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Harding County Treasures

Western South Dakota is known for its wide open spaces and rugged landscapes. This is particularly true in one of the least populated counties located in the farthest northwest reaches of the state. Harding County’s population was under 1,300 folks as of the 2010 census. With an area around 2,700 square miles, the population density is roughly one person for every three square miles. So unless you stop in the county seat of Buffalo (population 330), you are probably going to see the greatest concentration of human beings only when driving through the county on the CanAm Highway (US route 85). But don’t let the small population fool you; the area is rich in beauty and scenery. Places like the Cave Hills, Slim Buttes and the Jumpoff are fairly easy to get to and can take your breath away if you take the time to explore them.

My first experience seeing the Slim Buttes was from a school bus window as my high school basketball team traveled to our farthest opponent in the Little Moreau Conference, the Harding County Ranchers. I had heard stories and legends of”wild west” battles and hidden loot still buried in the buttes. It wasn’t until recently that I took the time to explore the area and learn a bit about the history. There was indeed a battle that took place in the Slim Buttes a few months after the Battle of the Little Bighorn in Montana. A Lakota village was destroyed and a counterattack by the legendary Crazy Horse was fended off. It turned out to be the beginning of the end of what was called the Great Sioux War of 1876.

White-sided buttes now peacefully rise from the prairie, with only cattle, horses and wild bands of pronghorn to disturb the grasses at their base. Ponderosa pine graces the top of the buttes and make up part of Custer National Forest. The name”slim” comes from the landform itself. The high points of the butte tops are never more than a few miles wide as they tower 300 to 400 feet above the prairie. This ridge is roughly 30 miles in length and makes a natural”L” shape. There are only three passes through the buttes. Two of these passes are paved. Highway 79 crosses the buttes to the south and Highway 20 to the west of Reva, SD. At the Reva Gap, there is a campground and hiking area with a majestic view of the”castles” area of the buttes.

A little further north and west are the Cave Hills. This formation seems more like high mesas than hills to me. The top layers of rock on the hills are pockmarked and full of many small cave-like entrances, the most well-known being Ludlow Cave. I did not make it to Ludlow Cave this time around, which is a shame as there are ancient petroglyphs to be found as well as markings from soldiers of Custer’s 7th Cavalry. I imagine that the legends of robber’s loot hidden in Harding County probably have something to do with the caves of the Cave Hills. Even though I didn’t get to explore these caves, I did spend a good amount of time in the camping area of Picnic Springs in the north section of the hills. Wildflowers were everywhere. I spotted deer in the box canyons and watched mountain bluebirds, goldfinch and various swallows dart among the rock formations. The roads into and through the Cave Hills are rugged but well worth the time to explore.

When I was looking a detailed map of the region, I noticed an area labeled as”the Jumpoff” that was directly west of the Slim Buttes and little north of the Short Pine Hills. I discovered it was a rugged mini-badlands area of hills, ridges, valleys and cut banks that separate the headwaters of the Grand River to the east from the valley of the Little Missouri River to the west. I was there at dawn and saw the sun rise over the Slim Buttes on the horizon.

Although I may not have left Harding County with any long-forgotten buried loot, I did experience one of the treasures our great state has to offer: the promise of a new day breaking over the wide, windswept high plains. Thankfully this is the kind of treasure anyone can share in.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midcontinent Communications he is often on the road photographing our prettiest spots around the state. Follow Begeman on his blog. To view Christian’s columns featuring other unique spots in South Dakota’s landscape, visit his landmarks page.

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Sage Grouse: Living on the Edge

Last Friday, I knocked off work an hour early and headed west with my camera. The weather outside finally agreed with the calendar — a warm breeze accompanied me as I made my way through the Badlands during the sunset hour. Driving with my windows down, I could smell the water from the snowmelt mixed with new grass growth on the breeze. It was a little bit of heaven on earth. But the Badlands weren’t my final destination. I was headed for the farther reaches of western South Dakota on the hunt for a special kind of bird.

On Saturday, I woke up at a hotel in Spearfish, ten minutes before my alarm was set to go off. Instead of my normal bleary-eyed, anti-morning mood, I was wide awake and ready to experience one of South Dakota’s lesser-known treasures. The Greater Sage Grouse were dancing in Butte and Harding counties and I was going to get to watch!

Chuck Berdan, a retired biologist for the Bureau of Land Management, agreed to show me an active lek in Butte County, but to get there without disturbing the birds we had to leave Belle Fourche at 4:30 a.m. I peppered Chuck the whole way there with questions about the birds, his job and the land. He answered patiently and with good humor. I learned that there are somewhere between 1,000 and 1,500 sage grouse in South Dakota. The courtships on various leks start in late March and usually taper off by early May. Chuck told me that male sage grouse roost on the lek at night, unlike prairie chicken and sharptail grouse, who fly in to their leks in the morning.

The numbers of South Dakota sage grouse are in a slow decline both here as well as in other western states. The latest trial for the bird has been the West Nile virus. If a sage grouse contracts the virus, they usually only survive for two or three days. This relatively quick death has not allowed for much immunity to build up in the grouse population. It is a worrisome situation as our state’s population of grouse are already on living on the edge. Our birds live on the easternmost edge of the sage grouse’s naturally fragmented range, so it doesn’t take much to tip the scales against them.

Chuck has spent 30+ years studying sage grouse. He told me that counting and studying the bird here in South Dakota allows wildlife management to make plans and policies based on local data rather than from studies done in other states. I asked him if he could predict what the grouse population would be in 10 or even 20 years. He smiled and told me that more studies need to be done to answer those kinds of questions. Right now there are simply too many unknown factors in play to be able to predict the future of sage grouse with any certainty.

I feel lucky to have been able to witness the display. I didn’t even know we had the species in the state until I watched an episode of Planet Earth where they featured the bird’s mating dance that was shot in Wyoming. It’s just another example of our state’s wide range of natural phenomena.

Later in the day, I drove down to Custer State Park to see the spring buffalo calves. The whole way there, I kept thinking about the sage grouse and the magical morning in Butte County. I hope folks like Chuck continue to care about our wildlife resources, and not just because they make great photo opportunities. These animals and ranges are part of what makes our state great!


A Butte County Courtship

Christian also took video of the male sage grouse displaying for the females. Click to hear and view their mating ritual.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midcontinent Communications he is often on the road photographing our prettiest spots around the state. Follow Begeman on his blog.


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South Dakota’s Killer Wolf

A gray wolf shot near Custer earlier this year caused a lot of conversation in the southern Black Hills. John Kanta of the Rapid City Game Fish and Parks Department said it wandered from the Great Lakes region. “We have an occasional wolf that wanders through South Dakota. But we don’t have a breeding pair. Because of all the livestock we have I don’t think they’d fit well here in South Dakota,” Kanta told us.

Gray wolves are bigger and stronger than timber wolves. Grays were lording over the river breaks of western South Dakota when farmers and ranchers first settled there. The wolves preyed on livestock, so they were eventually hunted to extinction in South Dakota.

One of the last was a wolf named Three Toes that achieved great notoriety in the hills and plains of northwest South Dakota. Archie Gilfillan, a sheepherder and writer, was intrigued by the local ranchers’ mixture of respect and hate for the wild and wily creature. In his book Sheep, Gilfillan noted that Three Toes “for 13 years laughed at poison, traps and guns, lived in and off enemy country with the hand of every man against him, a cunning, bloodthirsty killer, a super wolf among wolves and the most destructive single animal of which there is any record anywhere.”

So named because he had lost a paw in a trap early in his life, Three Toes gained a reputation as a bloodthirsty killer by 1912. He left his unmistakable paw print at ranches throughout Harding County. Infuriated ranchers tracked his whereabouts and devastating destruction. They estimated that his lifetime of kills exceeded $50,000 in cattle and sheep.

Three Toes lived to an old age, and reached the peak of his destruction in the 1920s. Gilfillan wrote, “For first, last, and all the time, Three Toes was a killer. Other wolves might kill one cow or sheep and eat off that and be satisfied. But Three Toes killed for the sheer love of killing. He would kill on a full stomach as well as when hungry. On one occasion he visited three different ranches in one night, killed many sheep and lambs at each one, but ate only the liver of one lamb.”

Officials bumped the bounty for Three Toes to $500, but no hunter could catch the cunning old wolf. In July of 1925, federal wolf hunter Clyde F. Briggs settled on a ranch near the center of Three Toes’ hunting range. For weeks Briggs set his traps and Three Toes carefully eluded them. But he was tricked on July 23 by a hidden trap. The earth around him was scratched and plowed by his frantic efforts to escape from the trap’s grasp by the time Briggs arrived. The trapper muzzled and hog-tied the big wolf and put him in the backseat of his car, intending to deliver him to Rapid City alive. But soon a passenger cried, “I think he’s dying.”

“Briggs stopped the car, and looking around, found the wolf’s eyes fixed on him. But the eyes did not see him, for the wolf was dead,” wrote Gilfillan. “Call it a broken heart, or what you will — something of this sort is what killed the old wolf. He was resting easily when found, his wounds were superficial … but there was something in his grand old spirit that could not brook capture, and Nature, more merciful than he had ever been, granted him his release.”


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Butte Country

There is something poetic about a lone butte rising from western South Dakota’s grassy seas of rolling plains. These lonely landforms not only break up the horizon, but are important landmarks and points of reference to local residents. Often a person will tell you where his ranch or land is based on the proximity of the nearest butte.

Buttes also play an interesting role in the history of the area. Bear Butte, near Sturgis, is still considered a sacred religious site for both the Lakota and Cheyenne tribes. Thunder Butte was famously used as a landmark for mountain man Hugh Glass on his crawl across the prairies after being mauled by a grizzly bear on the Grand River. The Slim Buttes bear sad memory of a brutal battle fought a few months after the Battle of the Little Bighorn in 1876.

Besides the history, I also find the names of the buttes quite interesting. To me they have a touch of romanticism to them. For example, it doesn’t take much to imagine riding herd at Blackhorse Butte or surveying the plains with the keen eye of a majestic Golden Eagle perched on Eagle Butte. Many times, the names of buttes were derived by what the butte looks like. Haystack Butte and Castle Rock Butte along Highway 79 north of Newell are good examples of this. Other buttes have interesting stories and legends that the names come from. In a history of Ziebach County, the Native American name for Thunder Butte is given as “Wakanganhotan.” The meaning is said to be “place of holy thunder.” I’ve heard people say that the Lakota thought that all thunder or thunderstorms originated from Thunder Butte. However I’m pretty sure that this hand-me-down story is more legend and corrupted speculation than the real origin of the name. Regardless, the butte holds a lot of meaning to me as I grew up within sight of it on the western horizon.

One of my favorite older photos is of the sun setting on top of Thunder Butte on a late August day in 1994. It was a high overcast afternoon, and I could tell it was going to be a good sunset. I grabbed my camera and hurriedly got into my dad’s old blue Chevy work pick-up and headed west. As I was driving I got the idea to line up the photo so the sun would appear to set on the butte. In order to do this, I had to cover a lot of ground in a short time as well as veer off the trail. I’m sure my dad would not have approved if he saw me cruising over the open prairie at a speed that caused the toolboxes and fencing gear to bounce quite vigorously. The good news is that he never knew — well that is, until he reads this article. I think the photo was worth it though.

This December, I finally really saw the”bear” in Bear Butte. I was shooting an old barn and sunset just southwest of the butte and in the fading light I began to make out the slumbering bear. It was actually quite a magical moment. Someday I plan to climb that butte. When I do, I’m sure I’ll feel very small in a very large world. I’ve felt it before while on the top of Thunder Butte. To be on a high place looking down on the beauty of creation is a humbling yet wonderful thing. I suppose”sacred” is another very good word for it.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midcontinent Communications he is often on the road photographing our prettiest spots around the state. Follow Begeman on his blog.

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The Island Mesa

The Island, an isolated mesa near Harding County’s Northern Cave Hills, has drawn explorers for centuries.

The empty mesas of Harding County’s Cave Hills haunt me when I’m away. So I’m glad to be back on this autumn morning just after sunrise with a cold breeze descending from the northwest, hinting at snows to come.

I’ve brought a friend, Tim Herrmann, from the Oregon Coast. We plan to find an isolated mesa that local people call”the Island.” Girdled by 60-foot cliffs and standing uniquely alone in a larger canyon, the Island has attracted people’s attention for thousands of years and its cliffs are full of ancient rock art. Supposedly, only at a single spot hidden from view can one ascend to the Island’s top via a giant staircase of tumbled boulders.

After sunrise, my car bumps along two ruts northward from the small town of Buffalo into Custer National Forest. The ragged track gradually roughens and finally we see a small sign pointing to Davis Draw. Wary of high-centering and ripping out my oil pan, I park near a stock dam on the rolling plain half a mile from the draw’s mouth. Tim and I carry long hiking sticks because we were warned in Buffalo that prairie rattlers are especially thick this year.

We hike a rutted trace toward Davis Draw, its mouth gradually widening before us in the gap between two massive, vertical cliffs. Tim breaks our silence, asking,”What’s that?” and points to the southern cliff where a lone sentinel stands. It’s a”stone Johnnie,” or large rock cairn erected long ago by a bored hunter or herder. Far above us, corrugations of cirrocumulus pale from magenta toward white as the sun climbs above Slim Buttes to our southeast. On such a morning as this, under a mackerel sky, all good things seem possible.

I first heard about the Island several years ago while working as a volunteer with Assistant State Archaeologist Mike Fosha and others at a 6,500-year-old bison kill site west of Buffalo. Mike told me about a mesa in the Northern Cave Hills that was inhabited by spirits. He caged his words humorously, but meant them:”Some day before I die I’m going to take my sleeping bag and a bottle of tequila and spend a night on top of the Island, just to see what — or who — shows up.”

While exploring The Island, Randall and Herrmann found glyphs scratched into stone by ancient hunters and gatherers.

Many long-departed human souls have trod this canyon on hundreds of thousands of mornings like this, hunting antelope, deer and buffalo, gathering plant materials, looking for shelter, casting anxious eyes northward, concerned about the coming cold. For millennia, solitary hunters rediscovered the lonely mesa that stands as an island cathedral.

As we proceed higher into Davis Draw, its sandstone heights loom high and broad beyond us. Steep talus slopes, around or over which we must pass, hide the canyon’s farthest reaches. Ash, cottonwood and oak splashed with autumn’s oranges and yellows adorn the small coulees and hidden ravines that drain the surrounding cliffs. Across the canyon, three pronghorns graze by a dry watercourse, occasionally glancing up to monitor us.

Harding County residents gave me directions to the Island but the descriptions are vague, for it stands far back in the canyon. Many red-brown cliffs precede it, reaching out deceivingly and hinting that they stand apart from the main Cave Hills butte. But after a laborious approach that gains us a better view, we see them for what they are: hoaxers that twist away into box canyons where they connect to the main Cave Hills landform. The sandstone mesas that comprise these Cave Hills stand 300 to 500 feet above the surrounding prairie. Their tables are eroded remnants of a larger strata that covered this entire region 55 or 60 million years ago during the Paleocene epoch. These vibrant scarps dramatically overlay the sober gray and brown hues of the older Hell Creek Formation, which bristles with fossilized dinosaur bones.

We squint at a massive set of escarpments far back in the canyon, perhaps a mile or more away, distances being deceiving. What seems close at hand through the crystalline air is really much farther. Tim says,”You think those cliffs are the Island?”

We can’t tell so we cross the draw to a higher slope to gain a better vantage point. We leave behind a web of cattle trails that lace the lower slopes and thrash our way noisily uphill around car-sized boulders and clumps of prickly pear, dodging still-ripening patches of sand burrs. Our noise is purposeful for we don’t wish to surprise any cranky snakes. Tim comments that we haven’t seen a single one, and I wonder aloud,”Well, we’re just day-tripping outsiders. Maybe we’ve been kidded a bit.”

Finally we reach a point high enough that we see in the distance yellow cottonwoods and green-black pines populating a small declivity that has been eroded. This partial view of the region behind the cliffs implies we are looking at our destination, the Island. Three turkey vultures circle above it on thermals rising from the land.

They nearly stumbled upon a prairie rattler sunning itself on a warm rock.

Half an hour later we find we’re wrong. We struggle up a steep talus slope toward the cliffs and realize it will take us much longer to work our way around them to a point where we can see if they are attached to the main Cave Hills mesa, so we look for a closer spot where one of us can boost the other to the cliff top and clarify the matter. Shortly, we find a low slot. I boost Tim’s foot and he hoists himself over a 6-foot ledge to the top. He finds that the mesa is part of the main, not the Island.

Tired and a bit discouraged, we stop to reconnoiter. To the south we see another prominent set of cliffs. Though we cannot be certain, it seems those vertical walls may front a mesa that stands apart from the Cave Hills. We decide to hike across the canyon and climb the talus that for millions of years has calved from those seemingly-fragile cliffs.

Half an hour later we turn the southeast corner of the cliffs and realize we’ve found our goal, our freestanding”Island.” And there beside us rises a wide rock panel that gradually fills us with a sense of wonder. Incised in rough sandstone walls are many etchings: a bison head shield, an antelope, many overlapping petroglyphs of small animals, a deer, a warrior and spear, a warrior on horseback. And beyond these are incised a set of deeply scarred, elaborate forms that look truly ancient. How old could they be, and what do they depict? We cannot tell, for a portion of that glyph has disappeared long ago, fallen into the canyon through the work of wind and weather.

We separate and search in opposite directions for a pathway to the top. After only a few minutes of exploring I find the jumble of car-sized boulders that will allow us access to the summit. Tim rejoins me and we ascend easily.

The Island is shaped like an old galleon, with massive formations of contorted, pink sandstone rising at its bow and stern. Its eroded midsection is a mat of dried grasses, littered with several gray, fallen skeletons of wind-twisted pines. We stand in silence for a time, gazing west at the far mouth of Davis Draw through which we came over two hours earlier, and at the plains beyond, toward Montana on the horizon.

We separate and explore the high sandstone features at each end, skirting the vertical cliffs that drop away on all sides. As I rejoin Tim, he suddenly glances down, pointing,”Hey, look at him.” Planted firmly in its coil, a young prairie rattler shakes its tail at us from four feet away. Some folks understandably would kill it. But Tim and I simply stand there and watch as the snake warns us for a moment, then slowly uncoils. Holding its head high, it watches us as it retreats onto a massive flat rock near the cliff’s edge 15 feet away.

Bemused, Tim says,”How’d that guy get all the way up here?”

ìIts ancestors probably came up the same way we did, though it must not have been easy,” I reply.

Suddenly, the retreating snake, still watching us, flips awkwardly, belly up, and falls sideways into a vertical rock crevice, wedging into the darkness an unknowable distance below. It may sound foolish, but I felt a sudden sense of loss. The young snake, eager to escape, watched us rather than where it was going, making a possibly fatal mistake.

Tim shakes his head.”Somebody’s gonna wonder why he’s late for dinner.”

We glance around to make sure no other members of the same family are present, then take a seat. We pull out water bottles, trail mix, apples. A zephyr of refreshingly cool air brings the pungent scent of sage and pine pitch, and melodic hints of distant birdsong. Across the canyon on the main Cave Hills mesa’s twisted cliffs lie remnants of the same pink sandstone that stands near us. It’s so eroded and contorted by great pressures and stresses over so many eons that only an imperturbably patient God could have witnessed it, a God who loves a story in a slowly unfolding world.

After a while, Tim and I slowly gather our stuff. We look around a last time, not wanting to leave this wild cathedral. A sudden breeze of cooler air reminds me that another autumn soon will end, and this Island mesa will fall into silent stillness. Cold winds will drift snow across this empty height, hiss against these cliffs, fill the snake’s crevice. And who will be there to see it? The snow will sift into badger holes and coulees, settle on the talus slopes and fallen boulders. It will silence the rattling wheatgrass, greasewood and phlox, and smother the bleached bones of the dead.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This story is revised from the September/October 2009 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call 800-456-5117.

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A Sheepherder Named Gilfillan

Archie Gilfillan rented a log cabin in Spearfish which he called “The Shepherd’s Paradise.”

Archie Gilfillan was South Dakota’s sagebrush philosopher. His prairie wit entertained people in the ranching areas of Montana, North Dakota, Wyoming and South Dakota through the Great Depression.

He talked at colleges, high schools, livestock conventions and smoky bar rooms, giving neighbors and friends a chuckle or two during hard times. Public speaking seems an unlikely sideline for a man who spent 20 years as a lonely sheepherder in northwest South Dakota.

Perhaps even more ironic, however, is the fact that Gilfillan authored one of the funniest and most introspective works on early 20th century West River life. Sheep: Life on the South Dakota Range remains in print even today. Stories from the book are told and retold, especially in the bar rooms and kitchen tables of Harding County where he spent his sheepherding days.

Archer Gilfillan was born Feb. 25, 1886, in White Earth, Minn., where his father served as an Episcopal missionary. In 1898 the family moved to Washington, D.C., after Archie’s father suffered a nervous and physical breakdown.

During his teenage summers, Archie worked on farms in Virginia, Massachusetts and Pennsylvania. He grew to like the farm animals, especially sheep. He claimed to have bought a sheep for $3 when he was a youngster and the animal was sold for $6, along with the wool, just one year later. He invested the $6 in three more ewes and sold them for $18.

Years later he wrote,”While I had never been especially good at mathematics, it seemed to me that 100 percent a year was a pretty good return on an investment and that if I could keep it up regularly I ought to be worth quite a bit some day. So I bought as many ewes as I had money for, and left them, supposedly, on shares, with a neighboring farm woman who had a few sheep of her own.”

But the woman mailed him a check for just $10, claiming the pasture bill ate up the rest of his investment.”I learned about women from her,” he wrote.”I was wiped out. But while women are men’s ineradicable weakness, sheep are not; and it was many a year before I again took up the trail of the Golden Hoof.”

He started high school in 1902, two years late because he suffered from typhoid fever and traveled Europe for two years with two aunts while he recovered.

He wore glasses and was short and stout. Sensitive about his height and roly-poly appearance, he avoided sports. An inferiority complex seemed to haunt him all his life, but he maintained a friendly, good-natured personality.

Archie graduated from high school in 1906 as an honor student. He started at Amherst College but transferred to the University of Pennsylvania at Philadelphia. He graduated Phi Beta Kappa with an emphasis in Latin and Greek in 1910. Archie enjoyed debate and excelled in most of his courses.

After graduation he followed his dream west to South Dakota where he worked on a ranch near the Black Hills. Big cattle ranches of the free grass era had just gone out of business and little people with big dreams were arriving to homestead. Archie caught the”free land” bug and decided to homestead in Harding County near Slim Buttes. He raised sheep but never seemed to find the rhythm of buying low and selling high. In three years he gave up ranching and decided to follow in the ministerial footsteps of his father and grandfather.

For three years he attended Western Theological Seminary in Chicago, an Episcopalian institution. On the day before graduation he had a change of heart and dropped out of school to join the Catholic Church.

Gilfillan’s sheepherder’s wagon is now on exhibit at the Dakota Discovery Museum in Mitchell.

Archie returned to Harding County. For two years he herded sheep on ranches with small flocks. In 1916 he hired out to Almon”Al” Dean and herded sheep for him until 1932.

During those 16 years, Gilfillan developed a problem with alcohol. When Dean caught him in a wagon drunk, he moved him to the home ranch to do chores. Such confined quarters were unbearable to Archie and he took another herding job at a neighbor’s ranch in the spring of 1933. He soon retired from the sheep business and rented a log cabin in Spearfish. He named the cabin Shepherd’s Paradise.

He had kept a diary in cipher, a system of secret writing based on a key, for eight years and four months starting in December of 1924 when he was 38. During those years he filled 9,010 pages of standard letter-size paper.

The diary was later transcribed by John Jenson, rare book librarian at the University of Minnesota, after Emily Heilman, Archie’s sister, donated the work to the university.

Gilfillan claimed that he never failed to make a daily entry in his diary but some days are missing. Perhaps the wind grabbed a page occasionally when the sheep wagon door opened. Some of the jottings were reportedly not meant for public consumption because they contained juicy gossip about the pioneering families of the northwest.

Information from the diary filled the pages of his book Sheep, which was published in 1929 by Little and Brown Co. after being rejected by several other publishers. It sold for $2.50. Gilfillan received 10 percent and he voiced the writer’s lament that the publisher gets 80 percent while the writer gets peanuts.

Gilfillan said his first royalty check should have been about $600 but he gave away too many books so the publisher subtracted $200.

In his diary, he was extremely frank about his day-to-day life. His book reveals a sheepherder’s western humor and philosophy that can only be fully appreciated by readers who understands sheep or people.

He never stopped learning, and he devoured books. At one time, he subscribed to 15 magazines and claimed to have a library of 500 books.”Even if a herder does not particularly care for reading, he will be driven to it in self-defense,” he wrote.

Reading was more than a pastime, he quipped.”If the herder on an intensely cold day can get interested in a good story, it will serve to take his mind off his other troubles, such as how much colder his feet will have to get before they crack and break off, and whether the sun is really standing still, or whether that is merely an optical illusion.”

Gilfillan wrote in an earthy, irreverent style. He detested arrogance in writing or talking. In reference to Mary Austin’s book, The Flock, he said that she never used a word in its right meaning if she could distort another to take its place. Of course while writing a book about sheep it would be impossible to avoid profanity. If it answered a question or released pent up frustration, Archie could curse but he never condoned vulgarity in any form.

Sheep was reprinted in 1930, 1936, and 1956 and 1957. Gilfillan complained that he never did find out how many copies were sold in the first two printings. In recent years, it has been reprinted by the Minnesota Historical Society Press.

During his years as a sheepherder, Gilfillan suffered many hardships including lightning, cloud bursts, floods, blizzards, rattlesnakes, wolves, coyotes and two-legged camp robbers. Once, as a tornado approached, he was forced to seek shelter in an old well.

Gilfillan had other challenges in life. Card games, especially poker, were his downfall. He liked to socialize and always found an excuse for a drink. Unfortunately, he never seemed to realize that cards and whiskey did not mix. Al Dean let him borrow on future wages to pay off his debts and the Ivy League sheepherder was always overdrawn.

In 1924 Gilfillan gave a talk to the Woolgrowers Association at Helena, Montana. He caught everyone by surprise with an outstanding, well-informed speech he called The Secret Sorrows of a Sheepherder. He never gave his name so he remained unknown for several years in spite of efforts in Montana to identify him.

His three secret sorrows were sheepmen who didn’t know as much about sheep as the herder, cowboys who got all the glory while the sheepherder was looked down upon, and women who wanted to be substitute sheepherders.

He maintained that women were ill-equipped for the occupation.”The truth is that in many respects they are unsuited to the work,” he wrote.”With no more than a discreet allusion to the three quickest means of communication, can you really picture a woman engaging in an occupation which would leave her more or less in the dark with regard to the doings of even her immediate neighbors?”

Language would be an even bigger problem, he thought.”There are frequent occasions in herding when the feelings seethe in the herder’s bosom like white-hot steam in an engine boiler. His anguish finds vent in language that he has picked up at odd times around garages, stables, poker games and from autoists who were changing tires. Women, not having frequented these places, would be at a distinct disadvantage.”

Gilfillan liked women. He just didn’t think they should be sheepherders. But he disdained cowboys.”Is there any intrinsic reason why the man who takes care of cattle should be a romantic, half-mythical figure, while the man who takes care of sheep is either a joke or anathema?” he wrote in Sheep.

Gilfillan argued that the sheepherder was superior to the cowboy because he was his own boss most of the time while the cowboy”may be able to carry more than one day’s orders in his head, but he seldom has the opportunity of proving it.”

In spite of that, he acknowledged that,”every kid in the range country looks forward to the day when he can get hold of hair pants, a ten-gallon hat, a Miles City saddle and a pair of big spurs, and then cultivate a bow-legged walk and hire out to a cattleman.”

Gilfillan gave a commencement address at Buffalo on May 22, 1930, and the graduating seniors enjoyed his sharp, western wit. He quipped,”I have the suspicion that Prof. Chanson has asked me to appear before these graduates to serve as a warning, so that they can see what may happen to them if they do not watch their step and be just a little bit careful.”

The herder-author often referred to himself as a Phi Beta Kappa gone wrong. The Gilfillans were a literary family. Archie’s grandfather wrote The Origin of Sin. He surmised that it was not a commercial success because people are more interested in their daily practice of sin than finding its origin.

Archie’s father, a minister like his grandfather, wrote an unsuccessful book trying to restrain people from seeking what they wanted. S.C. Gilfillan, Archie’s brother, wrote books, too, and his nieces also enjoyed writing.

At Spearfish, Gilfillan became a freelance writer for several South Dakota newspapers but money was scarce. In 1936 he published A Shepherd’s Holiday. It was 52 stories collected from his newspaper articles and published at Custer.

Late in life, he also authored A Goat’s Eye View of the Black Hills, with assistance from longtime friend Hoadley Dean of Rapid City. He retold many legends of the South Dakota mountain towns, adding his personal perspectives and a big dose of his dry humor.

He also explained in the book why he remained a bachelor.”You profess sincere and unbounded admiration for the beauties of the opposite sex and you practically lay your heart at their collective feet; and then you meet some individual who combines the poorer qualities of a mama wildcat and a bitch wolf, with a voice like a buzz saw, the temper of a slapped hornet, and a disposition that would curdle the milk in four adjoining counties. And then you have to revise your opinion of the sex all over again ññ and downward.” In short, he never met a woman he liked who would have him as a husband.

The Great Depression spread across South Dakota before local writers heard about the Federal Writer’s Project (FWP) being promoted by Eleanor Roosevelt. Unemployed writers were hired to interview old-timers, search files and records, collect folklore, and preserve the history, culture and contemporary life of American communities.

The project was considered a work program and no one expected it to produce anything of lasting value. Today, the books and material these men gathered and wrote are valuable treasures. M. Lisle Reese, a talented Montana native, was hired as director of South Dakota’s Federal Writers Project and he hired Gilfillan as his assistant.

He stayed until the project ended in the spring of 1942. For the next seven years he worked at the Black Hills Ordinance Depot at Provo (Igloo). He wrote for the Igloo Magazine, did clerical work and served as librarian. When that job ended in 1949 he moved to Deadwood. In failing health, he lived in retirement.

When Gilfillan retired to Deadwood, he stayed at the Wagner Hotel. He usually sat on a straight back chair and read a book or walked along Deadwood streets, visiting with his neighbors.

While enjoying a walk on December 17, 1955, he dropped to the sidewalk. He had moved on to greener pastures.

Family and friends buried the old sheepherder at Belle Fourche. But Gilfillan’s bad luck continued even in death. They buried him beside two great cowboys, Paul Bernard and Joe LaFlamme.

EDITOR’S NOTE — This story is revised from the Nov/Dec 1996 issue of South Dakota Magazine. Paul Hennessey was teacher, and also worked as a private investigator on the West Coast. Hennessey knew Archer Gilfillan during the sheepherder’s years at Igloo. To order this back issue or to subscribe, call 800-456-5117.