Daniel Boone became a legend even during his own lifetime. He blazed a trail through the Cumberland Gap, opening lands beyond the Appalachian Mountains to settlement. Then he served as a military officer on the frontier during the Revolutionary War. He even became a state legislator. Boone kept pushing farther west throughout his life, always exploring. Eventually he passed away in Missouri in 1820 at the almost unheard of age of 84. No wonder his name adorned places all over the United States, far-and-wide. With all due respect to Boone and his accomplishments however, I wanted to find Boones not named for him. Otherwise it would be too easy.
Boone Counties, Iowa and Arkansas
Boone, Iowa, Story Street, 1940s. Photo by photolibrarian on Flickr (cc)
Seven different states included a Boone County: Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kentucky, Missouri, Nebraska and West Virginia. Certainly he deserved all of them although two followed a different path. Maybe.
Nobody really knew how Boone County, Arkansas got its name. The Encyclopedia of Arkansas noted that "Although no documentation supports it, the most widely quoted belief is that the county was named for frontiersman Daniel Boone." Another common theory offered that the name started as Boon. Its founders thought the new county would be a boon to its residents. Why didn’t anyone have the foresight to write down a better explanation? It wasn’t like people didn’t have access to pen and paper when the county appeared in 1869.
Boone County, Iowa (map) got its name from Nathan Boone. He helped settle Missouri and "served as a captain with the Missouri Rangers" during the War of 1812. He also happened to be Daniel Boone’s youngest son. I guessed, in a sense, the county’s name did come from Daniel Boone although indirectly. Nathan Boone should still get the preponderance of the credit. He accomplished things beyond his father’s name.
Beautiful Downtown Boonville, Indiana. Photo by J. Stephen Conn on Flickr (cc)
Boonville (no "e") in Indiana recognized Ratliff Boon, a prominent politician and Indiana’s second Governor. While his term as governor lasted only a few months — he completed an unexpired term when the previous Governor got elected to the U.S. Congress — he also held a bunch of other office both at the state and federal level during a long career. Certainly he deserved a town named in his honor (map).
Daniel Boone reared his ugly head again. As the City of Boonville explained,
Ratliff Boon was a cousin of Kentucky’s famed Daniel Boone. Daniel’s father, Squire Boone, was brother to Ratliff’s grandfather, Joseph Boon. They were sons of George Boone III, a Quaker, born in England in 1666, immigrating to Pennsylvania in 1717.
Who would name their child Ratliff? Think of the awful childhood nicknames and taunts.
boone’s lick state historic site. Photo by David Cohen on Flickr (cc)
Booneslick Country described an area of central Missouri along the banks of the Missouri River. More properly, early 19th Century adventurers and pioneers called the primary path through that area Boone’s Lick Trail / Road. Daniel Boone did not blaze the trail. Rather his sons Nathan (referenced previously) and Daniel got credit this time. They’d found saltwater springs near the western terminus of their trail that animals used as a salt lick. The brothers set-up a salt works to evaporate the water and sold the remaining salt throughout the frontier. The name of the trail reflected the brother’s enterprise, and a blending that converted it to Booneslick. The city of Columbia, Missouri now sits at the center of this cultural area.
Daniel Boone had an entire national forest named for him, over two million acres in eastern Kentucky. His sons Nathan and Daniel got Boone’s Lick State Historic Site in Missouri. Just fifty-one acres (map).
Boondocks and Boondoggle
Boondocks. Photo by Richard on Flickr (cc)
I didn’t find a lot of Boones completely removed from Daniel Boone’s influences so I dug a little deeper. How about Boondocks? This American English slang word often represented remote or unsophisticated places. It could have come from Boone who spent a lifetime on the frontier. However, it didn’t! Boondocks hid a much more interesting etymology. It came from the Philippines, from the Tagalog word bundok, meaning mountain. American soldiers adopted it during the period of American rule, 1898-1946 and brought it back home.
Boondoggle didn’t refer to Boone either. It appeared rather spontaneously, attributed to an old pioneer word for gadget. It came up in testimony during an investigation of the Relief Committee in New York City. The New York Times headline on April 4, 1935 read, "$3,187,000 Relief is Spent to Teach Jobless to Play … Boon Doggles Made." The paper reported:
"Who gave it that outlandish name?" asked Chairman Deutsch.
"That is an old-time name," the witness replied. "They catch it out West," he added hopefully.
"Named for Daniel Boone?" inquired Vice Chairman Joseph E. Kinsley.
"No, it is not named for Daniel Boone. It is boon doggles. It is spelled differently."
The word caught-on from there. Now it’s used widely in American English to represent a pointless or wasteful activity, especially one disguised as useful. At least it had nothing to do with Daniel Boone. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.
I wrote several articles about my Michigan trip and I still had a pile of ideas I hadn’t touched yet. They didn’t fall into common themes so I lumped all those leftover scraps together to finish the series. I hope everyone enjoyed — or at least tolerated — my ramblings from the latest journey. We’ll return to regular programming in a couple of days.
Concurrent 96/69 in Lansing, Michigan
via Google Street View, September 2015
Highway officials defined a "concurrency" as a single stretch of road with two or more route designations. This happens all of the time on Interstate highways in the United States. Roads heading between different places converge, often near a city, and both numbers remain so drivers passing through don’t get confused. I noticed an oddity in the pattern in Lansing, Michigan. Interstate 96 ran across southern Michigan. Interstate 69 ran through the middle of the United States in several segments, from the Gulf of Mexico to the Canadian border. They joined briefly on the western side of a loop bypassing Lansing.
That portion created a concurrency for Interstates 96 and 69, each number the reverse of the other (map). I didn’t know if any other examples existed elsewhere, probably because I didn’t bother to look. Please let me know if anyone can find another one. It didn’t mean much although I still enjoyed doing a double-take when I spotted it.
Gerald Ford Museum
I went to another Presidential Library & Museum. It probably won’t become one of my regular lists although I’ll visit one if it falls along my route. I saw Woodrow Wilson‘s museum in March and Franklin Roosevelt‘s in May. Why not Gerald Ford?
I wondered what treasures might fill a museum dedicated to the presidential administration of Gerald Ford (map). He served as President for barely two years. Wilson guided the nation through the First World War, and Roosevelt brought the country out of a Great Depression and then the Second World War. They had plenty of material for a museum. Ford, well, he seemed like a nice guy from Grand Rapids who happened to be tapped as Vice President and became President unexpectedly when Richard Nixon resigned. His museum featured the expected Nixon connection and topics of the times such as the end of the Vietnam War. That still left a lot of space to fill. That’s probably why it included life-sized replicas of the White House’s Oval Office and Cabinet Room as they appeared while Ford served as President.
On the other hand, I continued to count lighthouse visits. I placed a couple more sightings on my lifetime list. I hadn’t really been thinking about lighthouses as I prepared for the trip so these were a nice surprise. We took a day trip to Muskegon to see the USS Silversides and the two lighthouses loomed over the harbor entrance. Certainly I could take a few moments to examine them a little closer.
The more impressive structure, and by that I mean the one that looked more like a traditional lighthouse, stood on the south pierhead. They called it the South Pierhead Light, not too creatively (map). See how that worked? Several versions stood there over the years and the current one began its service in 1903. It wasn’t open to the public most of the time, having fallen into a state of disrepair. Nonetheless it continued to remain an active light for navigation purposes. The Federal government transferred ownership to the Michigan Lighthouse Conservancy in 2010, a nonprofit organization that hoped to restore the structure. We only saw this lighthouse from a distance and moved on.
We got a much better view of the nearby South Breakwater Light (map). This required a little hike of about a half-mile (0.8 km) from the parking lot at Pere Marquette Park to the tip of the breakwater. The kids complained the whole time although they needed a little exercise. They couldn’t spend the entire trip playing Minecraft and watching YouTube (simultaneously) so I dragged them down the concrete breakwater for a close-up view of a pretty ugly lighthouse. They’ll thank me someday. The Michigan Lighthouse Conservancy owned this one too, and also placed it on its restoration list. South Breakwater Light came much later, 1931, long after the glory days of lighthouse construction. It filled a basic utilitarian purpose although it lacked a certain grandeur and elegance.
Glaciers covered much of North America during the most recent Ice Age, some 16,000 years ago. Relentless pressure from accumulated ice ground into the underlying bedrock as glaciers advanced and retreated, creating fine sand and a rocky till. Winds blowing predominantly from the west pushed waves across Lake Michigan after the glaciers retreated, carrying this sand to its eastern shore. These natural forces created the "largest collection of freshwater dunes in the world" along Michigan’s shoreline.
Michigan had more sandy beaches than just about anywhere I’d been before. Some of the dunes reached hundreds of feet high. We didn’t make it to Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore on this trip, although the Saugatuck Dunes (map) offered a nice proxy closer to our temporary home.
Keeping the peace on a family trip meant taking time for activities I might otherwise overlook. I enjoyed zoos as much as anyone I supposed, although I didn’t feel any great need to go out of my way to see them either. We visited two, the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo (map) in Ohio and the John Ball Zoo (map) in Grand Rapids, Michigan. That’s what my older son enjoyed so that’s how they found their way onto our itinerary. He wants to visit every zoo in the United States. He also wants to collect a map at each zoo he visits.
I can’t imagine where he inherited that relentless need to create lists and collect maps.
Articles in the Michigan Journey Series:
- County Adventures
- Rambling and Wandering
- Above and Below
- Do Overs
- Parting Shots
See Also: The Complete Photo Album on Flickr
I came across the escape route used by John Wilkes Booth in the immediate aftermath of the Abraham Lincoln assassination while I researched By George. Every student in the United States likely learned all about the assassination multiple times starting from elementary school and every year thereafter. Fewer probably knew much about the attempted escape. I confess to understanding no more than a few basic details of Booth’s brief flight from justice. Then I started to wonder if I could find the exact spot where Booth died, a rather macabre subject for sure, although certainly a legitimate topic for a geo-oddity blog.
John Wilkes Booth’s Foiled Escape
Garrett Farm on Wikimedia Commons, in the public domain
For example, I knew all about Ford’s Theater where Booth shot Lincoln. It’s still there, an active home to the performing arts, and I’ve been to it a bunch of times. I’d never heard of Richard H. Garrett’s farm, though. That’s where Booth died.
John Wilkes Booth fled south from the city into Maryland after he committed his horrendous crime. He stopped at Surratt’s Tavern for guns and supplies he’d stashed there earlier. Then he traveled to to the home of Dr. Samuel Mudd who set his broken leg. Mudd later went to prison for four years at remote Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas for doing that (I saw his jail cell!).
Booth then stayed with various Confederate sympathizers, hid in the woods, and crossed the Potomac River into Virginia. Eventually he found his way to Garrett’s farm. Garrett apparently had no idea who he was dealing with and in fact hadn’t even heard about Lincoln’s assassination. Lines of communication had been decimated in Virginia during those final months of the war and word hadn’t spread that far yet.
Union soldiers tracked Booth down to the farm and trapped him in a tobacco barn on Garrett’s property. Booth refused to surrender so they set the barn on fire. One of the soldiers shot Booth — some say in cold blood — and Booth was carried to Garrett’s front porch where he died several hours later. That would seem to be a rather historic spot yet it no longer exists. The house fell into disrepair in spite of its notoriety, eventually collapsing upon itself.
The place where Booth died is as unsung as modernity can make it, a forgotten median, sandwiched between the north and southbound lanes of a divided, four-lane highway. Commuters and truckers speed by, wholly unaware that they’ve passed the location where the most famous manhunt in United States history came to a violent end.
The road that passed by Garrett’s home eventually became U.S. Route 301, later expanded to four lanes (map), obliterating what little was left of the farm.
Fort A.P. Hill
Va. Guard aviators support Marines at Fort A.P. Hill by Virginia Guard Public Affairs on Flickr (cc)
That wasn’t the only indignity. The United States Army began to expand rapidly in the years leading up to World War II. It searched around the country for out-of-the-way spaces suitable for stashing military functions away from prying eyes. Eastern Virginia looked particularly good, a quite rural hideaway just steps from the nation’s capital, with sixty thousand acres available for the government to seize.
Fort A.P. Hill was established as an Army training facility on June 11, 1941, pursuant to War Department General Order No. 5. In its 1st year, the installation was used as a maneuver area for the II Army Corps and for three activated National Guard divisions from Mid-Atlantic states. In the autumn of 1942, Fort A.P. Hill was the staging area for the headquarters and corps troops of Major General Patton’s Task Force A, which invaded French Morocco in North Africa.
The old Garrett farm fell within the original northern boundary of Fort A.P. Hill. Who exactly was A.P. Hill? He was a Confederate general who fought the Union armies of Abraham Lincoln and died in combat during the Third Battle of Petersburg. It seemed a little ironic that the US Army named a fort for someone who fought against it. Similarly, it seemed strange that the place where Lincoln’s assassin died happened on land that would later be named for a Confederate officer. Yet there it was, and largely forgotten.