Bearlodge Writers

Research Moments

David E. Wagner

Unforgettable moments in doing historical research make all of the mundane work involved worthwhile. Those incidents can be discovery of a long-sought piece of history, or it can be a complete surprise—a small result that comes “out of the blue.”

While researching my soon-to-be-published manuscript, Powder River Odyssey, I worked very closely with a handwritten diary by Lyman G. Bennett, the chief engineer of the Eastern Division of the Powder River Expedition of 1865. The expedition traveled a 1,300 mile path from Omaha, Nebraska, to Powder River in eastern Montana, and then to Fort Laramie in southeastern Wyoming. I drove most of that route between 2004 and 2005 accompanied by Bennett’s diary and a Bassett Hound named Trudy. Several incidents stand out.

My normal routine in tracking the route was to determine the approximate starting point of a day’s travel, then read Bennett’s entry for that day. With GPS in hand, I drove the approximate distance—Bennett was religious about entering mileage—and looked for any landmarks he described. While traveling along the North Loup River in central Nebraska, I finished a day’s route. Something didn’t seem right. I stopped for breakfast at a local cafe, spread out Bennett’s journal and a topographical map, and reviewed his entry. He had written that their path had been blocked by “a mountain that rose up before us.” They had to find a detour for their wagon train around this “mountain.” Now, I‘m from Wyoming, and I know what mountains should look like, and I had seen nothing remotely resembling a mountain on my morning drive. However my map showed a Happy Jack Peak right where Bennett said there was a mountain. After breakfast I retraced my steps about five miles, and sure enough, there stood a hill that I had driven over earlier. The highway cut into the side of the hill, and without the road, the wagon train would have had to go around it. While not much of a mountain by western standards, it probably looked pretty big to Bennett, a flatlander from Illinois.

On September 12, 1865, the expedition traveled south following Powder River in southeastern Montana. Bennett wrote, “The scenery was truly romantic. The mountains being high and worn into many fantastic shapes, such as ruins, castles, etc.” I drove slowly along a dirt road following their path. I glanced to my left and saw a butte on the east side of Powder River that looked like a medieval castle perched on a mountaintop. Bennett had described Terrett Butte, a prominent landmark in the area, about sixteen miles south of today’s Broadus, Montana. I made a U-turn, and got my camera out. It was a spine-tingling moment.

In December of 2004 I visited the Missouri Historical Society’s research library. While going through a manuscript file of Lieutenant William Thompson Shaver of the Twelfth Missouri Cavalry, I glanced at the signature on the military document in my hand. The letter was signed by John C. Fremont, the famous pathfinder. I may have gasped, although Fremont or the letter had nothing to do with my research. What a thrill to come that close to the great man.

These are just a few of the magic moments when, as a researcher, I felt closely bonded with my subject. There have been many more, and you never know when to expect them. That’s the fun of it all.