Walking with Roosevelt

There is a direct connection between the history and landscape of North Dakota, and the very soul of who I am. Walking along the Missouri River, through the badlands, or atop the thick black soil of the Red River Valley, I often stop, close my eyes, and wonder who's walked there before me.

On these days, I find my thoughts drifting away through Dakota's history, as if caught be a gusty northwest wind, carried purposefully from place to place across the prairie.
Some days I'm sitting around a campfire with the Corps of Discovery, writing in my journal, chewing away at the days adventures.

Other times I'm running cattle in the badlands, sipping coffee black enough to jump-start a dead mans heart, or celebrating with a shot of forty-mile red eye.

There are times I see my grandpa working eighteen hour days to get the crop in, or out. I smell the fertile Red River earth, see him pick up a handful of dirt, and watch it fall heavily to the ground between his weathered fingers. Sweat coats his face, soaks his shirt.

There is no place like North Dakota. You cannot walk the land and not feel her presence. Winter winds whip your face while the summer sun tans it. Always you feel very much alive. Your heart pounds with the excitement of a flying pheasant, the wind whistles in your ears as it wraps unsympathetically around your face, and a cold winter day put a sting in your fingertips. In many cases, North Dakota awakens an unquenchable spirit of adventure.

From time to time I dash off into the heart of my dreams. I was at one of these places not long ago, the site of Theodore Roosevelt's Elkhorn Ranch. It lies in rugged, remote territory some 35 miles north of Medora. The land remains much as it was 100 years ago. As I slip between some fence posts and onto an old, beaten, trail to reach the place, my imagination slips into history. I'm walking with Roosevelt.

His pace is nearly too quick to follow. Like the spirit of the badlands, I am lifted by his strength, character, and courage. Although he first came to hunt, he writes, reads, and heals. Black-care will not catch us today.

I trudge further down the snowy, sometimes icy trail, breaking into small pools of wintry water. It is, of all things, a 60 degree January day. A beautiful clearing emerges slightly west of the banks of the Little Missouri.

I close my eyes and hear Bill Sewall, the ranch foreman, and Wilmot Dow cutting giant cottonwoods. They are experienced woodsmen, and friends. TR cannot keep pace. The rugged pair make quick work of over 100 trees today, while the boss is only able to “beaver down seventeen.” I imagine hearty laughter as Roosevelt realizes his is no match for the two men from Maine. The Elkhorn takes shape.

My mind skips ahead, and winter turns to spring; the ranch is complete. On his beloved horse Manitou, Roosevelt crosses the Little Missouri, shallow, earthy water splashing up around him as he heads off to hunt. I struggle to catch him as he reaches the top of a butte. These badlands are a strangely compelling place that captured and mended his lion-heart, a place so magnificent they won't leave you.

He moves with conviction, after buffalo, elk, grouse, deer, and other wild game. He is off to Wyoming, Montana, sleeping in two inches of rain, braving cold so bitter he seeks shelter in an old shack in the dark of night to survive. He feels alive.
He captures boat thieves, knocks out a loud-mouth drunkard, shoots a grizzly square between the eyed (all twelve hundred pounds of him), and stands toe to toe with the sharp-shooting, confident Marquis.

He rides through starry nights and purple-pink sunsets. He tells stories, eats well, and shares laughter. He reads, writes, and checks the herd. There are pictures to take, and fences to mend, and wrongs to right. But we must return to the ranch.

Sitting on the veranda, dazzling shades of orange, pink, blue, and yellow gently fade into the sky, reaching in stark contrast to meet the tops of sharp, sometimes rolling and jagged buttes. There are stars bright in the sky, darkness in the valley, thick sweet smells of wild earth, and burning coal mixed with sage. Roosevelt slams another book shut. The rocking chair creaks against the weathered floorboards. He reaches up to remove his spectacles, and rub the top of his nose with his thumb and index finger. Another day is gone, and although he will soon leave this place, it will never leave him.

In the distance, a restless deer breaks the silence. It snaps my mind back to the present, and I turn back to the trail. My soul is refreshed.