From the Ground Up: The Story of “Brother Van”, Montana Pioneer Minister, 1848-1919

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Text originally published in 1961 under the same title.

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Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

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FROM THE GROUND UP:

THE STORY OF BROTHER VAN

MONTANA PIONEER MINISTER

1848-1919

BY

ROBERT W. LIND

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

DEDICATION 4

FOREWORD 5

PREFACE 7

CHAPTER ONE 9

CHAPTER TWO 25

CHAPTER THREE 34

CHAPTER FOUR 42

CHAPTER FIVE 51

CHAPTER SIX 77

CHAPTER SEVEN 84

CHAPTER EIGHT 89

CHAPTER NINE 93

CHAPTER TEN 99

CHAPTER ELEVEN 113

BIBLIOGRAPHY 121

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 122

DEDICATION

Dedicated to those who knew and loved him, and in whose memory Brother Van lives on.

FOREWORD

He was a living legend in his own time. And when he died in 1919, the words that were written about him by Bishop Cooke had been accepted as truth for years everywhere in Montana:

I don’t believe there was a dog in Montana that would not wag his tail when he saw him coming.

For forty-seven years the pioneer people of the new state had seen him coming. First across the prairie and mountain trails afoot or on horseback, and later by road and railroad, William Wesley Van Orsdel had traveled Montana’s vast domain. And as he traveled the long name had been shortened to Brother Van and the short man’s shadow had lengthened to touch the lives and institutions of the Territory and State.

Brother Van and Montana were ideally suited to each other. Van had the calling in his heart to go west and build on no other man’s foundations. Montana, in 1872, was being settled by rugged pioneer folk who had left other men’s foundations behind them in the east. The long trek west had sorted out those who could not endure the hardships of new beginnings. As the pioneer saying went, The cowards never started and the weaklings fell by the wayside.

To paint a word picture of the pioneer preacher and the pioneer territory which captures the real feeling which Brother Van had for Montana and which Montana had for Brother Van is almost impossible. But Bob Lind, a part of the Church which Brother Van helped to establish, has come closer than any writer to date.

Lind’s picture of Brother Van and his times is reliably accurate, though it was no easy task to detach fact from fiction in giving account of a man about whom stories grew like grass on the Montana prairie. He found in Brother Van’s life so much adventure and color that he only needed to tell the story as it was.

When you finish reading this book you will have met the best of the early frontier in the Rocky Mountain west. You will follow a man who made a pulpit for preaching the Good News out of the freighter’s or cowboy’s camp, the cabin or the ranch home, the Indian tepee, the barroom or the street corner. And you will see that to all of his congregations, formal or informal, he always gave his best in word and song.

He saw the watering places of the buffalo and the antelope become the campground of the cowboy and the sheepherder. These oftentimes gave way to the ranches and towns. He saw wide places in the trails become cities. He saw the wildlife give way to domesticated animals; he saw the great prairies turn into golden wheat fields. To meet these changes there were no trails, but Brother Van made them and showed us how to follow them, a Montana Methodist spokesman said of him.

The frontiers have changed somewhat now, though thousands of square miles of wilderness area still remain in Montana. Life’s hard problems still remain, too, and those who would conquer them must be the spiritual descendents of Brother Van—pioneers of the Way which is always waiting to make men and situations new.

The Reverend George A. Harper

St. Paul’s Methodist Church

Helena, Montana

PREFACE

Intimately acquainted with every important person and event in Montana from 1872 to 1919, Brother Van was a Methodist clergyman whose interests extended beyond the doors of any church, and whose influence was felt far beyond the reaches of any denominational confines. Brother Van was a simple man, but he was not inconsequential. An air of excitement attended his every action; everything he did made news. He was a man of the hour; undoubtedly one of the giants of his time wherever he might have lived. He happened to live in Montana.

Because he was a man of such broad and deep concerns, it has been an exceedingly difficult task to select a fitting title for this book. A title should convey, in a few choice words, the meaning of the topic which it expounds. Brother Van’s life defies such categorizing. FROM THE GROUND UP seems to catch the essence of his dedicated ministry, for he literally did lay the foundations from the ground up for Montana Methodism.

There were a few—very few—others who came to Montana as early as he, and served as long. There are others to whom we are deeply indebted for our rich heritage in the Treasure State. But almost everyone would agree that Brother Van, more than any other individual, built Methodism from the ground up in Montana.

Brother Van’s life story deserves to be written, for it was a life of unusual scope and impact. It deserves also to be read by all who are interested in the spiritual heritage of the American West.

It has been said that historical books cannot at once be both factual and interesting. I think you will find that statement disproved as you read this story, for the facts in themselves are interesting, and often dramatically so. Having sifted through mountains of clippings and personal effects of Brother Van’s—letters, journals, and essays; having read everything that was ever written by or about him, having interviewed many people who knew him; I feel competent to say that this book represents the facts about Brother Van’s life and ministry.

My thanks to the churches which have borne with me through several years of research and writing, never complaining of things left undone while the book was being written. Thanks also to the Historical Committee of the Montana Conference for giving access to the valuable materials pertaining to Brother Van which have been gathered through the years, and to the patient friends who read, discussed, criticized, and typed the manuscripts. Only after the experience of writing a book can another person fully appreciate the contributions of the many persons upon whom the author must rely in preparing a book for publication.

Special thanks are due to those who shared with me their pictures, papers, and memories which were so vital to the compilation of this biography.

I sincerely hope you’ll be pleased with the end result of my labors, and that when you have read the book you will feel that you have met Brother Van, and have been inspired by his noble life.

Robert W. Lind

Polson, Montana

August 10, 1961

CHAPTER ONE

Riverboat travel into and out of the Montana Territory was big business in 1872. Still, it was not every day that a boat landed at Fort Benton. A landing was always an item of great public interest, and there was always a good crowd on hand to see who was coming, and what items of freight were being delivered.

Van could see that in his welcoming party there were people of just about every conceivable description. Some wore the garb of the businessman, while others were obviously men of the long trail. Several strings of freight wagons, drawn by oxen, were on the street; there were saddle horses, with and without riders, on every hand. A few soldiers from the nearby fort were on hand to receive their shipment of supplies. It was a veritable beehive of activity, particularly when one considered the fact that it was only seven o’clock on a Sunday morning.

Those on shore were curious to learn the identity of the lone passenger on the boat, who was so intently studying them. For warmth against the chill of the early morning rain, Van had his coat buttoned as far as possible, and the collar turned up. His sturdy frame was covered by a black suit; while beneath the broad brim of his black hat the longer fringes of his blonde hair could be seen, outlining his face which was at once delicate and masculine. His complexion was more ruddy than usual, from the cold morning air and the flush of excitement of this long-awaited moment. In his blue eyes shone the light of adventure, and his massive hands gripped the rail as he waited impatiently for the crew to get the gangplank laid from the boat to the wharf.

At last it was fixed in place, and the twenty-four year old preacher practically ran down it in his eagerness to be about his—and the Lord’s—business.

When he reached the end of the gangplank something else gripped his attention. Gumbo was a new experience for Van, and before he had taken three steps upon the wet earth his feet were so heavy with the sticky clay that he could scarcely lift them. Putting one foot ahead of the other became a major accomplishment, requiring all his power of concentration. It was only with great difficulty that Van finally reached the group of people who had come to watch the unloading. He approached one rather distinguished-looking man in the crowd who, like the others, was politely trying to suppress his mirth at the newcomer’s struggle with the gumbo.

Good morning, sir, Van said, I’m William Wesley Van Orsdel. I’m a Methodist preacher and I’m looking for a place to hold services, this being the Sabbath.

This was real news to the gathering. Preachers were a rarity indeed in Fort Benton. Most of these folks had not heard a sermon since they left their homes in the east. It was in a friendly tone that the gentleman replied, as he shook Van’s hand, Well, I’m happy to meet you, parson. My name is Tattan—Judge Tattan. The court house is not being used today; don’t see any reason why you couldn’t hold church there, if you’d like.

To find a place to preach upon his very first inquiry was better luck than Van had dared to expect. He lost no time in accepting the offer, as he said, Thank you most kindly, Judge. I’ll go and look it over, and I’ll be seeing you again while I’m in Fort Benton.

Laboriously, each step an effort, Van trudged down the main street of the town, toward the building which the judge had pointed out as the court house. It proved to be a small structure made of adobe. As soon as he stepped inside, Van knew the judge had never happened to hold court on a rainy day or he surely wouldn’t have recommended the use of the court house to him. The rain was falling just as heavily inside as it was outside. The only difference was that outside it came down clean, while inside it was muddy. Roof and walls, as well as the floor, were made of earth. The persistent rains had made a sieve of the roof; the footing underneath was just as wet and sticky as that outside. It didn’t take Van long to decide that there must be a better place than this in which to launch his ministry in Montana.

Setting out through the gumbo once again, he made his way toward one of the major businesses on the main street, the sign over the door proclaiming it to be Baker’s General Store. Inside, he found the attendant to be Mr. Baker himself. After an exchange of greetings, Mr. Baker told him of a Roman Catholic priest who was in town, who had been holding services in a building owned by T. C. Powers, which was just a few doors down the street.

Following Mr. Baker’s directions, Van went to the place and stepped in, finding the priest in preparation for his worship service. Van learned that his name was Van Gorp, that he had been working inland, and that after his services here today, he was taking the first boat downstream, back to civilization for a more peaceful tour of duty. That they were Protestant and Roman Catholic made no difference to either of them; both were elated to find a fellow clergyman in this western outpost.

Van explained his mission of the moment; that of finding a place to preach, and was delighted when Father Van Gorp said, Why don’t you use this place? I’ll be through with my service before long, and I’m sure Mr. Powers would be happy for you to use it.

It wasn’t a cathedral by any stretch of the imagination, but it did afford protection from the rain and the gumbo. That, to Van, made it seem ideal. He immediately accepted the offer, and added, If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay and attend your service.

I would be pleased and proud to have you stay, brother, the priest replied, as he turned again to his last-minute preparations for the service.

As he listened to Father Van Gorp preach from the text, What does it profit a man if he gain the whole world, if he loseth his own soul? Van’s heart was lifted. It was a strong sermon, with the ring of authority. Religious differences were swallowed up in the greater knowledge that Christianity was a way of life which both he and the priest were offering to the people; a way of life a hundred times more exciting and a thousand times more worthwhile than a life of sinful self-indulgence.

When the service was over, Van lost no time in announcing that he would hold services at the same place at three in the afternoon. He told a few persons on the street, and stepped inside a couple of saloons to divulge the information. Then, fearlessly wading into the bothersome gumbo, he struck out for the boat landing.

By this time, the Nellie Peck had made her landing at the wharf; her crew’s spirits dampened somewhat by the rain, but even more by the fact that they had lost their race against the Far West, the boat on which Van had just arrived. Both vessels had been out to set a new speed record in the trip from Sioux City, Iowa to Fort Benton, Montana Territory. Although the Nellie Peck had several days’ head start, the Far West had finally caught up with her and passed her not far from Fort Benton, and pulled into the landing an hour ahead of her to set a new record for the trip of some 1,500 miles: 17 days and 20 hours!

It was by the sheerest of good