Legacy Lost. And Found.

I go to Montana for more than the hunting and fishing.

Not only am I attracted to the states' certain enigmatic quality borne from the rugged landscape and radical mood swings of weather, but also to its history.

Its aura is a connection by affinity to mind and spirit.

Standing in a sharp wind along the High Line out of Havre as a roaring freight train twisted the rails to scream in pain, I have stared in wonder at the Sweet Grass Hills as if a million buffalo raged across the plain. 

I have marveled at the audacity of Lewis & Clark and paid homage at monuments like Pompey's Pillar.

I have revered the pioneer families that once inhabited the vacant skeletons of old homesteads that speak of strength and freedom.

 

Vague recollections from an early childhood of playing Cowboys and Indians in a neighborhood park in Helena and trudging through too-tall brush following my Father as he hunted along the Teton Bench outside of Choteau have led me to visit places that once were home.

Driving west out of Glasgow and dropping down on Hwy 191 south out of Malta gave me the opportunity to drive through the small town of Zortman to see the place where my Mother's (Elizabeth Clair Whitcomb Pilkey Mohlere) stories of her Montana family and the Ruby Gulch Gold and Silver mine originated.

What I thought was going to be a quick drive-by proved to be much more. 

Zortman, Montana

Zortman is a historic old mining town in the Little Rocky Mountains named for an early day prospector who hunted gold there in the late 1880's and early 1900's.   It's also the home of a family legacy nearly forgotten.

I turned off 191 and took the seven mile gravel road into town, where one of the first things I saw was this little white church sitting atop a very steep hill right in the middle of town.

I stopped at the cafe and noticed several framed documents and old sepia print photos relating to  the Ruby Gulch mine and(whom I mistakenly thought was) my great uncle, Charlie Whitcomb - the subject of many of my Mother's stories.  I asked if there were any other artifacts that I could see and then I was directed across the road to the Zortman Hotel and Garage.  There, I was told, I'd be able to find out more info on the Witcomb family.

The Hotel is a rustic building with a gas pump out front and a skinning rack off to the side.  When I walked in, a couple of hunters were skinning a deer on the rack.  Inside I met Candy Kalal, one of the owners.  I said (again mistakenly) that Charlie Whitcomb was my great uncle.

After a few pleasantries, Candy introduced me to her husband John.  Apparently, he had known both my great aunts - Genevieve "Freddy" Whitcomb and Virginia and was well versed in the Whitcomb family history.

I explained who I was and then the stories started...all too long to address here.  Then John asked if I'd like to see the Whitcomb Family graveyard, of which I didn't know existed.

We hopped in John's pick-up and drove up the hill to the cemetery.  There we stopped at the entrance to the grave site.  It obviously had seen better times.  The wrought iron fence was still standing, but the gate and posts had been knocked over.  Oil lamps once stood on each corner and at the gate.

As I walked down the center of the site, I felt a chill of anticipation sweep through me. 

Buried there are:

My Great Grandfather - Charles Whitcomb, founder of the Ruby Gulch Gold & Silver Mine.  Montana pioneer and entrepreneur.  (Headstone weighs about two tons.  Quite a huge chuck to lug uphill in 1934.)

My Great Grandmother - Katie "B", the soul of Charlie.

My Great Uncle - George Whitcomb, former Lt. Governor of Montana, WWI hero - DSC.  Shot to death in Helena while running for Governor.  Aunt Freddie called it a "hit."

My Great Aunts - Freddie, fine artist, had the church on the hill built; and Virginia (whom I had met as a child and was a favorite of my Mother)

And my Grandmother, who was never known by her children's children.

It was a strange feeling.  I had transcended the aura and walked with my ancestors for the first time.  My Mother's stories became real. 

What was once lost, was found again.

So there it is.  Stay tuned.