WAPITI VALLEY, Wyo.
Gone With the Whimsy - New York Times
The Smith Mansion in Wyoming Is the Stuff of Legend
John Burcham for The New York Times
A view of the house built by Francis Lee Smith, an engineer, in Wapiti Valley, Wyo. More Photos »
By SARAH MASLIN NIR
Published: February 1, 2012
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EVERYONE here seems to know the story of the house on the hill. The rambling log structure, with its undulating staircases, umpteen balconies and fun-house warren of half-finished rooms, has for nearly 30 years loomed over the Buffalo Bill Cody Scenic Byway, inspiring stories. Lots of stories.
A sampling: At a nearby shop that sells elk-antler chandeliers, the clerk said that the house appeared to a man in a vision and that he built it as a monument to the town. At a filling station, a motorist who had stopped for soft-serve ice cream said that the house was meant to be a lookout tower if an underground volcano in Yellowstone National Park ever erupted. And the teenagers who break into the abandoned structure on Saturday nights point to its writhing balustrades of warped pine and insist it was built by a madman.
“None of them are fact,” Sunny Larsen, 32, said of the tales. Ms. Larsen should know. Her father, Francis Lee Smith, is the one who built the house, and she and her brother, Buckles (or Bucky), spent part of their childhood there.
Still, it’s hard to pin down the truth about why Mr. Smith, an engineer, labored single-handedly for more than a dozen years on a house that calls to mind grand follies like the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose, Calif., built by the rifle company heiress Sarah L. Winchester.
“His original intent was to build a home for his family, and it just took on a life of its own,” said Ms. Larsen, who now lives in Billings, Mont., and is the steward of the house.
But in 1992, when Ms. Larsen was 12, her father fell to his death from a balcony at the age of 48. It was the last of several falls he took while working on the pagoda-like roofs — untethered, as was his habit, despite the wild Wyoming winds.
And since then, the sun-filled whimsical home of Ms. Larsen’s childhood has acquired a sinister air, she said. The dining table, a giant tree stump surrounded by smaller stumps, evokes a fairy banquet hall, but it is no longer warmed by her father’s country cooking. And after her brother drowned in 2005 in a nearby river, the room that was a miniature indoor basketball court has been too quiet.
While her father lived, though, the five-story house was the center of his life, Ms. Larsen said. The whole family lived there, although there was no electricity except for what was provided by an extension cord connected to a generator. When her parents divorced in the early ’80s, her mother moved into town with the children and Mr. Smith threw himself into the quirky construction. Her mother was his one true love, Ms. Larsen said, and without her, the house became his everything.
It was Mr. Smith’s preoccupation with the house, however, that contributed to the couple’s split, said his ex-wife, Linda Mills. He labored on it all weekend and every night after work, by the light of a single bulb powered by the generator, she said.
Ms. Larsen said that only as an adult did she realize her father had no blueprints — the endless additions were all off-the-cuff. “He never knew what his next step was going to be,” she said.
The interior is a jigsaw puzzle of rooms, but not one of them is a dedicated bedroom. In the “cold room,” half buried in the hillside, a giant swing where Mr. Smith would sleep during the summer hangs from the ceiling. In the winter, he and the children, who stayed with him occasionally, would huddle in sleeping bags on the floor of the “hot room,” beside a wood stove that was the home’s only heat source. A structure resembling an oversize doghouse on the front porch was another sleeping spot for the children.
The house’s frame is made from fire-damaged lodgepole pine Mr. Smith cleared from nearby Rattlesnake Mountain after a wildfire, dragging each pole by hand to a horse trailer, then carting them up to the house. Other materials he gleaned like a magpie: wood flooring from a high school gymnasium still sits in the house, awaiting the next project; haunting metal skeletons, Dali-esque contraptions made of scraps, are scattered about. One, a misshapen cage, was for laundry.
Why not just use a hamper?
Ms. Larsen, who rejects the idea that mental illness played a part in her father’s endless construction project, shrugged. “He built,” she said. “He was an artist in every sense of the word.”
Her mother agrees. “They call it the crazy house,” Ms. Mills said. “But there was nothing crazy about him.”
Since Mr. Smith’s death, the house’s constant growth has been replaced by decline: windows have shattered, log railings are about to fall off porches and only one elk-horn doorknob remains.
Ms. Larsen is determined to raise money on her Web site, SmithMansion.org, to restore the house and perhaps turn it into a museum, but she has had little success so far. “I want it to be here so my kids can see it,” she said, peering up at it from the foot of a rickety staircase. “Look at it: I’ve never seen anything like it.”
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North Fork mansion catches interest of university, ghost hunters
A year after deciding to restore the house her father built by hand, Sunny Smith-Larsen is getting things together.
"We're ready to go as far as this summer," she said. "The (online) store is starting off slow, with just a few things available."
The house, which Larsen calls the "Smith Mansion," is a three-story home hand-built entirely of wood by Lee Smith of Cody that sits atop a bench in Wapiti. Smith died after falling off the second-story roof in 1992.
Smith started building the home in about the 1960s, and wanted to make something that would fit into the wild countryside. Inside the home are flourishes of his artistic side, including decorative sunbursts, a wind chime and a laundry basket that looks more like a chandelier he created from found materials.
Now, Larsen - who grew up in Cody and now lives in Billings - is working with a film crew from the University of Indiana to film a documentary about the house.
Andrea Lewis, a senior studying telecommunication and communication and culture, came up with the idea to focus on Lee Smith's creation.
"I was working in Yellowstone," she said. "One day we drove into Cody, and I saw it."
Lewis was fascinated by the odd-looking structure, but couldn't find much information on it.
Last fall, Lewis' senior film class required a pitch. By that time, Larsen had created a website that allowed Lewis to get more information.
The Smith Mansion was one of three pitches the class chose to pursue. The class splits into groups to film the projects.
"It will be screened at school," Lewis said. "And there's a possibility that if the local PBS guy likes it, it will be aired locally in Indiana."
For the interviews, Lewis relied on Larsen.
"Sunny's a total rock star," she said. "I contacted her over email, and she contacted a whole bunch of people, friends and family."
Lewis and her team - Amy Pottenger, Julian Shine, Scott Gill and Kate Ripley - set up about 10 interviews with people close to Lee Smith. They filmed recently during their spring break.
The 30-minute documentary is a big undertaking for Lewis.
"I've worked on numerous projects, but not on this level in terms of leading," she said.
Lewis hopes people who watch the film not only become interested in this area and the structure, but also are filled with the desire to learn more about the world around them.
Although the story still needs to be scripted and edited, Lewis has been surprised by her trip here.
"The structure is the thing that drew us here, but the story's become about the people (Lee Smith) knew and who he was as a person."
That is a sentiment Larsen also has discovered.
"This project isn't about me; it's about what he did," she said. "I'm realizing I didn't know my dad like I thought I did. I knew him as a child knew a father.
"I feel like I know him better than if I hadn't started this project," she added.
Larsen also was contacted by the Wyoming Area Paranormal Society to perform a ghost hunt. The group went March 12, gear in hand, to see if any paranormal evidence could be found.
Larsen and her mother, Linda Smith-Mills, both stayed for the investigation, which lasted for about eight hours, including set up and take down.
The group used several different types of equipment, including cameras, voice recorders and K2 meters, which measure electromagnetic fields.
Investigators split into groups and went to different areas throughout the night.
During down times, Larsen told stories about her father and how she grew up in the mansion.
"That's where my dad used to stand," she said pointing to the doorway in the "hot room," the only room in the home with a stove and heat. "All that black is from his clothing."
Some had personal experiences during the night, including hearing noises and having K2 spikes in direct response to questions.
Although WAPS has yet to go through all of the evidence, co-founder Jez Krubeck is impressed by experiences and evidence he's found on the recorder he took home.
"When we were in the sport room, the group heard a chain rattling, and we caught that on the recorder," he said. "It sounds distinctly like a chain being dropped and the links piling on each other."
Krubeck found other sounds, including footsteps and what appears to be hammering.
"That's one of the better investigations we've had in a while in terms of what we caught," he said.
The future of the Smith Mansion isn't quite certain at this time.
"The restoration is going to cost a fortune," Mills said. "Nineteen years is a long time for things to deteriorate."
Larsen said she's heard just to fix what's there, not including finishing the structure, could cost upward of $500,000.
To help with some of the costs, Larsen is putting together a fundraiser at Cassie's Supper Club in June 2012. Many local artists requested more time in order to create specific pieces for the event.
"It'll have an auction of donations," she said.
Donations range from paintings to prints to furniture, and most are from local artists.
The music will be provided by a band originally from Wapiti that now lives in Colorado called County 11.
"It's a tribute to my dad and to bring awareness (about the mansion)," Larsen added. "It's really important to me to get Cody behind me."
To purchase Smith Mansion merchandise, or for more information, visit smithmansion.org.
Powell Tribune - June 5, 2012
Cody Enterprise - June 12, 2012
BIG BROTHER, HORSING AROUND AGAIN
By: Doug Blough
Well, once again a family member either didn’t read my column, or failed to let it sink in, and with extremely painful consequences.
If you’re wise, you read my recent column warning how life can tragically change in mere seconds if one isn’t ever-vigilant and doesn’t insist on living life on the edge. At the risk of painting myself as boring and slug-like, I had written, “Sure, I too live on the edge…on the edge of my couch.”
My final paragraph advice: “It’s really scary out there. Avoid roofs, bungee cords, raging rapids and even high weeds where snakes hang out…” I had earlier included horses as another potential game-changer, so if my brother Paul did read that column, he obviously left it go in one eye and out the other.
So there he was last Saturday, riding his young horse Pearl at a fast lope, alongside Brian Edwards in the McCullough Peaks, when his hat blew off. I don’t know what kind of hat it was, but since Paul has been playing cowboys & Indians since he was born, I’m assuming it was a Stetson.
Regardless, when the hat flew, this 63-year-old again imagined himself lightning-quick and agile, leaning to make a one-handed snag. He was charged with an error when the saddle shifted and Paul hit the ground with what I imagine to be a resounding “OOF!”
Thankfully a cactus broke his fall, and the fall broke five ribs. Probably imagining what Trampas from “The Virginian” would do, Paul staggered back onto Pearl and told Brian he thought he could continue the ride – another foolhardy idea he aborted after 100 excruciating yards. He recalculated, groaned and grimaced the entire ride back to the trucks rather than throwing caution to the wind to join his hat. In his own pained words, “You’ve heard of the Longest Yard? Well, this was definitely the Longest Mile!”
At the ER, his wife Shelia and two nurses had a cactus-pulling party from Paul’s back, arms and face. Ol’ Festus was a-hurtin’ unit. Sure, I have fallen off my couch a time or two, but obviously never landed on a cactus. Once, my heel was impaled by a toothpick embedded in the carpet, but that extraction was minor. Couches are safe; roofs, horses and rivers are not. Paul will be in tremendous pain for 4 to 6 weeks; I will not.
When I ran into Shelia in the Wal-Mart parking lot, she recounted Paul’s accident with sympathetic concern. But my keen perception also detected a trace of irritation, since they now must cancel next week’s long-planned, family vacation to their son Rusty’s in-laws in Oregon.
Incidentally, Pearl – who bears absolutely no blame…there’s enough blame to go around and it’s distributed evenly among five ribs – is the daughter of Jasmine, who bucked Paul off and broke his rib years ago, just before another planned Oregon trip. Like they say, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the cactus.
As I said, Paul has been obsessed with horses since he was a kid. Seven years younger, I still remember him constantly doing pencil drawings – one after another after another – of horses. I watched and learned, so to this day it’s the one thing I can draw half-decently. With this repetitive drawing of the same thing, I wonder if Paul might share my OCD, renamed, “Obsessive Cowboy Delusions.”
I also remember the day his horsey love-affair cost me dearly. I was maybe 8 when Paul talked a farmer he worked for into letting our family keep his black pony, Fury in our rural neighbor’s barn for the winter. I wasn’t exactly giddy about Paul’s suggestion one day, but allowed him to lift me onto Fury’s bare back with Paul behind me as “protector.” It wasn’t more than 30 seconds before that stationary nag spotted a nice patch of grass and dropped his head for a snack. I rolled down his neck like a Slinky down a staircase, landed on a rock, cried like a kid who was never gonna be a cowboy, and went “wah-wah-wah” all the way home. When I told Paul, Mom and Dad my arm hurt and felt like “snakes are running up and down my arm,” I was suddenly the “boy who cried wolf,” even though I had never cried wolf before!
It was a fitful night’s sleep, and the next day when I insisted the snakes were getting worse, they finally took me to a doctor who diagnosed what I thought was obvious: my right arm was broken just below the shoulder. Now that I remember the torturous itching under that plaster cast for half a school year, maybe Paul’s latest horse spill was a blessing in disguise. Or maybe it’s karma.
Or maybe…just maybe, he’s too old to be playing cowboy and too slow to be making one-handed catches on a dead run. Even Little Joe Cartwright would have been lucky to pull that one off.
You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.
DANGER AROUND EVERY CORNER
By: Doug Blough
What boy doesn’t dream of catching a foul ball at a baseball game? Wearing my Bill Mazeroski, #9, “Lil’ Slugger” t-shirt as a kid, each of the few Pittsburgh Pirate games I attended at old Forbes Field was the day I was sure I’d make a beautiful catch to snag the ultimate souvenir. Never did, of course.
A foul ball is all Shannon Stone wanted for his son Cooper last Friday – so much so that he even stopped on the way to the Texas Rangers game to buy him a new glove. The script was unfolding perfectly when their baseball idol, Josh Hamilton picked up a foul ball and threw it in their direction. It was a 9-year-old’s dream day until he watched his father fall through a gap between the seats as he caught the ball, stumble over a 33-inch-high railing and fall 20 feet onto concrete to his death.
A 39-year-old firefighter and his only son, “almost attached at the hip” as Cooper’s grandmother said, and joy turned to horror in a second. That’s how fast it can happen to everyone every single day – one mental lapse, one diversion from concentration, and life changes forever.
That’s all it took for Lee Smith many years ago when he was building his dream house just west of Cody on the Northfork Highway. Many people think he died falling from the top of the pagoda-like monstrosity, but his brother told me he fell only 12 feet. He was cutting in a valley when he slipped on some sawdust, fell and broke his neck.
It was a valley section of my brother Paul’s tiny porch addition I was working on when I fell onto my face and broke my nose several years ago. I was doing the small roofing job at the special Blough, pro-bono price, rushing so I could meet my buddies for Monday Night Football. As my dog Trinity watched from under a tree I’d leashed him to, I inched backwards on my knees, cutting shingles from the valley.
Suddenly I ran out of inches and my next conscious thought was, “Why am I down here, why this extreme pain in my face and why is Trinity nearly pulling over the tree to get to me?” Mercifully it was a grass landing my face found, but blood was gushing from my nose and I was staggering around like a Saturday night instead of Monday evening. I still made it to the game and Trinity licked my nose all the way into town.
At a huge, Powell, building-under-construction in the 80s, I wasn’t having nearly as much fun as a major league baseball game when I fell 25 feet and nearly met my maker. I was roofing for my brother Jess on a 2-story building on the way to the old Cemetery Road. I’m not sure what the building houses now, but it was the Farmers Home Administration about 15 years ago, because when I went there to make my house payment, I’d look up and reminisce.
It was a cedar shake roof and I was using a skill saw to cut the last course of shakes when I took a couple steps backwards and fell through the air with the greatest of ease (and the saw still whirring beside my ear). I had stepped through the plastic, temporary cover of a skylight and found the concrete floor in a violent hurry.
The carpenters were almost as shocked as I was when I landed, since they’d just settled in for their lunch break when I dropped in on them. I was lucky enough to land on my keester instead of my head, so a shattered pelvis was the main consequence of my flight from focus. Hating roofing like I did, the 2 months on Worker’s Comp during the hottest part of summer was almost a blessing in disguise, even though it was on crutches.
My friend Todd Jackson loves the Spike TV show, “1000 Ways to Die,” but 1,000 is probably an underestimation. My friend Phil Moore died skydiving decades ago and I’ve known people who died skiing, horse-riding and rock-climbing. I often tell people, “Yeah, I live on the edge too. On the edge of my couch.”
But even the most cautious lifestyles offer 1,000 ways to die when one isn’t paying attention, and one can’t pay attention every minute of every day. Little Cooper Stone is forced to forever pay attention to the memory of his beloved Dad trying to catch a baseball for him, falling onto concrete, and then witnessing him die in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.
It’s really scary out there. Pay attention. Avoid roofs, bungee cords, raging rapids and even high weeds where snakes hang out. In fact, stay on the edge of your couch, but get up slowly and deliberately when making a trip to the fridge for a cold drink.
