Gutzom Borglum began carving the four faces on Mount Rushmore in August of 1927. When he died in 1941, his son, Lincoln, took up the metaphoric chisel and finished the work. Lincoln's son, Jim, is a friend of mine. Jim and I share several interests: bird dogs, good food, and the prairie, to name a few. We also both enjoy a good party and Jim throws good parties.

Being a long-time Black Hills resident, I know the basics of the Mount Rushmore story and I've taken many visiting friends and relations up to see "the mountain". It is a very impressive thing to behold; gigantic, proud, and confident. I shake my head to think of all the adjectives that have been used to describe Rushmore and its relationship to America and to the hills and prairies that surround it. It has been called, essential, emblematic, life affirming. But sometimes, in the light of twenty-first century values, it is hard to find those virtues in Mount Rushmore. Described in today's parlance, with contemporary sensitivities, we might as likely find adjectives like stark, imposing, dominant, paternal.

I have always been a flip-flopper when it comes to Mount Rushmore. I believe I have at least a partial understanding of the charge made by some Native Americans that Rushmore is an affront to their claim on the Black Hills. Given my basic love of undisturbed land there are days that I frown to see the mountain in the distance, casting what could be viewed as greedy eyes on even our little ranch. But, on other days I am struck with the chutzpa of the very idea of carving a mountain. Anyone who likes a good building project will feel immediately that, "Wow. Yea, boy. Now, THERE is a project." A project as Herculean as the projects taken on by the presidents depicted in the stone.

For all the historical warts, it's hard to argue with Washington's courage, Jefferson's vision, Lincoln's fortitude, or Roosevelt's passion for what is right. No matter what your persuasion, it is hard not to look up at the colossal carving and not feel a little awe and pride welling up in your throat. Though I distrust the colonial impulses of that age I have always wondered what men with the vision and energy of Gutzum and Lincoln Borglum were like. How did they spend their quiet times? Did they even have quiet times?

We all know the pitfalls of judging one culture by the values of another. In writing historical novels I have always tried, if value judgments must be made, to make them in light of the values of the time. To do anything less is to re-write history in a particularly pernicious way.

All of that fancy thinking was far from my mind as I drank margaritas in the cavernous great room of Jim Borglum's home. The room had been his father's and, before that, his grandfather's. It is a monumental room, fitting of the men who fashioned Mount Rushmore. The stone fireplace is massive and stretches to the distant, beamed ceiling. Jim laughs that 80% of the heat shoots right up the chimney. He tells of setting up a full sized teepee on the floor in front of the fire as child. But that night was a 55th birthday party for Jim and all the guests were required to bring a jar of salsa. There were lots of food people there and we were sampling it all. Jill's Secret Salsa Deluxe was in great demand. (The home grown tomatoes picked just before the first frost were the secret ingredient.)

I was parked in front of the fireplace, feeling the good wood heat on my back, savoring my third margarita, and enjoying the conversation of Black Hills foodies, artists, business people, and ranchers. My eyes drifted to the beams and a monster piñata hanging in the center of the room. Later in the night Jim would get his chance to smash it with a long club and thirty, otherwise sophisticated, adults would scramble for the candy. People were discussing whether or not Jim should be blind folded. I voted no, unless the drink in his hand was going to be his last, then let my eyes float to the loft library where I could see rows of tantalizing books. Jim looked at me to protest my lack of faith and saw what I was looking at. "That's my father and Grandfather's library." He smiled, knowing what I was thinking. "Have a look," he said.

It took a while to wander through the crowd and up the stairs that led to the loft. Even though I could easily look down on the festivities below, I felt a little like I was deserting the party. But I was fascinated to see what the great men had been reading, to feel the stiff backs of the books that had stiffened the backs of the early twentieth century. I don't know what I expected but I found a treasure chest of biographies, classics, and hard cover titles I had only seen in paperback. Shelves just for Lincoln. More shelves for the Civil War. Science of the age before the atom bomb. Travel books and sociology. Novels and poetry. Some of the pages were dog eared. Many of the first editions were inscribed to one of the senior Borglums. Hundreds of books. No, thousands of books on shelves and laid out on tables. A comfortable chair here and there. I stood frustrated that I could not begin on the multivolume set of Thomas Paine. The party was migrating up steps behind me and into the lofty library. When I turned with what must have been a touch of defiance in my eyes, I met Jim's gentle smile. "Come back sometime for a week-end. We'll just lock you and Jill in here." I laughed at myself and when I looked back to the bookshelf I spied a book by Molly Ivens. Apparently the Borglum book collection was still expanding.

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by Gervase Hittle

After Ben Cunningham returned home to Switzerland in mid August I went to Oklahoma, for about three weeks. My travel had a three point purpose: 1) to relax and take a break, 2) to replace an old fence around my property there, and 3) to bring my oldest brother, Les, back to the ranch with me for a couple of months.

Replacing the old, board fence quickly put an end to the possibility of the hoped for vacation. The fence became and almost full-time job, but with my brother’s help I was able to finish the project about two days before returning to the ranch, where I knew that more fencing work lay in wait for me to complete in preparation for turning the buffalo out into the US Forest Service ground in November. I knew I would be helping our neighbors gather their cattle and move them off the government land, and then I would make a circuit of the twenty-six miles of fence before we turned the buffalo out. This fence checking job is not easy. It takes up to a week because of some of the difficulty of the terrain. It is, nevertheless, something I enjoy. I like being out in that rough country. It is surprisingly beautiful in a stark, unrelenting way. Everything that lives there is a survivor. The cedars in the draws, the cacti and yucca on some of the side hills, the grasses in the pasture areas and the cottonwood trees along the waterways and riparian zones have learned how to survive in a relatively hostile environment. This holds true for the birds and animals and reptiles as well.

There is a place, a steep and deep cut bank along Indian Creek on the edge of the Badlands that houses a colony of Cliff Swallows and another that houses a colony of Rock Doves (basically a wild pigeon). These places and residences are rather distant from almost everything. Occasionally I see the Rock Doves in an area near us. The swallows, however, migrate south for the winter; but when I am there during the mid/spring or early summer, I see them doing what swallows do--flying high and catching insects.

I see Antelope or Muledeer or Porcupines and Prairie Dogs, Rabbits, Rattlesnakes and Buffalo there, when I am alone with my horse or with Dan. I look at the creek bed and grasses, the hillsides and cedars, the cut banks, cliffs, and swallows, I sometimes think to myself an altered line from W. B. Yeats’ "Sailing to Byzantium:" "That is a country for old men," because we do not "neglect monuments of un-aging intellect," the change of the seasons, the life of the Great Plains.

And early in November after a quick trip to Oklahoma, I will return to the ranch thankful for any moment of relaxation that may come my way while not really in anticipation of it, but mostly I will try to remain open to the unexpected.