From Red Lights to Red Hats

Back in the late 1800's and up until the mid 20th century, Wallace, Idaho was a bustling and bawdy silver mining town nestled in pine-covered Silver Valley near the Idaho-Montana border. Now home to less than 800 human souls, the town narrowly escaped demolition back in the late 1980's when plans for Interstate 90 showed that Wallace was in the way of progress. The town's folk, feeling quite attached to their homes and livelihoods and not at all interested in pulling up roots, instead pulled off the coup of the century. Resolute in the knowledge that historic buildings are protected from seizure and demolition by government forces, the town council and elected officials spearheaded a committee to save the town by having every last building in downtown Wallace placed on the National Registry of Historic Places. And so, Interstate 90, rather than displace Wallace, was built "over" Wallace.


Now that the Interstate brings hundreds of thousands of vehicles right over Wallace each year, and the engineers had the good sense to install an exit, the town has the potential to attract visitors--people willing to spend money on goods and services. In 2011, the once sleepy little mining town slated for demolition has blossomed into an awakened little town filled with highly motivated citizens eagerly putting their talents to work showing the world, or at least the part of the world driving above on I-90, that Wallace is worth a closer look.

Silver mining remains a big part of Wallace's economy, an underground economy, so to speak; however, above ground the pristine mountains and lakes now attract outdoor enthusiasts from around the country. Wallace and surrounding towns have capitalized on the deep powder blanketing two ski hills during most of the winter, scenic bike trails beckoning summer peddlers, and alpine lakes enticing kayakers and fisherman. To its credit, Wallace holds the title of Silver Capital of the World having produced over 1.2 billion ounces of silver since 1884, and they wear their title with great pride.

The thirteen or so weeks of summer are filled with ATV jamborees, huckleberry and gooseberry festivals, 19th century plays at the Melodrama Theatre, parades, accordion festivals, Under the Interstate Flee Markets, and good ole' fashioned hospitality. Aside from the Best Western Hotel at the edge of town, there are no chain or brand name businesses--no Walmart, no Albertson's, no Target, not even a Dairy Queen. The entire town is owned and operated by the locals. And it shows. The amount of pride, enthusiasm, attention to detail, hospitality and downright friendliness oozes out onto the colorfully decorated storefronts and sidewalks.

Last week, a group of seven women, myself included, chose family-owned and operated Brook's Hotel, centrally located in historic downtown Wallace, for a two nights' stay in order to take the 17-mile bike ride on the Route of the Hiawatha. http://www.skilookout.com/hiawatha/

While the bike ride wowed on every level with high altitude trestles and two-mile long tunnels, Wallace stole the show. On our first night before the bike ride we walked the half dozen streets comprising "downtown" taking in the architecture, reading the plaques on each "historic" building, chatting with shop owners, and inquiring where we could get a good meal. With several suggestions in hand we decided on A Taste of Aloha. Who knew that Wallace, Idaho had an authentic Hawaiian restaurant, but it does, on the corner of 6th and Pine. Dinner was a truly fun experience as we joked with the owner and his wife who were the chef and waitress respectively.

After dinner we continued walking until we found the Melodrama Theatre built in the late 1800s and in continuous use since. The poster on the window announced the next production which would begin on the next evening at 7 pm. The title: Purdy Gerdy Gets Whacked as Wallace Goes Wireless. Now, who could resist a reproduction of a play that was written, produced, and staged right here at the Melodrama Theatre a hundred years ago? Certainly not us.

Before returning to The Brook's, we found a storefront at the far edge of town across the street from the train depot with a flashing neon sign which read "Bordello Museum". Oh yeah, we're definitely checking that out before we leave. Several doors down from our hotel we passed "The Tea Shop", a fussy, frilly, cafe-style shop reminiscent of every little girl's dreams complete with lace table cloths and bone china tea sets. The sign in the window says they serve high tea in the afternoon. Oh yeah, we're definitely checking that out, too.

The next morning we arose early, ate an ample breakfast, then headed to the trail head. The ride took longer than we anticipated. Our group split into two groups, those who were cold and wanted to ride as fast as possible for warmth and to speed back to the hotel hot tub and cocktails, and the group I chose who dressed appropriately and rode leisurely stopping often to gawk and take pictures. I think I made the better choice. Later in the evening, we all met for dinner at the Jameson Saloon, then walked down the street to the Melodrama Theatre while passing a growing crowd of onlookers awaiting the ATV parade, which kicks off the 3-day ATV Jamboree. After the show, we walked the three blocks back to The Brook's Hotel passing countless ATVs parked nilly-willy along the parade route with people sitting perched on the seats visibly drunk or stoned, or both. The parade was over, but the party had just begun.

The next morning, the group who sped through the bike ride decided to head for home after a wonderful breakfast of huckleberry waffles cooked by Bill Brooks and served by his daughter, Amy. The remaining three of us had our sights set on the Bordello and the Tea Shop as well as cruising the side of the mountain that tightly held tiny little houses where most of the town's people live.

First the Bordello Museum. A local family bought the building in the late 1990's after it had been boarded up unused since the FBI raided it and shut it down in 1988. The entire second floor, which was where business was conducted had been literally frozen in time with nearly everything intact as it was on the day of the raid, including cigarette butts in the ashtrays and bags of groceries in the kitchen, not to mention the actual red lights that illuminated the stairway as well as the lounge. The girls, along with the madam, lived in the bordello. The bedrooms that the girls serviced the clients in were their actual bedrooms. The madam had very strict rules, which were posted and followed to the letter. The girls were not to leave the bordello for any reason except for their monthly doctor visits. They were, however, allowed on the back second-floor deck in the afternoon for fresh air and sun. Periodically, girls were moved to other towns, sometimes in other states, to keep them from becoming attached to their clients and to keep the supply of girls new and different.

I had expected the Museum to show prostitution as it was during Wallace's early days when the town bustled with bawdy women, raucous men, and a host of lawless characters. I suppose like many people I have a romantic notion of America's wild west with saloons, show girls, drunken brawls, lively poker games, and Miss Kitty. Instead I saw a very depressing, very unromantic, reality where young women experienced degrading, dehumanizing treatment from those who "owned" them and those who used them. We learned that at one time the entire block was considered the "red light district", which began in the late 1800s during the silver rush and lasted nearly a hundred years.

After spending the next few hours checking out every single shop and business, we headed to The Tea Shop for high tea. There were only 5 tables in the tiny crowded shop and two of them were reserved so we were asked to return in a half hour or so. This gave us ample time to cruise up the mountain and see where everyone lives. It was amazing to see houses literally clinging to the side of a cliff like a goat; it was also amazing to see the views that people wake up to each morning. A view of a beautiful valley nestled between two ranges with a town tucked underneath an Interstate.

Back at The Tea Shop, a corner table awaited our arrival. Like three bulls in a china shop, we clumsily skinnied our way past several tables, taking care not to bang our elbows or shopping bags into the sea of enormous red hats sticking out over the chairs blocking our way. It seems the reserved tables now hosted eight elderly, overdressed ladies from Wallace's chapter of The Red Hat Society. The eight women seated at two adjoining tables nibbled tea biscuits and sipped Earl Gray tea in complete and utter silence. I wasn't sure what to make of this strange behavior. Most of the Red Hat ladies I've seen have been boisterous, almost demanding the attention they sought. But not this group. Not a peep. I wondered if they thought they were behaving appropriately. I also wondered if they had done this so many times that they simply had nothing to say to one another. I also wondered if maybe their hats were too tight and they weren't getting enough circulation to the brain. Then another thought came to mind, I wondered if any of these women's husbands had visited the bordello. I also wondered if any of these women had worked at the bordello. I wondered about all of the history, all of the stories that made this town what it is, and how it had evolved from red lights to red hats.

And so it is.

Lucky Day

"WHOA", I yelled as I pulled back on the dog's leashes. All three of us stopped dead in our tracks. The girls stood still wondering why we had stopped, and I stood still wondering what the hell just ran across the road ahead of us. Apparently, I was the only one who noticed otherwise the girls would have been dancing around wanting to give chase.

We were on the driveway heading back from the mailbox as we do everyday about this time. Only about 50 feet from the mailbox and still quite a ways from the house, the three of us stood motionless while I pondered our options. First off, I couldn't imagine what I had seen. I only caught a glimpse of the creature as it ran across the road and disappeared in the tall grass. The body was as large as a Beagle and similarly colored--mostly beige with dark patches. That was all I saw as it blurred by.

As we stood in the middle of the road I continually scanned the grass trying to determine if the creature had kept running or was hunkered down nearby. Within a few moments my question was answered as my heart dropped into my shoes. Our eyes met and my mind immediately raced for some glimmer of recognition. Nothing I knew of matched the face that stared back.

The upright round ears looked like that of a koala bear. The white stripe down the middle of the face reminded me of a skunk. The rest of the face was also striped, which reminded me of......nothing. The buff colored body and dark face--still drawing a blank. Well, I thought, it must be something. And, it must be something that is watching us, waiting....

Waiting for what? Is it aggressive? Is it just curious like me? Is it waiting to jump on one of the dogs? Is it...? What the hell is it? Whatever it is it's big, perhaps 30 pounds big. That's too big. Now I'm scared. The girls still haven't seen it or gotten a whiff that something is nearby. We were a good 40-50 feet away from it, but it positioned itself only about 10 feet from the edge of the road that we needed to pass by in order to return home.

There was no way in hell I was willing to risk passing this creature with two screwy, headstrong dogs at the end of a leash, especially since it was watching us perched so close to the road.

Fortunately, Pat had just returned home from a day in the mountains with Liam and was busy outside parking the horse trailer. I called him and asked if he could come and get us. The tone in his voice immediately changed as he asked, "what's wrong?" I told him that something big was in the grass near the road and it was watching us. Without hesitation he jumped into the truck and headed down. As the truck approached, the creature disappeared into what I later saw was an enormous hole.

Once we three were safely inside the truck I described the creature to Pat. He assured me it was a badger and that I was smart not to cross its path. Apparently, badgers are known for their fierceness, their meanness, and their ability to shred anything that gets in their way.

As I later learned, the badger is mostly nocturnal so I guess I was lucky to have seen one in the middle of the afternoon. Lucky too that I saw it before walking close enough for the girls to make their howdy-do's. And lucky that Pat was home and able to rescue the three damsels in distress.

Today was indeed a lucky day. And so it is.

Photos courtesy: Google Images

Summer

Summer began yesterday, June 21st. It was the first day this year that the thermometer found 75 degrees. Spring has left us cold, damp, and up to our ears in skeeters. In fact, I have bites inside my right ear and in other orifices that skeeters shouldn't visit.

The horses stand at full attention each evening for their marinade of fly and skeeter spray generously applied and gratefully accepted. The cats, all of whom are full-grown after celebrating their first birthday on the 15th of this month, eagerly scamper into the barn before dusk to avoid the onslaught of marauding insects seeking warm blooded creatures great and small.

Puff and her sweet little boys triumphed through their first long and bitterly cold winter. Yesterday's nearly 80 degree weather found them lounging in the sun early in the morning, but by mid afternoon all were lying on the cool concrete floor inside the garage. All that is except Uncle Charlie whom I found lying on a pile of freshly shaken throw rugs tossed on a bench just outside the back door. He would occasionally lift his head and look at the kitchen window hoping to catch a glimpse of me passing by. Once the floors were washed I joined him on the bench for a well deserved rest between chores. He curled up on my lap, looked up into my eyes, sighed, then laid his head on my arm and closed his eyes. Of the three kittens, Uncle Charlie is the least likely candidate for a barn cat. He would love to come into the house and live happily ever after on a window sill watching the birds, gophers, and clouds pass by without ever wanting to go outside again. Ernie, on the other hand, doesn't mind a little tummy tickle now and then but would just assume spend all his time hunting mice and baby gophers. At the end of the day when I whistle for them to head into the barn for the night, Ernie is usually the last to arrive. He will take every last minute of daylight insisting that the barn is for sleeping and eating and he's simply not yet tired or hungry. On two occasions, he chose to stay away when called only to find himself locked out for the night. I'm not sure if he spent the night upset or not, but by morning's first light he was eagerly awaiting an opportunity to get inside with his mom and brothers.

Chip, the middle kitten, has a very sunny and happy disposition. I often see him skipping along the road merrily on his way searching for something to chase or stalk. He doesn't venture too far from the barn and is often hiding in plain sight waiting for activity to draw him out. Puff, the mother, spends much of her time napping atop the haystack in the barn. She' s not very friendly, but will walk beside me when I'm out doing chores. If I stop to visit with her she usually lets me pet her but will not tolerate being picked up.

Each night as the kittens arrive in the barn for bedtime, each in turn gets picked up for a hug and a few words of praise and appreciation. I'm not sure if they look forward to the routine, but I sure do. I so appreciate that each has had a day full of freedom and adventure, and I also appreciate that at the end of the day each of the boys along with their mom are tucked in for another safe and cozy night.

Another summer has begun. Another season of cautious conscious living. I look forward with optimism, gratitude, and eternally good humor. And so it is.

Hope Was Nowhere in Sight

It sounds like people everywhere are saying that this winter is one for the record book. I concur, it has been long and is far from over. This week a Chinook blew through bringing warm temperatures on the coat tail of heavy wind. I'm not sure which I prefer, the calm cold or the windy warm. Each offers its own benefits and challenges.

This afternoon, the dogs and I took advantage of the warm wind and walked the mile round trip to the mailbox. On the way back, Cali, our younger Springer Spaniel, broke rank and bounded to the side of the drive where she eagerly plunged her nose into a crusty snow bank. Feverishly she plowed through, back and forth, following the scent and movement of something that had found temporary refuge. Luna and I watched and waited. It was obvious she was on the track of something that was still there rather than of something that had bedded down earlier in the day but had since moved on. Her movements-- deliberate and jerky. Her determination--steadfast. Her senses--keen and accurate.

After digging, sniffing, pawing, repositioning, then digging again and again, a small brown mouse gave up the game and made a run for it. It emerged from the now decimated snow bank, hopped up onto the firm crust above its ransacked nest and ran like hell for what it hoped was nearby.

Unfortunately, hope was nowhere in sight. Only a 50-pound Springer, springing joyfully after the hard earned prize. She pounced then scooped the helpless vermin into her mouth. Luna dove in with hope of her own, but Cali turned her back, and within seconds the mouse was gone.

Thankfully it's a warm day because Cali will spend the rest of the afternoon outside...digesting....

And so it is.

A Happy Thanksgiving

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. Before I begin another round of cooking and baking, I'm enjoying a few moments sitting at the dining room window looking out at miles of critter trails traversing the south pastures. The snow bunnies, fox, coyotes, and antelope paw through the foot of snow that blankets their grazing and hunting grounds leaving visual evidence of a hard night's work. Across Hasting's pasture, a snow bunny lies dead on the side of the road apparently struck by a passing vehicle. Overhead atop the utility pole sits a hungry and impatient bald eagle. Once the truck passes, the majestic bird swoops down sending the hawks, and assorted smaller birds scattering to wait their turn at the frozen meal. Food is hard to come by when the temperatures dip below zero for days on end. Most of the prey animals retreat to underground shelters hoping for a southwest wind called a Chinook that breathes warmth and restores life to the now stark and barren prairie. There will be no Chinook winds today, I'm afraid. We will remain frozen solid at least until the weekend.

Winter has come early opening the Arctic gate allowing a rush of snow and below zero temperatures to descend completely across Montana as well as most of the western states. Road closures south of here will keep families apart this holiday weekend. My nephew, Denzel, made it home yesterday from college in Missoula, taking advantage of a break in the blowing and drifting snow. His trip took him across the Continental Divide on dangerous hairpin turns winding up the Rockies on the west side, then down on the east side, through the foothills, and finally pulling into our driveway on the prairie. He drove almost 200 miles without a hitch until he pulled up to our house where he bottomed out 50 feet from the back door. He and his college buddy hopped out of the car deciding to leave it stuck in the two-foot drift, announcing joyously that they would walk the rest of the way. On the phone yesterday morning, as I cautioned him before leaving on his journey, he steadfastly maintained that he didn't need my words of wisdom because he had "faith" that he would "make it" without incident. I'm not sure if what he projects is an effect of youthful ignorance or something greater. Whatever it is, it serves him well. And so it is a Happy Thanksgiving.

First Peoples Buffalo Jump

The gift of our First Peoples Summer, while much enjoyed, sadly came to a close. It's cold today, the sun hides behind layers of dark grey clouds. From my perch, I see a bank of low darker clouds a few miles south showering the Missouri River. No rain here, though, only a cold biting wind keeping everyone except the horses inside.

I let the horses out to graze on the north pasture adding an extra dimension to my kitchen window view. Each time I glance out I see five very contented animals, heads down, backs to the wind, moving slowly gathering the last green bites. Beyond the horses, our north gate opens onto 1,481 acres of sacred land once used as a kill site by nomadic hunters and gatherers for well over two thousand years before the Lewis and Clark Expedition.

Now called, First Peoples Buffalo Jump State Park, this area punctuated by a mile-long sandstone cliff once formed a pivotal arc on the Plain's circle of life. The sacred buffalo provided almost everything needed for survival, but also presented a challenge to a people without horses and who hunted with bows and arrows. Eventually they learned how to successfully capture the enormous animal by stampeding the herds over the edge of the cliff. Long before horses arrived on the continent, scouts were sent out on foot to locate a herd. Then, over a period of time, sometimes weeks, the People would slowly "push" the herd closer toward the plateau that would mark the beginning of the drive. Before the hunt began, they created a drive lane consisting of two rock lines, five to ten yards apart and from 100 yards to a mile in length. Only a foot or so in height, these lines established the boundaries of the path the buffalo would follow to the precipice. The buffalo were stampeded across the Plains toward the plateaus and into these drive lanes by hunters who ran behind them shouting and waving hides. They were often accompanied by their dogs barking and chasing the frightened animals. As the panicked buffalo closed in together, the momentum of the herd would push those in front over the edge of the sandstone cliff. Many animals died in the fall, and those that survived were quickly killed by hunters who had been staged at the base of the cliff.

Carcasses were butchered and feasts were held. Most of the flesh was dried and stored as jerky for the winter months. To the nomadic Plains People buffalo meant survival. Besides meat, the buffalo provided hides for clothing and lodge coverings, bones for implements and utensils, and sinew for bowstrings and for sewing. Wolves, coyotes, eagles and other wildlife cleaned up what was not taken by the People.

It is estimate that for thousands of years as many as 13 million buffalo once lived in what is now Montana, found everywhere east of the Continental Divide. When the white fur traders and buffalo hunters arrived in the late nineteenth century their numbers were much less but still impressive at well over 60,000. Within a few short years, the hunters with their horses and guns nearly brought the buffalo to extinction; and with it the Plains People's way of life changed forever.

Today, First Peoples Buffalo Jump is one of the largest jumps ever found. Now a state park, it is administered by the Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks. A visitor center and interpretive trails tell the story of this prehistoric site. The top of the jump offers panoramic views of the Rocky Mountain Front, the Missouri River valley, as well as the buttes and grasslands that characterize this High Plains setting we call home.



I often wonder as I peer out the kitchen window if I share a space separated by time with the wives and children who watched and waited from their tipi's as the great hunt and harvest unfolded a short distance away. While the activity on the Jump has changed, the view remains the same. I can only imagine the awe inspiring sight and sound of hundreds of buffalo toppling over the cliff now framed by my kitchen window.

Recently, archaeologists from Montana State University researched and excavated the site and determined that it is indeed the largest jump in the world. They also found buffalo remains at depths of 13 feet dating back to at least 500 AD.

The buffalo formed one of the practical and spiritual foundations of life for the First People; a tradition that continues today. The meat, hides, horns, and bones of these great animals sustained the hunters and their families for thousands of years. To the People, buffalo were, and are still, part of the voice of the land. And so it is.

First People's Summer

Winter made a brief appearance last month dropping a cold wet blanket of snow over the prairie. Thankfully, it retreated leaving us with warm sunny days and clear cool nights. In my childhood we referred to this gift as an Indian Summer. I have no idea why we referred to an extended summer as Indian, but I do know that the people we once called, Indian, and more recently, Native American, have experienced a paradigm shift in consciousness shucking the white man's labels and asserting their own identity as The First People.

Living on the plains of North America has given me an opportunity to realize and understand more fully the people who once thrived on this land.

Even though our history books paint a very different picture, we are all painfully aware of the white man's behavior toward the people they discovered in North America, of how they were demonized so as to justify ethnic cleansing. Their culture, beliefs, values, language, and their revered means of survival--the bison, were all slaughtered. Those who resisted were killed, those who submitted were stripped of their identity and forced to live on dead land receiving handouts and Bibles from the white man's government.

The more I learn about our shared and collective history, the more disgusted and ashamed I become of those who define my ancestry. A horrific wrong has been committed out of ignorance and arrogance. Although history cannot be changed, it can stand as a beacon lighting the way toward greater understanding, compassion, and recognition of ourselves as one people of one consciousness. For now, I stand humbled by the First People of the Plains who endured atrocities too numerous and horrifying to comprehend. I am encouraged to know that the tribes and nations have begun reclaiming their identity, their language, their beliefs, and their rightful place as The First People. There are whispers of change in the wind growing louder with each passing day. I look forward with the assurance that all is well as I enjoy the gift of our First People's Summer. And so it is.