JACKSON’S HOLE CHARACTERS

       When I was growing up, in the 1920s and 30s, we called it Jackson’s Hole...it was a land full of character and characters....here are a few of them...MM

      BUSTER ESTES. A teamster (horse driver) and cowboy from Colorado, came to Wyoming and met Frances, a young woman from an elite eastern family. They married and stayed together throughout their long lives. When I was in the hospital in Italy, Frances wrote a letter devoted to her adventures on the “Grand Tour” of Europe--London, Paris, Rome. If my memory serves me right, the Holy Land also included. Buster, a Legionnaire, who had been in World War One and Frances was a valiant conservative Legion Auxilliary member. The couple bought an old homestead on the Snake river bottoms and named it the STS ranch, launched it as a dude ranch.
      Buster and a hired man built a grand array of one-room log cabins, each with an outhouse, and Frances right away discarded her fancy eastern origins, settled down to cleaning cabins and helping the cook with the hard chores of feeding dudes, and hosting picnics, one of which was an annual gathering of Legionnaires. Cowboy coffee and all the trimmings and a baseball game, the players all male Legionnaires. Us kids took turns churning ice cream, licked the paddles clean, horsed around and once in a while watched the noisy baseball game.

     Buster and Frances had a daughter. Buster called her “Mutt,” until the daughter was old enough to tell her father, “Quit calling me’Mutt.’ My name is Martha.”
     Buster had a close friend, AL AUSTIN. One Christmas day us kids were busy with a b-b pistol trying to hit one of three celluloid parrots arranged on a string. Buster and Al watched for a while. Buster took a turn, then urged Al to try his luck. Al crouched down on the floor, aimed the pistol, fired. All three parrots bounced off. He had hit the string. Buster, grinning, told Al to do that again. Al refused, of course, but later he told a story, recalling the time he had been a scout for a cavalry outfit. During his spell of night guard duty he passed the time by taking his pistol apart. Al, like so many westerners, including Buster, was a Jack of all Trades. He simply couldn’t resist taking that pistol apart. A cavalry man turned up. Al asked him his rank.
     “Oh, I’m some kind of officer.”
Al replied, “Well, as soon as I get this pistol put together I’ll give you s ome kind of salute.”      

      FRANCES was by far the most outgoing of the Estes family, but once in a while Buster would interrupt her. “All right, Slim, let me talk.”     
       Another friend of the Estes’--they seemed to know just about everybody in Teton County-- was Major Mapes, an oil geologist.He had traveled to many places on this earth. One of his stories included a photo of Pancho Villa, laid out dead, bullet holes visible. He was the revolutionary leader of northern parts of Mexico, in cooperation with Emiliano Zapatista, who led revolutionary troops in battles in the south. The assassination of Villa, and Zapatista too, had been arranged by a high officer in the post-revolutionary government, but for Major Mapes and most other Americans, Villa was simply a bandit. Mapes had been in Mexico exploring for oil when Villa’s assassination occurred. He managed to get a photo, and in the dimly lit main room of the Estes’ homestead cabin he passed it around. Us kids managed to squirm between adult bodies to get a glimpse. I’ve told this story before, but some stories deserve a second shot.

     GRETCHEN HUFF, eldest daughter of Doctor Huff, the physician and general practitioner for Teton County. Gretchen was a rebellious type, learned to drive the family car at an early age, had one or two serious accidents, but was a quick learner. By the time Charles and I needed rides to remote places in the mountains Gretchen was willing to take us there and pick us up later. One summer we were banding hawks, falcons and owls; another summer we simply roamed, built a cabin in the woods and picked up elk skulls and antlers and put them on sale at the Huff home. We were usually gadding about and Gretchen had to tend to earnest tourists who had seen our signs on the front gate: ELK ANTLERS FOR SALE.
      Gretchen married a truck driver who hauled coal from Rock Springs to Jackson. Once I caught a ride with him to Rock Springs. He was a good story teller. Once or twice I helped Charles shovel coal from one truck to another.      What I remember about Gretchen, and it has stayed with me all these years, was her exuberance. Life was an adventure. She stayed that way. She loved to laugh. Come to think of it, lots of people in those days laughed a lot.

      ALMER NELSON, for one. He grew up on a ranch facing Antelope Flats, later became manager of the Elk Refuge, presided over its year-by-year improvements. One day at the end of the summer season in the mountains my family broke camp and returned to Town. That was an annual ritual. Almer helped us. This time it turned out that his job was to carry my sister, Joanne, to the car. She was very young. Almer found it no problem at all to tuck her in his arms and walk out. On the way he met a few dudes on the trail. “Look what I found,” he said. A woman was shocked. “Oh, you didn’t,” she exclaimed. Almer laughed.
      Once when Almer’s car overheated on a drive along the Hoback river, he unscrewed the radiator cap. Anti-freeze laced hot water surged up, caught him in the face. His glasses saved his eyes. He took out a hanky, took off his glasses, wiped them and his face, and laughed.