Ranching With Roosevelt: Part I

One of my favorite books (and a favorite of a couple historians I know as well) is Lincoln Lang’s “Ranching With Roosevelt.” Lincoln Lang was a boy when Theodore Roosevelt arrived in the Bad Lands in the early fall of 1883, living with his father (his mother had remained behind in Scotland until father and son had established a ranch) in a cabin at the mouth of Little Cannonball Creek on the Little Missouri River south of Medora.

Our copy of the book, published in 1926, came from an online bookseller some years ago, and we were delighted to discover when it arrived in the mail that the bookplate on the inside cover said it was a discarded copy from, of all places, the Panama Canal Library, book # 27678 (How about the irony in that?). A second plate carried the Panama Canal Library rules, which said, among other things, that it could be kept 14 days and if it was not returned in 14 days, the borrower faced a fine of 2 cents a day. It also still had the original library card pocket on the facing page, and it showed that its first return date was Nov. 9, 1926, and its last Nov. 24, 1958.

Lang’s descriptions of the Bad Lands, where he grew up, and life there, and anecdotes about the people who lived there, are among the most vivid I have found. I’m going to excerpt from his book a few times in the next few months, because they are Some Of The Best Things Ever Written About North Dakota. To start, here’s his account of Theodore Roosevelt arriving at the Lang cabin in September 1883, Roosevelt's first trip to the Badlands, seeking to shoot a buffalo.

Temperate September days were now upon us. More and more acceptable were we finding the shelter of the cabin as the chill breath of the Arctic began to manifest itself in the increasing crispness of the lengthening nights.

Assembled in the cabin one evening, when about to sit down to supper, father having returned from town, we heard a rig drive up to the door. In the weirdly characteristic manner common to the region, already the looming, ascensional shadows of the night arising softly, stealthily, as if from their couches in the depths of a myriad labyrinthian water-ways, had merged into the single somber shadow of gray gloaming, paling to the westward in the wake of departing day.

Upon stepping to the door, I was enabled to distinguish the outline of a light wagon and team, together with a driver of bulky build sitting in the seat. To the rear, sitting on a pony with a rifle laying across the saddle in front of him, was a second individual of lighter build. Even before the booming hail “Hello Link” of the driver reached me, I had recognized him as “the power end of the pile driver,” my erstwhile boss, “Joe Ferris.” Just who his mounted companion might be, I could not tell. Evidently a stranger, but aided by the beam of light showing through the cabin door, I could make out that he was a young man, who wore large conspicuous-looking glasses, through which I was being regarded with interest by a pair of bright twinkling eyes. Amply supporting them was the expansive grin overspreading his prominent, forceful looking lower face, revealing a set of large white teeth. Smiling teeth, yet withal conveying a strong suggestion of hang-and-rattle. The kind of teeth that are made to hold anything they once close upon.

Father had stepped out past me to welcome our guests; whereupon, with my responsibilities to cook in mind, I re-entered and proceeded to include the newcomers in my supper preparations.

A few minutes later, father ushered the stranger into the shack.

“This is my son Lincoln, Mr. Roosevelt,” he said.

Then, somehow or other, I found both my hands in the double solid grip of our guest. Heard him saying clearly and forcefully, in the manner conveying the instant impression that he meant exactly what he said. That he was not merely passing out the ordinary stereotyped society phrase, which so frequently fails to ring true, I felt sure.

“Dee-lighted to meet you, Lincoln.”

I do not know if it was the direct, forceful manner of his speech, his sincere hearty grip, the open friendly gaze with which he regarded me, or something of all combined, that instantly reached for and numbered me among his friends. I did not know then, of course, that I was meeting one of the world’s greatest men; the man of destiny; a future and great President of the United States. But I didn’t need to. Young and all, as I was, the consciousness was instantly borne in upon me of meeting a man different from any I had ever met before. Just where the difference lay, I could not have told although in good time I would learn, but certain it is, right there and then, I fell for him strong.

More from this wonderful book at another time. I wish I could put the entire 367 pages in front of you. If you have taken a liking to Roosevelt, or the Badlands, or even just North Dakota history, buy this book for yourself for Christmas. Even if it is the only book you buy this year. You can buy it here. Or here. Or here.

Note: The exact location of Lang’s cabin, where Roosevelt headquartered in the days before he finally shot his buffalo that fall of 1883, is known today (although,unfortunately the exact location of where he finally shot the buffalo is somewhat a mystery--Roosevelt historian Clay Jenkinson is working on it). The Lang cabin was at the mouth of the Little Cannonball River due north of Marmarth, in the Limber Pine area of the Badlands. It’s on public land owned by the U.S. Forest Service and hard to get to by car (I’ve done it-I can admit it now-the statute of limitations has run out) but it’s a great stopover if you’re canoeing the Little Missouri north from Marmarth, and I’ve done that a couple of times. The cabin was a semi-dugout structure with a log front and sides and dirt floors, and the depression where the earth was dug out is still discernible. It’s a marvelous location. From what was likely the front stoop, you can throw a stone into either the Little Missouri or the Little Cannonball. You can feel the history there.