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Of all the wonderful regions in the United States, the American West holds a special place and fascination for me. I’m from Michigan. I love the Great Lakes and remember all the fun I had as a child camping and exploring Northern Michigan. But my father, who grew up reading western novels, took the family to the West when we could afford to travel. In the 1950s, the West was still an adventure. Many of the places we visited, like the old abandoned town of Virginia City, Montana, were not yet tourist attractions. In Virginia City we had the freedom to roam. The old buildings on the main street were weathered but stood the march of time. We peered through the cob webs in dirty windows at dusty old furniture. At the mercantile, canned goods still lined the shelves. Even the stables had an old buggy inside and harnesses lined the walls. I was only twelve on this trip. I enjoyed the experience of the mountains and pristine lakes at high altitudes. The story about the battle on the Little Big Horn River in Montana Territory, between the Colonel George Armstrong Custer’s Seventh Cavalry and the Lakota Sioux and the Cheyenne, left a lasting impression. I wondered about the lives of the Native Americans who defended their territory with such ferocity. I wondered about the people who traveled west in the 1840s, whose wagons wheels left three foot ruts in sandstone hills that are still visible today. The trips we took were learning experiences and directed my education toward a Ph.D. in history with an emphasis on the American West.