of the tribe are upheld. As an observer you can choose to view this scene as it actually occurred, where the parade passed in front of a large store with crowds of people standing in front, cars parked along the roadway, the street itself in stark relief with its blacktop reality as an element in the image, a strict documentation of the event as it actually was, or you can choose to see it another way. As an artist first and photographer second and a hopeless romantic thrown in to boot, I chose to see her as a member of the tribe on a journey to the summer camping grounds, where there was plenty of new grass for the horses, the game was plentiful in the mountains, and space in the lush valley to set up their lodges while they lived their lives as they always had in the past.

A generous use of photo editing software allowed me to time travel and remove the modern day distractions, the cars, the buildings, the crowds, hopefully recreating that feeling of a bygone era. Romanticized, of course, but that’s how I see a lot of the world. Whether it actually existed like this doesn’t matter, Art is what you see in your minds eye whether it’s a gritty fact-filled stark reality with all its warts and blemishes, or  an idyllic imagined peaceful scene. There’s no political agenda here, just an attempt to show the beauty and history and yes the nostalgia of an incredible people as it may have been in a long ago time. Time travel and an emotional escape to a place that may never have existed as portrayed but certainly should have.

If you get an opportunity go and see the powwow of the Blackfeet tribe at Browning, Montana. You might just see your own vision, all you have to do is look and imagine.

Ellis McElry Goodson Gentleman Rancher

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One of the driving forces, if not the main one in the early West, was the rancher. The cowman. The man who put his money where his mouth was. He fought Indians, rustlers, the weather, bad luck, fate itself in establishing his mark on the West. It took more than determination, more than desire, it took iron resolution and the strength and courage to persevere in the face of every kind of adversity imaginable. And he did. It was men like him that created the West.

Back in the mid 1860’s you managed your ranch with an iron hand and common sense, yet with a common core of ethics, a strong sense of morality and a vision. If he was your friend he was your friend for life. And he expected no less from you. This was big land and it took a big man and others like him to settle it.

This is Ellis McElry Goodson. He was an early settler and rancher near Bannack, Montana, a mining town in Southwestern Montana and he sought his fortune in the cattle business rather than mining like everyone else. There was more than one way to strike it rich.  After all miners had to eat too. A man could make a good living for himself and his family by proving the meat for a hungry mining camp. Miners paid dearly for a good steak and the currency was gold. He was essential to the existence of many a town and that made him very wealthy and an important figure in the community. He never called himself a gentleman rancher. That would be unseemly. But everyone else did. When he was mentioned in the ever present conversation that went on in every saloon, street corner, and general store he was called Mr. Goodson, gentleman rancher. He was thought of with respect and he earned it every day. That’s the way it was in the West.