Take a literary ride with the Most Intrepid Western Author’s Posse as they travel through the sand hills and Great Plains of Nebraska. The Most Intrepid Western Author’s Posse is comprised of five published, award-winning western authors; Monty McCord author of Mundy’s Law: The Legend of Joe Mundy and Hastings: The Queen of the Plains; Sherry Monahan author of Mrs. Earp: The Wives and Lovers of the Earp Brothers, The Cowboy Cookbook, and Frontier Fare; Bill Markley, author of Deadwood Dead Men and Dakota Epic: Experiences of a Reenactor During the Filming of Dances with Wolves, Kellen Cutsforth, author of Buffalo Bill, Boozers, Brothels, & Bare-Knuckle Brawlers: An Englishman’s Journal of Adventure in America, and Chris Enss, author of Frontier Teachers: Stories of Heroic Women of the Old West, Hearts West: Mail Order Brides of the Old West, and Object Matrimony: The Risky Business of Mail-Order Matchmaking on the Western Frontier will tell exciting tales of the Old West.
Stories told by the posse promise to transport readers back to the days of the wild frontier when times were rowdy and justice was swift.
The Most Intrepid Western Author’s Posse’s first stop will be the Sturh Museum in Grand Island on Friday, June 10 from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m. On Saturday, June 11, the Posse will be in Beatrice at the Homestead National Monument of America from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. The Posse will be discussing their books and the taming of the Wild West.
For more information visit www.chrisenss.com.
The dark clouds that hovered over a crude trail in Yosemite Valley in May 1899 broke loose with a torrent of rain that nearly knocked Paiute Indian Maggie “Ta-bu-ce” Howard and her fourteen-year-old niece, May Tom, off the rocky path where they walked. Mighty claps of thunder echoed around the majestic granite walls of Yosemite Falls, and huge boulders shook from the sound. A powerful wind charged down the mountain and tossed leaves, twigs, and brush into the air. Maggie and May Tom hurried to an outcropping of craggy rocks and huddled underneath them. Lightning flashed violently, and the wind raged on without ceasing. It was as if the sky just beyond their crude shelter was in an angry pursuit to destroy them.1
As soon as the rain eased a bit, the pair raced toward a grove of trees, and it was there they made camp. The following morning they had planned to travel to their home in Indian Village along the Merced River. In spite of the wind and continual rain, Maggie and May Tom eventually managed to fall asleep. Their uneasy slumber was interrupted sometime in the night by a massive pine tree that blew over on them. May Tom was killed instantly. Maggie’s collar bone was broken; the bones in her right leg were fractured, and her ankles and feet were severely injured.2
When the two didn’t arrive home the evening of the storm worried relatives had gone in search of Maggie and her niece. They were heartbroken by what they saw. May Tom’s mother and brothers took her body back to the valley where they lived, and Maggie was transported to a doctor. He set her bones in casts that extended over most of her frame. She was unable to move until the bones mended in late August. Maggie couldn’t recall anything after the tree hit her, but the lifetime limp she acquired as a result of her injury served as a reminder of the events leading up to the tragedy.3
Naturalist and explorer John Muir referred to the storms that occurred at Yosemite as “not easily borne.” Maggie was in complete agreement. According to the June 3, 1910, edition of the Hayward, California, newspaper the Hayward Daily Review, it is estimated that Maggie “Ta-bu-ce” Howard was born in 1867 at Mono Lake thirteen miles east of Yosemite Valley. She was a Paiute Indian and her name Ta-bu-ce meant “grass nut” or “sweet-root.” Her father, Joaquin Sam or Kosana as his tribe called him, was a medicine man who made frequent trips to Yosemite to gather acorns and pinon nuts. He would bring them home to Maggie’s mother who would grind them into meat to use to make bread. Kosana passed away at the age of eighty while en route home from Yosemite Valley. A snowstorm overtook the group of Indians he was traveling with, and they were unable to make it over the Sierra Mountains before Kosana died from exposure. He was buried near what is now the Yosemite Museum.4
At the turn of the century Yosemite Valley, in particular the area known as Bridalveil Falls, was referred to as the “show place of the Sierras.” Artists from every medium thought the falls cascading down more than six hundred feet of rock wall into the valley to be so beautiful that it was considered selfish for anyone who looked on the splendor of the setting not to share the pleasure with others using whatever talent they were given. Among the many famous guests who visited the most prominent waterfall in the Yosemite Valley were General Ulysses S. Grant, Horace Greely, General William T. Sherman, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. Naturalist John Muir entreated the public to visit the spot often. According to his memoirs he challenged park patrons to “climb the mountains and get their good tidings.” He assured them that “nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine into trees.”1
It’s not unusual that couples chose the stunning Bridal Veil Falls as the backdrop for their nuptials. The first bride to plan her wedding at the spot was a prominent young woman from Los Angeles. According to the August 6, 1901, edition of the newspaper The Boston Globe, the ceremony was “so incredible it defied description and started a trend in civil unions held at the majestic National Park.” The momentous occasion highlighted in The Boston Globe article was duplicated by hundreds of betrothed couples in the early 1900s. “With a mighty altar and the generous diapason of an incomparable waterfall furnishing the melody of a bridal march Miss Annie Ripley of Los Angeles and Henry C. Best of San Francisco were wed in the valley a few days ago,” The Boston Globe article continued. “It was the first marriage ceremony performed in Yosemite, and for solemnity and picturesqueness it was surpassingly notable.”2
One hundred guests of the bride and groom were present and walked with them over trails and under trees to the place where the water crashed upon the rocks beneath the towering cliffs on either side of Bridalveil. “The day was a superb one and the scene one of matchless beauty,” The Boston Globe article continued3
“Miss Ripley was prettily attired in a mountain costumes and the man who was to be made her husband had set aside the customary garments and wore camping attire as well. Their look was fitting for the setting.
The light from a spectacular full moon spilled into the windows of the parlor at the Strentzel Ranch near the town of Martinez in the Alhambra Valley in California. The room was filled to overflowing with well-dressed guests, owners and operators of farms in the area and their wives and family. All eyes were on Louisa “Louie” Wanda Strentzel, a petite, thirty-one-year-old woman playing a piano. No one spoke as the melancholy tune she offered filled the air. Louie played well and had a voice to match the exceptional talent demonstrated. Midway through the mesmerizing performance, forty-year- old John Muir, an explorer and naturalist from Wisconsin, quietly entered the home and stood in the shadow of the door leading into the parlor. With the exception of a quiet greeting from Strentzel family friend Mrs. Jeanne Carr, his presence went largely unnoticed.1
John’s eyes were transfixed on Louie. She had high cheek bones, a firm mouth, and clear, gray eyes. He gazed at her with an unfathomable look of admiration and longing. At the conclusion of her song the gathering enthusiastically applauded. John followed suit as he ventured into the light. It was June 1, 1878.2
This was not the first time he had seen Louie. The two had been introduced in 1874 in Oakland at a meeting of homesteaders and farmers organized by her father, horticulturist Dr. John Strentzel. John and Louie had many friends in common, and many agreed they would make the perfect couple. Jeanne Carr had tried in vain to arrange a date between John and Louie, but John always had travel plans that conflicted with a rendezvous. In April 1875 Jeanne sent Louie a message letting her known that the “chronic wanderer,” as John was often referred to, could not be distracted from an expedition to the Cascade Range in Siskiyou County, California. “You see how I am snubbed in trying to get John Muir to accompany me to your house this week,” Jeanne wrote Louie. “Mount Shasta was in opposition and easily worth the choice.” Jeanne would not be defeated, however. She was convinced the two had so much in common their paths were bound to pass eventually and forever.3
Fifteen-year-old Gertrude Hutchings sat on the edge of her sister Florence’s bed, crying. Florence, a pretty girl of seventeen with long, dark hair lay motionless under a mountain of blankets. A massive purple and black bruise on the side of her right cheek was the only color on her slender, pale face. Her eyes were closed and her hands were folded across her chest, her breathing was labored and slow. Her grandmother, Florantha Sproat, dabbed the teenager’s forehead with a cool, moist cloth, kissed her forehead, and then stepped away waiting for the girl to respond.1
Florence did not move. She would never move again. She died on September 26, 1881. Family and friends that surrounded her wept and wondered aloud to one another how someone so young and vibrant could be gone from them. “Yosemite Valley was diminished in a sense by her passing,” one of Florence’s teachers said at the young girl’s funeral. “She was a rarity and added to the setting’s beauty.”2
Florence “Floy” Hutchings was the first white child born in Yosemite. Her parents, James Mason Hutchings, a businessman, farmer, and promoter of Yosemite National Park, and artist Elvira Sproat, welcomed their daughter into the world on August 24, 1864. The precocious, inquisitive child was the first child for the couple who lived in a log cabin close to Yosemite Falls.3
In addition to exploring the land in which James Hutchings and John Muir would help preserve, James was a homesteader in the north section of Yosemite where he raised fruit trees, strawberry plants, and various livestock, including horses. He also owned an inn which Florence’s mother and he ran. Elvira was a reluctant innkeeper; she preferred painting, reading poetry, writing, and playing music. Her mother, Florantha, assumed the responsibility of caring for Floy and the two other children the Hutchings had: Gertrude, a blue-eyed, fair-haired girl born in October 1867, and William a cheerful boy born in July 1869 who suffered from a spinal deformity.4
Despite her best efforts, Florantha had a difficult time raising Floy to be a proper young lady. Even as a small child she cared little for frilly dresses, curly hair, and ribbons. She was a tomboy and enjoyed collecting insects and toads, hiking, camping, and riding horses. She would often disappear for hours at a time to explore the valley and mountains. Although her mother would be furious with Floy for taking off without letting anyone know where she was going, the young girl refused to change and was seldom sorry for making her mother [and grandmother] worry.5
Robert Carradine, Anita Wayne Swift, and myself.
Out in the wild, wild West, the men were strong, the horses were fast, and the talk was rough-rougher than the saddle on a rustler’s steed, rougher than a barroom brawl, rougher than the face of a lonesome drifter. Okay, you get the picture. It was rough. I spent part of my weekend discussing the rough talking men and women in the numerous films John Wayne made and how that tough talk could be used to deal with any circumstance. Looking for a cool comeback to a tough character? “Pick it up,” Wayne tells a bad guy reaching for his gun in the movie Rio Bravo, “I wish you would.” Trying to get out of an unhappy relationship? “I got places to go and country to put behind me,” the Duke announced to Gail Russell in Angel and the Badman. Wondering how to fit in? “Well, if you’re going to stay around here,” Wayne tells James Caan in El Dorado, “I got two pieces of advice for you. Get rid of that hat and learn how to use a gun.”
An enthusiastic crowd was on hand at the Autry Museum of the American West yesterday to celebrate the wisdom of Wayne. Among those gathered were actors Robert Carradine, Paul Koslo, Mary Kove, Bruce Boxleitner, producers Rob Word, Howard Kazanjian, Wayne’s granddaughter, Anita Wayne La Cava Swift, and many others who knew, worked, or were fans of the Duke. It was an experience I’m not likely to ever forget. Movies are the great equalizer. Politicians may be making decisions on our nation’s security during the day, but at night I’d like to think they’re watching a John Wayne western or any western for that matter.
The light from a spectacular full moon spilled into the windows of the parlor at the Strentzel Ranch near the town of Martinez in the Alhambra Valley in California. The room was filled to overflowing with well-dressed guests, owners and operators of farms in the area and their wives and family. All eyes were on Louisa “Louie” Wanda Strentzel, a petite, thirty-one-year-old woman playing a piano. No one spoke as the melancholy tune she offered filled the air. Louie played well and had a voice to match the exceptional talent demonstrated. Midway through the mesmerizing performance, forty-year- old John Muir, an explorer and naturalist from Wisconsin, quietly entered the home and stood in the shadow of the door leading into the parlor. With the exception of a quiet greeting from Strentzel family friend Mrs. Jeanne Carr, his presence went largely unnoticed.1
John’s eyes were transfixed on Louie. She had high cheek bones, a firm mouth, and clear, gray eyes. He gazed at her with an unfathomable look of admiration and longing. At the conclusion of her song the gathering enthusiastically applauded. John followed suit as he ventured into the light. It was June 1, 1878.2
This was not the first time he had seen Louie. The two had been introduced in 1874 in Oakland at a meeting of homesteaders and farmers organized by her father, horticulturist Dr. John Strentzel. John and Louie had many friends in common, and many agreed they would make the perfect couple. Jeanne Carr had tried in vain to arrange a date between John and Louie, but John always had travel plans that conflicted with a rendezvous. In April 1875 Jeanne sent Louie a message letting her known that the “chronic wanderer,” as John was often referred to, could not be distracted from an expedition to the Cascade Range in Siskiyou County, California. “You see how I am snubbed in trying to get John Muir to accompany me to your house this week,” Jeanne wrote Louie. “Mount Shasta was in opposition and easily worth the choice.” Jeanne would not be defeated, however. She was convinced the two had so much in common their paths were bound to pass eventually and forever.3
Louie Strentzel was born in Texas in 1847. She was an only child and according to Louie and John’s daughter, Helen, “she was a devoted daughter and a great comfort to her parents in their later years.” Her father, a Polish physician who fled to American in 1840 to escape being drafted into the Russian Army, settled in the southwest near the city now known as Dallas. In 1849, he left Texas for California. Strentzel moved his wife and child to the Alhambra Valley north of Oakland. He purchased several hundred acres of land and began educating himself on how to grow various crops. According to the May 5, 1974, edition of the Joplin, Missouri, newspaper the Joplin Grove, the main product at the Strentzel farm was peaches.4
Louie inherited her father’s love of plants and flowers. In addition to her affection for growing things, she was interested in astronomy, poetry, and music. She was extremely bright and excelled at her studies at Miss Adkins’ Young Ladies Seminary in Benicia. Louie became a music scholar while in attendance at the seminary, and her teachers boasted that she had a bright future ahead of her as a concert pianist if she so chose. Once she graduated in 1864 she decided to return home to the ranch in Martinez and focus on fruit ranching and hybridizing.5
The stunning and talented Louie was not only the pride of the family, but according to the January 5, 1975, edition of the Long Beach, California, newspaper the Independent Press Telegram, “she was known widely for the grace with which she dispensed the generous hospitality of the Strentzel household.”6
John Muir was a frequent guest at the Strentzel homestead. He enjoyed conversing with Dr. Strentzel about his trek from Texas to California. Strentzel had been the medical advisor for a wagon train of pioneers called the Clarkesville train. He kept a journal of his travels and happily shared the experience with John. The Spanish name for the Alhambra Valley where the Strentzel’s settled was “Canada de la Hombre.” The English translation being Valley of Hunger.
Yosemite’s Half Dome, the hooded monk in stone, brooding over its eastern end, rises thousands of feet from the ground below, so high that its summit is wreathed in clouds. In October 1876, three men scaled the mountain face slowly working their way to the top. All were dressed in woolen caps and trousers, thick coats and gloves, and leather boots. Scotsman George Anderson, a former sailor and carpenter working in Yosemite Valley as a blacksmith and surveyor, led the way up the massive rock. The confident manner in which he ascended the mountain suggested he was a seasoned climber. Author Julius Birge followed closely behind George, his face a mask of strained concentration and worry that confirmed he was a novice at climbing. Occasional gusts of wind tried to knock the men off balance, but they persevered, finding finger hold after finger hold, and finally pulling themselves onto a ledge at the top. The second adventure seeker with the party proceeded behind him trying to regain his strength.1
Resting on the summit, the men stared out over the valley admiring the scenic grandeur. Yosemite Valley had an average width of half a mile. The great walls of the canyons all around them were seamed by water-worn fissures, down which rivers leapt, thundered, churned, and sang with all possible variations and expressions of sound.2
In his memoirs entitled Awakening in the Desert published in 1912, Julius described the process of arriving at the top of Half Dome. “Anderson had spent the summer drilling holes into the granite face of the upper cliff,” he wrote. “Driving in it iron pins with ropes attached. Two or three were tempted to scale with the aid of these ropes the heights which are nearly a perpendicular mile. I, too, was inclined to make the venture. It was a dizzy but inspiring ascent.”3
After more than an hour at Half Dome’s Summit, catching his breath and preparing himself for the desert, Julius found an unusual item on the rocks. “I discovered on its barren surface a lady’s bracelet,” he recalled in his book. “On showing it to Anderson, he said: You are the third party who has made this ascent. I pulled up a young woman recently but she never mentioned any loss except for nausea. Returning to Merced, I observed a vigorous, young woman wearing a bracelet similar to the one I found. The lady proved to be Miss Sally Dutcher of San Francisco, who admitted to the loss and thankfully accepted the missing ornament. A letter to me from Galen Clark (Yosemite resident, businessman, and explorer) stated that he assisted in Miss Dutcher’s ascent, Anderson preceding with a rope around his waist connecting with Miss Dutcher; also that she was certainly the first and possibly the last woman who made the ascent.”4
Although the exact date is not known, Sarah Louisa Dutcher was the first woman to make her way to the top of Half Dome. Historians believe the intrepid young woman accomplished the feat in 1875.5 According to James Hutchings, a British journalist who traveled to Yosemite and wrote about his experiences, “Miss S.L. Dutcher was the first lady that ever stood upon the mountain. George Anderson was one of the first human beings to ascend Half Dome and his efforts made it possible for others to follow.” “In preparation for the climb,” James wrote in his memoirs, “Anderson’s next efforts were directed toward placing and securely fastening a good, soft rope to the eye-bolts, so others could climb up and enjoy the inimitable view, and one that has not its counterpart on earth. Four English gentlemen, then sojourning in the valley and learning of Mr. Anderson’s feat, were induced to duplicate his intrepid example. A day or two afterwards, Sarah Dutcher, with the courage of a heroine, accomplished it.”6
