M. Mark Miller, Author

Author: mmarkmiller

  • An Event: Dancing with Lela May

    I fulfilled one of my fantasies last Saturday when Tam and I went to the Twin Bridges High School Alumnae Association all-class banquet. These are unusual affairs where you can see three generations of the same family—all TBHS alumnae—telling stories about when they were in school.

    You might hear about the Class of ’42 and their hand-made yearbook. When World War II shut down commercial printing, the students went to the typing lab and painstakingly assembled an annual for every one of their classmates.

    You might hear a member of the Class of ’56 complain that the last Montana Class C high school state football championship was stolen from them. The team won the game on Thanksgiving Day, 1955, in a blizzard so bad officials discontinued Class C football championships. They also took back the trophy because there was an overage player on the team—not a key player, you understand.

    You probably would hear someone from any class of the 60s recall the time a portly fourth-grade teacher got stuck in the chute fire escape during a drill and the extra recess that resulted while a janitor extricated the poor woman.

    About 120 people feasted on a simple lettuce salad, baked potato and slabs of prime rib. (Twin Bridges is beef ranching country.) The oldest alumna was from the class of 1934. The honor classes were from years ending in zero.

    The honor graduate was Ray White of the class of 1942. Ray came to the state orphans’ home in Twin Bridges as a boy and attended TBHS from there. He says the bookkeeping classes he took in high school launched his successful career as an accountant. Ninety-year-old Ray now shows his gratitude by providing scholarships for college-bound students from his alma mater.

    None of my classmates (Class of ’63) showed up, so Tam and I sat at a table with one of my brothers (Class of ’59), his wife, and a friend, Jon (Class of ’60). Because Jon was three years ahead of me, I didn’t know him well in high school, but when I was at the University of Montana, Jon came there for a masters and joined my circle of friends. He dated Tam for a while and I think their relationship was serious.

    When the festivities at the school ended, we went downtown with Jon for a comprehensive Twin Bridges pub-crawl (both bars). I had promised Jon’s wife that I would protect him from the widows and divorcees in his class.

    While Tam and Jon drank beer and fought mosquitoes in front of the Blue Anchor, I went inside to the restroom. That’s when I saw Lela May (Class of 60). When I was young Lela May was the fuel for my adolescent fantasies—raven black hair, flashy make-up and tight black pants that bulged in all the right places. She was three grades ahead of me—way out of my league—and I knew it.

    “Am I blocking your way,” she asked when I stopped in front of her.

    “No,” I replied, “I’m getting up the nerve to ask you to dance.”

    She smiled and waited for a new song from the over-amped cowboy band. Then she offered her hand and I escorted her to the dance floor.

    I still have unfulfilled fantasies, but I can tick one more off my list. I danced with Lela May.

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  • A Tale: Yellowstone’s First Car — 1902

    Henry G. Merry and his Winton

    Cars weren’t officially admitted to Yellowstone Park until 1915, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t there before that. One story says that Henry G. Merry drove his Winton to Mammoth Hot Springs in 1902 to a dance at the National Hotel. He was caught—the story goes—but was allowed to drive out under cover of darkness. Here’s a more colorful version told by his son.

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    When the Winton car arrived it was the conversation piece of the time. The word reached the commandant at the fort, along with the information that the noise it made was terrifying to horses. Very wisely he issued an order prohibiting this machine and others like if from the confines of the Yellowstone Park. My father knew of this order, but thought he would pilot the car to the fort and talk things over with commandant. In the interim, two troopers had been stationed at the entrance to prevent any such violation of the commandant’s order.

    As related in father’s diary, on June 2nd, 1902, he and  my Mother took off. When the north entrance was reached, he opened up the speed to about 25 mph, and the troopers’ mounts acted up so that they could not block the passage. The machine was well on its way before they got their horses quieted down and started after the car—which was rapidly widening the distance between them.

    All went well as long as the road was level but that was not for long. As the grade became steeper—the speed was reduced—and soon the car came to a stop. The troopers arrived at a hard gallop.

    Fortunately, each one had a lariat and between the two horses they managed to pull the car to the commandant’s office and gave him a report of how things happened. He was quite pleasant and took time to explain to father, who already knew, that the noise of his conveyance posed a threat to the lives of all tourists who were visiting the park in horse-drawn vehicles. Then he became quite stern and reminded him that he was still under arrest and would have to pay a penalty to be released. When my father asked what the penalty would be, the officer very seriously replied, “You will have to take me for a ride in this contraption.” He got his ride and then assigned a detail to escort father to the gate.

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    —Photo and text from The Pioneer Museum, Bozeman, Montana.

    — You might also enjoy “Touring Yellowstone Legally by Car — 1916.”

  • A Note: Serendipity and Research

    While working at the Pioneer Museum today, I noticed the 1877-78 volume of the Bozeman Avant Courier was lying on a table. I had planned to examine it for articles about the flight of the Nez Perce through Yellowstone Park for my next book, Encounters in Yellowstone, but hadn’t bothered to haul it out of the basement. Since it was just sitting there, I decided I’d go through it. I’m glad I did.

    The first thing I found was a story about the adventures of Ben Stone, a member of one of the tourist groups that the Nez Perce attacked. On the same page were two other stories: one reporting that one of Stone’s companions had been killed, and one reporting that a man from another group of tourists who had been reported dead was found alive. These stories, published within days of the incidents they reported, were vivid and had an immediacy that historical accounts often lack.

    I found stories in four subsequent issues, but then discovered several issues were missing—including the one that would have reported Chief Joseph’s surrender after the Battle of the Bear Paws. I suspect it was stolen. Of course, that thought made me angry, but finding gripping reports took out  some of the sting. I know I’ll be able to find the missing articles at other archives.

    Knowing that there are exciting articles available motivates me to examine other newspapers such as the Helena Independent, the Missoulian and the Montana Post. Finding the stories will be hard work, but it will make Encounters a better book.

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  • My blog is a work in progress.

    I began working on my blog today and got further with it than I expected. Trial and error is a tough way to learn, but I’m getting the hang of WordPress. I should have an attractive blog soon. I’ll use it to let folks know about my life as writer and public speaker. Look for information about book signings and readings, presentations for Humanities Montana and progress reports on my various writing projects. Also, I’ll post stories from my collection of first-person accounts of travel to Yellowstone Park more than a hundred years ago. I’d love to hear your comments and suggestions.

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  • Treed by a Lion — Truman Everts, 1870

    Probably the best known story of early travel to Yellowstone Park is Truman Everts’ account of  being lost and alone there for 37 days. During the famous Washburn Expedition of 1870, Everts became separated from his companions as they made their way through heavy timber east of Lake Yellowstone. Everts was extremely nearsighted so he got off his horse to look for tracks. While he was scrutinizing a path, the horse ran away leaving him with little but the clothing on his back.

    Everts was a clever and tenacious man. He built a nest between two hot springs to survive a snow storm, made fire with the lens from an opera glass, and lived mostly on a diet of thistle roots.

    He told about his adventures in a magazine article that helped win support for creation of Yellowstone Park. Here’s one of them.

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    I stretched myself under a tree, and fell asleep. How long I slept I know not; but suddenly I was roused by a loud, shrill scream, like that of a human being in distress. There was no mistaking that fearful voice. It was the screech of a mountain lion; so alarmingly near as to cause every nerve to thrill with terror.

    The work of the moment was to yell in return—seize with convulsive grasp the limbs of the friendly tree—and swing myself into it. Scrambling hurriedly from limb to limb, I was soon as near the top as safety would permit.

    The savage beast was snuffing and growling below—on the very spot I had just abandoned. I answered every growl with a responsive scream. Terrified at the delay and pawing of the beast, I increased my voice to its utmost volume. I then broke branches from the limbs and madly hurled them at the spot from whence the howlings preceded.

    I failed to alarm the animal that now began to make the circuit of the tree—as if to select a spot for springing into it. With my strength increased by terror, I shook the slender trunk until every limb rustled. All in vain. The terrible creature pursued his walk around the tree—lashing the ground with his tail, and prolonging his howling almost to a roar.

    It was too dark to see, but the movements of the lion kept me apprised of its position. Whenever I heard it on one side of the tree, I speedily changed to the opposite—an exercise that I could only have performed under the impulse of terror. I would alternately sweat and thrill with horror at the thought of being torn to pieces—and devoured by this formidable monster. All my attempts to frighten it seemed unavailing.

    Disheartened at its persistency, and expecting at every moment that it would take the deadly leap. I tried to collect my thoughts, and prepare for the fatal encounter. Just at this moment it occurred to me that I would try silence.  Clasping the trunk of the tree with both arms, I sat perfectly still.

    The lion ranged around, occasionally snuffing and pausing—all the while filling the forest with the echo of his howling. Suddenly it imitated my example and fell silent. This was more terrible than the clatter and crash of his movements through the brushwood. Now I did not know from what direction to expect this attack. Moments passed with me like hours. After a lapse of time, which I cannot estimate, the beast gave a spring into the thicket and ran screaming into the forest. My deliverance was effected.

    Had strength permitted, I should have retained my perch till daylight. But with the consciousness of escape from the jaws of the ferocious brute came a sense of overpowering weakness. That made my descent from the tree both difficult and dangerous. Incredible as it may seem, I lay down in my old bed, and was soon lost in a slumber so profound that I did not awake until after daylight.

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    — Excerpt and illustration from Truman Everts’ “Thirty-Seven Days of Peril,”  Scribner’s Monthly, 3(1):1-17  (November 1871).

    — For more stories about the Washburn Expedition, click on “Washburn” under the “Categories” button to the left.

    — For more stories about the Washburn Expedition, click on “Washburn” under the “Categories” button to the left.