Have you ever wondered what a real cowboy looks like? When I was a kid, I would’ve said he is short, stocky, wears a cowboy hat and cowboy boots, has bowlegs, eyes black as coal, and rides a horse. He looks like Uncle Sid!
Uncle Sid was the great uncle I knew best. If we went to Montana at rodeo time, we were almost guaranteed to see Uncle Sid. He tried to scare all the kids by making funny faces and wiggling his ears while keeping a stoic look in his Brannin eyes. You could see sunlight streaming through his legs as he walked down the street. Yep, he was bowlegged. How could he not be? He grew up on the back of a horse and rode in his first rodeo at the age of 14. Uncle Sid wasn’t very tall. He reminded me of one of the seven dwarves. When he traveled to Montana from Washington, he often carried his saddle with him. He must’ve been quite a sight loading his saddle in the belly of the Greyhound Bus before climbing into his seat.
Uncle Sid standing on horse
Uncle Sid was a horse whisperer. He had a horse named Jughead. Jughead did anything Uncle Sid told him. If he said, “Stick out your tongue, Jughead,” that’s what the horse did. Jughead even counted on command. My sister and I had the chance to stay with Uncle Sid for a few days the year we made a three-month trip across the country. He took us horseback riding in the Olympic Mountains. He would see a mule in a field and call it a “jass-ack,” and he’d say things were “bass-ackwards.” As we passed his neighbors’ ranches, they waved or called him over to give a diagnosis and treatment for sick livestock. He was the general vet for the area ranchers. He had a very impressive collection of saddles of almost every kind in his barn. Cradles held the restored, oiled and polished saddles.
Uncle Sid & Jughead sticking out his tongue
Uncle Sid took us on a ride in his truck. He drove about like he rode one of the bucking broncs in the rodeos. We had to stop and care for some cattle for one of his friends who was away. Some of the cattle had escaped from the fence. We rounded them up, closed the gate and rode on to Olympic National Park. There were signs, “No Dogs Allowed.” We jumped out of the truck along with Chuley, the dog. There were snowbanks that had not yet melted even though it was mid-summer. We walked through the snow to the trail below. A Park Ranger saw us and hollered at Uncle Sid. “Dogs are not allowed on the trail.” Uncle Sid, black eyes straight ahead, just kept walking like he didn’t hear the ranger. A bit further, the ranger called out again. We said, “Uncle Sid, the ranger said no dogs allowed.” He said, “I heard him.” I guess his pretense of ignorance worked. We didn’t get thrown out of the park. If you couldn’t guess, Uncle Sid was a practical joker. He was always up to some kind of mischief.
We left Washington a few days later to make it to the Big Timber rodeo in time. Uncle Sid rode with us instead of taking the bus. We had a great trip! Being with Uncle Sid was always an adventure!
I recently made a whirlwind trip to Montana with family over a long weekend. I had packed two small travel size containers of lotion. When I opened my makeup bag there was another little jar, unbeknown to me, labeled “Facial Lotion” that just happened to be empty. So, when one of the small containers of lotion busted, I put the contents in the Facial Lotion jar.
Though our trip was quick, we had a great time and spent several hours outdoors enjoying the cool clear air and sunny days. When I got back home, I noticed that I had picked up a bit of a tan on my face. That was a bonus.
A couple of days later, it seemed that my face was getting even darker. I noticed a dark line on the edge of my hand. What was up with that? I had mixed some age defying oils (so they say) into my daily lotion but it had not caused any discoloration before.
This morning, I opened the small jar of facial lotion. As I looked in the mirror pondering my tan, I started laughing. It was then I remembered the facial lotion container was filled with sunless tanning lotion, not facial lotion. Oops! And so the mystery is solved!
Though his vision failed, he still labored to read the book that lay on the table. The old cowboy rubbed his eyes, closed the book and rested his head on it. His hair was disheveled with gray strands going in every direction. He roused when I walked into the room, more from sensing my presence than hearing it. Time had taken its toll. The old cowboy had become weathered with age. His dim eyes drooped and watered. Though his mind and memories weren’t quite as clear, he still recalled old stories. The tales told time and again were ripe with adventure and history.
We talked for a while. Then the old cowboy said, “What did you find in the mountains?” It wasn’t his question that held my attention but his eyes. The weathered face softened, and his dim watery eyes seemed to awaken and dance with life. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a young boy just learning to throw a lasso. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a teenager headed off to the front lines of the war. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a spark of romance. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a young man just starting a ranch of his own. I gave high praise to the land of which he spoke. I described the scenery, the fresh spring water, the rich green grass and the soothing of my soul from just being in such a place. Like a newborn calf, life seemed to leap within him.
His trips to the Eden in the heart of the mountains were fewer. It seemed that part of him longed to see it again with young eyes. The days of riding horseback through the mountains had passed. Though he could not go himself, he reveled in the stories of others – those who shared his love of the mountains. His failing vision and bent body did not erase the memories of so many years. His dim eyes clearly saw the mountains from his memories. His muted ears heard the mountain streams that made their way over river rocks and bounded down the slopes and through the valleys. His dulled senses felt the fresh breeze that whistled through the trees and tugged at his hair.
The droopy dampened eyes, gray disheveled hair, stooped walk, stumbling feet, muted ears and fading memory did not hide the little boy I saw sitting before me. I saw a little boy thrown into manhood. I saw compassion and understanding. I saw someone who had experienced the hardships of life. I saw someone who had seen death. I saw life ignited by that which he so loved.
The old rancher, a genuine cowboy, the last of a dying breed, gave a strong embrace as we said our goodbyes.
John Muir is known as “John of the Mountains” and “Father of the National Parks.” He was a naturalist, an advocate for the preservation of our country’s wilderness, a writer, philosopher, and a pioneer of our national park system. “The Mountains Are Calling and I Must Go.”
“The world is big and I want to have a good look at it before it gets dark.”
“How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains!”
Wherever we go in the mountains, or indeed in any of God’s wild fields, we find more than we seek.”
“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.”
“This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor ever rising.”
“Come to the woods, for here is rest. There is no repose like that of the green deep woods. Sleep in forgetfulness of all ill.”
“When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world.”
” I never saw a discontented tree.”
“We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us.”
“Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days, days in whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God.”
Two men tumbled out the door of the saloon. Shots rang out in the streets of Melville, Montana. Deputy Joseph Brannin fell dead to the ground. Mel Jowell was on the run. The Sheriff formed a posse and was soon on the trail of the outlaw. Less than a year later, another posse chased Jowell after he escaped on the return trip to prison after testifying at the trial of his accomplice. A trail of crime followed Jowell to Elko, Nevada.
Joseph Brannin
We grew up hearing true life stories just like you’d see on the old TV Westerns. In fact, the last time Jowell was seen by any of our family was on a Western movie set in California. Cousin Clancy, nephew of Joseph Brannin, was a Western movie actor. When the “extras” rode onto the set on horseback, Clancy spotted Jowell. He asked, “Where’d you learn to ride?” Jowell responded, “Melville, Montana.” They recognized each other but Jowell didn’t stick around to spin yarns about Melville days. Through the years that followed, rumors were heard but no definite answer was given as to what had transpired in the life of Jowell. We took up the chase and uncovered interesting stories and documents. After years of prison and life on the run, Jowell returned to his home state of Texas, married, had a family and lived to a ripe old age.
Just like another posse in pursuit of Jowell, the trail led us to Elko over 100 years later. Passing the city limit sign brought excitement as we anticipated uncovering part of the mystery that shrouded the outlaw. After a bite of breakfast at the Coffee Mug, we walked to the Elko County Court House.
Elko County Courthouse
Our search was for legal documents that hopefully would give details concerning Jowell. The clerk was amazed hearing our brief account of the events we knew. We told about the day Joseph Brannin was killed, of Jowell’s escape and capture in Arizona, of the trial and sentencing to 22 years, of the trial of Ricketts where Jowell testified, and of the return trip to Deer Lodge on the Northern Pacific #41 Train. The lady’s eyes got big when we told of Jowell’s escape from the toilet window of a moving train near Pipestone Springs while handcuffed to another prisoner just prior to his appearance in Elko. We explained that it was obvious the escape was orchestrated. Records indicated that Harvey Whitton was one of his “friends” who aided his escape after Jowell jumped from the train. That name soon took on an even greater significance in the story.
The clerk presented a ledger that contained records for 1912, but the name of Mel Jowell was not listed under any of the various spellings of his name nor his alias, Dalton I Sparks. So, where was he? How could there be such a discrepancy from the articles we had uncovered?
Feeling a bit dejected, we made our way to the library. There had to be something we were missing. We began searching through newspaper articles for 1912. Bingo! That’s why we didn’t find him! He had another alias of Rex Roberts. Armed with new artillery, we went back to the courthouse. Out came the ledger again, and there he was – Rex Roberts and his cohort Jim Ross. Come to find out, Jim Ross was also known as James B O’Neal and Harvey Whitton, a hardened criminal who had been with Jowell in Montana State Prison in Deer Lodge.
The clerk asked if we knew how to run a microfilm reader. Yep! She gave us the reels and free rein to use the reader that also had the ability to save documents as PDF files. Out came a trusty Flash Drive! We were able to access the complete court case and other documents attached to that file. We hit pay dirt!
A few days later we were on Pipestone Pass near the area where Jowell had escaped from the train. We followed back trails over the mountain into the rough and rocky wilderness expecting to see outlaws peering from behind the rocks. A few days after that we were at Sweet Grass County Courthouse photographing court documents of the trial of Mel Jowell. Driving through the little town of Melville, I could almost see Jowell and Uncle Joe tumble out the door of the saloon and hear a shot ring out. And so began the chase of an outlaw.
In brief, Jowell and Ross were arrested for horse stealing. Jowell served time in Nevada before being returned to Montana State Prison where he served only part of his sentence before he was pardoned by the Governor of Montana.
We left the lingering ghosts in the hot Nevada desert and headed toward Inyo National Forest in Northern California. The road climbed into the high desert wilderness. Sandstone formations looked like giant rock men ready to hurl huge boulders on any who dared enter their domain. Mountains appeared in the distance even though we were already at the top of the world. A dirt road leading deeper into the mountains and forests beckoned us to follow.
As the golden hour approached, we were anxious to find a camping spot. We turned down another road and a large alpine meadow dissected by a small lazy stream came into view. Bordering the meadow was a perfect campsite tucked among a stand of tall evergreens.
The air was pure, clean, cool and clear. At 9500 feet, we could touch the sky. Stars lit up the black expanse. It looked as if we could have walked across the Milky Way along the celestial road into another galaxy. The Inyo Forest was aptly named, meaning “dwelling place of the great spirit.”
Night turned to day. The cold was quickly burned off by the morning sun. I took a deep breath and let it fill my senses – the sight of this wondrous creation, the sound of the forest, the smell of the evergreens, the taste of the morning air, the touch of the warming sun.
We reluctantly left the high desert sanctuary. The descent into the desert displayed a beauty all its own as mountains cascaded into valleys. With the vow to return one day and walk across the Milky Way once again, the sun set on another day.
I sat at the feet of my Granddad with wide-eyed wonder and hung on every word. As he recounted his tale, the Montana prairies came to life. The northern winds blew snow and whistled through the stubbles of dry grass. I imagined every scene as he told his story.
By 1915, there were many homesteaders staking claims in Montana. By that time, the amount of land deeded had been increased to 320 acres per homesteader. The allotted time to “prove” their homestead was decreased to three years. A homesteader would file a claim, build a cabin and live there. Witnesses gave written documentation as to the validity of the homesteader’s claim.
One homesteader from the East staked his claim and built his house on the Montana prairie. He wasn’t too anxious to spend winter on the open prairie so left to go to the city or back East to spend the winter. This left his cabin empty all winter. Like other cabins in homesteading country, this one was left unlocked. According to the code of the west, one’s home, no matter how humble, was open to others. The drawstring was left on the outside of the door to welcome passing travelers. Whatever meager supplies were in the cabin could be used. A passerby could stay and leave whatever he could for others and replenish the woodpile.
A family with a little boy moved into the community. The boy was sick with “consumption” and the doctor thought the cool Montana air would help him. It did for a while, but when the flu made its rounds, the boy’s life was taken from him. It was a bitter cold winter and the ground was frozen solid. The undertaker sent his crew to the community cemetery on the hill. Without the cover of snow, the ground was frozen hard and deep. The grave diggers couldn’t even dig a posthole, much less a grave. On a frigid January day, they placed the boy’s casket in the empty homesteader’s cabin. Flu claimed the life of another and soon a second casket was added.
Winter continued to be bitter cold. Along in February as the evening shadows lengthened, a traveler turned into the homesteader’s cabin. It was a welcome sight as the day was ending and the cold wind whipped down his neck. He pulled the string and entered the cabin. He got a fire going, melted some snow for a pot of coffee, got a pan of beans on the stove and then lit a lamp and set it on the table. Upon a further survey of the contents of the cabin, he noticed a wooden box that looked suspiciously like a casket. There was another beside it. He found a hammer, pried off the lid and dropped it back down quickly. He left the drawstring hanging as the door hit his heels on the way out.
Unbeknown to him, postholes weren’t the only thing that couldn’t be dug that winter.
Old Montana Territorial Prison, Deer Lodge, Montana
Unmanned stone turrets stood like silent sentries at each corner of the stone barrier that encircled the prison walls. Foreboding formidable buildings bore the battle scars of shattered bricks that threatened to fall to the ground. Remnants of the tails of sheets tied to prison bars hung from windows. Twisted wires with sharp barbs were wound around each other forming a tangled lethal web along the tops of fences and stone walls. An uneasiness crept from the dark recesses. Shadows’ bony fingers motioned for us as we walked inside. Just being behind thick doors and iron gates brought a sense of claustrophobia and uneasiness. Even though windows lined the outer walls of the large rooms, only a pinpoint of light seemed to penetrate the oppressive darkness. Every foot fall and whisper echoed from cold concrete floors and stony bare walls. Stepping into the women’s quarters sent a chill through my body. Relics inside the cells were reminders of those who once were locked within those stark walls. The unspeakable crimes of the women who resided there were rarely matched by any of the men who lived beyond in the other quarters.
inside the women’s quarters
The walls began to close in around me. The hallways seemed to narrow and pulse as we went further into the heart of the prison. Nothing was able to penetrate the thick stagnant stifling air that got heavier by the minute. Open cell doors gave evidence of those who were once housed behind locked bars. There was a presence of restless invisible eyes of ghosts lingering, staring from dark corners or peering from under empty cots. Signs along the way recounted the horrific crimes of many of the inhabitants. It’s no wonder the restlessness of evil lurked there in the black retreats.
Mel Jowell lived here once, twice, three, four times. He killed Deputy Sheriff Joseph Brannin in 1911 on the dusty streets of Melville, Montana. Horse stealing, thievery, prison breaks, murder and evading capture were among other offenses. He skirted the law, managed to escape and lived the remainder of his days outside prison bars. I cannot say if he was tormented by ghosts of his past or if his soul found peace in life and in death.
Stepping into the prison yard, a rush of air filled my lungs. The day was bright with blue sky and fluffy white clouds. A soft breeze was interrupted with whispers that seemed to echo within the prison yard. Reminders of evil lurked in the shadows that moved along the ground. I turned and walked out the stone gate breaking free of the oppression that clung to me and tried to hold me captive. The breeze chased away the stagnant air. The light of day grew brighter as we drove away.
Ghost Towns and other abandoned places are fascinating pieces of our history. Little towns that sprang up overnight were often short lived due to economic pressures, disasters, mine closures, disuse of railroads or lawlessness. Towns were deserted as many inhabitants left with only what would fit in their wagons. The remains left behind have tales of their own.
Bannack, Montana was donated to the state in 1954 with the stipulation that it remain a ghost town. Bannack was founded in 1862. The early town gained a reputation for lawlessness. In 1864, it was named the first Territorial Capital of Montana. Sixty historic structures remain standing in Bannack State Park.
Bodie, California became a State Historic Park in 1962. The town is maintained just as it was found when the State took over the town. Gold was discovered in 1859 by William Bodey. After a mill was established in 1861, the town began to grow. At one time there were 65 saloons in town. Bodie was first on my list of ghost towns to visit.
Chinese Camp, California is mostly a ghost town. It is known for the Tong wars that pitted members of rival clans in 1856. The battles were fought with pitchforks, rakes and other mining and farming tools. Americans and Europeans also populated the area. This town is on the Mark Twain Bret Harte Trail.
Comet, Montana is located about 20 miles southwest of Helena. The remains of the town cover about 35 acres. It is private property but is open to public access. The town is named for Comet Mine which was developed in 1883.
Coolidge, Montana is said to have been named after Calvin Coolidge. By 1919, the community was thriving. By 1922 the town had telephone service and electricity. Work was done on a mining tunnel, but by the time it was ready for operation, the economy had taken a downturn and silver prices plummeted.
One of the inhabitants of Coolidge
Elkhorn Mining District had rich veins of silver high in the Pioneer Mountains. It was called “Old Elkhorn” because a pair of elk horns were found near the discovery of the site. It was just a short distance from Coolidge. At one time this was the largest mill in Montana.
Elkhorn, Montana located in the Elkhorn Mountains, was founded in 1872. It was abandoned in the 1970’s. Two of its buildings, Fraternity Hall and Gillian Hall, are preserved as Elkhorn State Park within this historic silver mining ghost town. It is a gorgeous drive to Elkhorn.
Gold Hill, Nevada was never a town or a settlement. It was a mining complex to process ore from several claims, including the Gold Hill mine. Only the mine hoist and foundations of the mill exist.
Goldfield, Nevada, so named because of the discovery of gold, was a booming mining town from 1905 through 1910. In fact, it was once the largest town in Nevada. Wyatt and Virgil Earp came to Goldfield in 1904. Virgil was hired as deputy sheriff in January 1905. Wyatt left shortly after. Much of the town was destroyed by fire in 1923. One of my great uncles mined here for a short time.
Marysville, Montana was once a thriving gold camp. Several of the buildings in Marysville are listed on the National Historic Register. Part of the town is considered a ghost town, but it is far from being deserted. Mining activity still goes on there. In the 1880’s and 1890’s, it was said to have been the leading gold producer. When my family moved to Montana from New Mexico, they lived in this community for a time.
Nevada City, Montana is a mining ghost town that was restored between 1945 and 1978. The city, along with Virginia City, is a living historical museum. In the 1880’s it was known as the site of the richest placer gold strikes in the Rocky Mountains. Visitors can step back in time with a tour of the Old West mining town, a train ride, or a night in the Nevada City Hotel.
sod roof
Old Montana Prison, aka Deer Lodge Prison, was the first Territorial Prison in the western United States. It was built by convict labor in the late 1800’s. The Old Montana Prison Complex also houses five unique museums within the historic prison walls. Though it may not be on the list of Ghost Towns, it is the ghostliest place I have visited. Mel Jowell, who killed my great Uncle Joe in 1911 was housed here on more than one occasion.
Palmetto, Nevada was founded in 1866 when prospectors discovered silver deposits. They named the camp Palmetto, thinking that the Joshua trees were a relative of the palmetto tree. When it was founded, a tent city sprang up. The town had restaurants, a bank, doctor’s office, post office, assorted stores and businesses. It is completely abandoned today.
Furnace
Rimini, Montana, 12 miles west of Helena, was once filled with mining activity. It is inhabited by a few full time residents. In the summer months, many make their homes in restored miner’s cabins. The town was named for Francesca da Rimini, a character in the opera Dante’s Inferno, which was popular in Helena at the time. There are a number of historic buildings still standing.
Tonopah, Nevada was at its peak in 1905 with the discovery of gold. The old section of the town is a ghost town while the rest of the town is vibrant. Tourism plays a large part in the local economy as it continues operation with hotels, clubs, stores and restaurants.
Virginia City, Montana is a living ghost town. It stands frozen in time. Nevada City and Virginia City lie along Alder Gulch about a mile apart. This is the site of the richest placer gold strike in the Rocky Mountains. Visitors can find historic lodging, take a train ride, pan for gold, attend a theater show, enjoy fine dining and shop. This is a well preserved Old West gold mining town along with Nevada City. My great aunts and uncles ran a boarding house here for a short period of time before moving to the Helena area.
Zurich Station in Inyo County, California, was formerly known as Alvord. It was established as a freight and passenger station on the Carson & Colorado Railway in 1884. The name was changed to Zurich in 1923 because the eastern slope of the Sierra mountains reminded a local resident of her native homeland of Switzerland. The station fell into disuse in the 1940’s and ceased operation completely in 1960.
