Jack Holterman

Some people sneer at “local” and “regional” writers or writing. What they really mean is that the writing is not dominated by New York. It's “out there in the provinces.” In other words, of no matter to such aristocrats as we in the center of the world. But I relish the idiosyncratic and often authoritative -- to say nothing of relevant -- writing of locals. The great irony is that they are often world citizens. Exhibit A: Jack Holterman, who came to Browning to teach in the one-room reservation schools after WWII and who now lives in West Glacier in summer and New Zealand in winter.

He has been a diligent, if sometimes contentious, member of the Glacier Natural History Association and I don’t know where to buy his books except at their shop in the old Great Northern depot in West Glacier, MT (59936). On this last foray over the Rockies I willingly went into debt to acquire two new reference works. One is a much-hoped-for re-issue of “Place Names of the Glacier National Park” -- now entitled “Let the Mountains Sing: Place Names of the Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park,” it is “expanded, corrected and updated” and sports a glamorous snowy aerial portrait of Glacier Park. I’ve just about worn out my old copy, which was smaller and plainer but vitally helpful. One small paragraph of explanation could illumine a whole cultural or historical point of view.

The other book is called ‘Who Was Who in Glacier Land” and offers brief biographies of characters who appear again and again in the history of the West. Holterman includes Canadians, Americans, Spanish, French and many tribes of Indians, not hesitating to put in an opinion now and then -- always on the side of the raised consciousness -- and not leaving out any of the alternative versions of many stories. For instance, there are two accounts of Sacajawea’s life after she left the L&C expedition and, likewise, more than two accounts of her son’s life. The trouble is partly that people felt free to call themselves whatever name fit the situation and partly that the facts can only be inferred from financial records and personal letters, often so idiosyncratically spelled as to be impenetrable even to “sounding out.”

Holterman’s story of Pomp begins with a painting by Baldwin Mollhausen, now hanging in an old hall in Stuttgart, showing an immense forest with a clearing in which lounge naked Indian young men and Prince Wilhelm of Wurttembert, son of Duke Eugene. One of the Indians is Pomp AKA Jean Baptiste, AKA Pampi and so on. From this we realize that this young man had connections, though we don’t learn much about his wardrobe.

By contrast, the story of Helen Clarke begins with a photo of her in an elaborate satin Victorian gown with high band collar and huge puffed sleeves. She is the daughter of Malcolm Clarke, victim of the murder which provided the excuse for the so-called Baker Massacre. Educated at ladies’ academies in the cities of the Midwest, she was for a while an actress in Europe who traveled with Sarah Bernhardt, receiving accolades especially for her unusual deep voice.

Then she became a school teacher and the Superintendent of Public Instruction. Much admired and trusted, she nevertheless was asked to participate in the allotment of land that was the Dawes Act, specifically BECAUSE she was trusted. She was also instrumental in bringing the Sherburne family to the Blackfeet Reservation. Her own land allotment, next to Horace’s in East Glacier, was the location of the Big Hotel and in summer she managed the equivalent of a salon, entertaining many famous artists. She is buried in the family cemetary near the Big Hotel and her headstone is the tallest and most Victorian of all.

I count 74 of these absorbing tales, many of them with strands that wind around the planet. For instance, Alexander Culbertson --the powerful fur trader who was married to Natawista -- had a brother who participated in an amazing journey up the Yangtze River of China at a time when China was hardly penetrated by whites. The 19th century was the original paradigm for Star Trek with intrepid assortments of hardy characters setting out in all directions. Those who survived had tales to tell and few of the ones with connections to the Blackfeet or Glacier Park have escaped Jack Holterman.

Jack’s cabin in St. Mary was next to ours, so we always knew him or so it seemed to me, and yet he has managed to be rather elusive. A linguist, he was an early scholar of the Blackfeet language and worked out many of the materials now used by the Piegan Institute. An early Californian, born in San Francisco in 1915, he has not imported that life but has remained open to other ways. When I pressed him for adventures while teaching in the one-room school houses, he offered, “Well, once we had a fire.”

“Oh,” I exclaimed. “What did you do?”

“The children and I put the fire out.” No fuss. Do what is necessary.

Holterman is always complaining that, for instance, “one of my best pieces has been snatched off my hands and reprinted by the American Museum of Natural History.” I don’t doubt it. This local material is as rich as beaver pelts, so naturally those who scorn the regional and local must still occasionally stage a raid for new stories. How are they going to get them without stealing them from those who ARE local and regional?

But I have to say that for a ninety-year-old trapper, a library is a better locale than a beaver dam. He says, “I love cats, wolves, and elephants cordially, humans theologically, and computers not at all.” Maybe he’ll feel better about computers when he knows that by “blogging” they can leap over Manhattan publishers.