American History Tellers - America's Monuments | Four Faces | 3

Episode Date: March 10, 2021

In 1927, workers began blasting granite rock off a towering cliff in South Dakota’s Black Hills. It was the start of an arduous 14-year struggle to carve the portraits of four American presidents into Mount Rushmore.The feat required grueling labor in extreme conditions. And it was led by an obsessive sculptor named Gutzon Borglum. Borglum was the creative genius behind Rushmore, with a talent and ego as big as the monument itself. But he was also the biggest threat to its completion.His masterpiece would become one of the most iconic — and controversial — monuments in America. Listen to new episodes 1 week early and to all episodes ad free with Wondery+. Join Wondery+ for exclusives, binges, early access, and ad free listening. Available in the Wondery App https://wondery.app.link/historytellers.Support us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's October 1929. You're strapped into a harness, suspended 500 feet in the air deep in the mountains of South Dakota. You and your fellow powder men are setting dynamite charges to blast away chunks of the hard granite face of Mount Rushmore. You know, I don't know if I'll ever get used to these heights. Your stomach lurches as you glance below, but your partner just grins. It beats mining, fella. At least up here we gotta work in the fresh air.

Gust of wind knocks your knees against a cliff face. God, we'll have fresh air. That's one way to put it. Glancing 30 feet to your right, you watch as a driller shakes violently from the force of the 50-pound jackhammer he's operating. It's the driller's job to dig three-foot holes into the rock, and it's your job to place sticks of dynamite inside them. You shake your head and turn back to your partner. All right, I think we only need a small explosion here. All right, here you go. Your partner hands you a two-inch stick of dynamite attached to a fine copper wire. You carefully place it inside the hole. All right, it's in. You got the sand?

Your partner holds up a bucket. You scoop sand with a trowel and set to work packing it over the dynamite. You know, Jack, you really think we're going to be able to turn this rock into George Washington's face? At the moment, all I see is a lopsided egg. Oh, ye of little faith. Orglam knows what he's doing. They say he's the best sculptor in America. Is that what they say? Seems like you'd have to be crazy to think you could carve faces out of a side of a mountain. No, I didn't say he wasn't crazy, but think about how it'll feel when it's complete. I don't know. At the rate we're going, I'm not sure we'll live to see that.

Your partner shrugs. Maybe, maybe not, but our kids will. Count me on that. You pack a final scoop of sand around the dynamite and yell up to the winch operators above. What's up, boys? You grip the steel cable, suspending you as the operator above hoists you and your partner to the top of the cliff. Once over the edge, you head over to above hoists you and your partner to the top of the cliff. Once over the edge, you head over to the blasting machine and place your hands on the handle. All right, on my count. The other men place their fingers in their ears and nod. Three, two, one. You pull up the handle on the detonator, sending an electric current to the blasting caps below.

All right. Well, let's get back to it. As the winch operator lowers you and your partner back down to place more charges, you let out a heavy sigh. This is grueling work, blasting away granite, only a few feet at a time. And you're led by a man who may be an artistic genius, but also seems like a lunatic. You can't help but wonder if this colossal carving will ever live up to his dream. I'm Sachi Cole. And I'm Sarah Hagee. And we're the hosts of Scamfluencers, a weekly podcast from Wondery that takes you along the twists and turns of the most infamous scams of all time, the impact on victims, and what's left once the facade falls away. Follow Scamfluencers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From the team behind American History Tellers comes a new book, The Hidden History of the

White House. Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, intimate moments, and shocking scandals that shaped our nation. From the War of 1812 to Watergate. Available now wherever you get your books. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. In the late 1920s, workers began blasting a granite cliff face in South Dakota's Black Hills, the first step in creating one of America's most enduring monuments. Mount Rushmore National Memorial features the sculpted heads of four American presidents,

George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, and Theodore Roosevelt. But the monument started out as something different entirely. It was created by a hard-charging sculptor, a man with an ego as big and brazen as the towering figures on the rock face. Gutzon Borglum had the talent, ambition, and stubborn drive to take on the colossal challenge. But his temperamental personality also threatened the project at every turn. For 14 years, workers battled a harsh and remote landscape to blast and jackhammer nearly half a million tons of rock off the mountain. Along the way, Rushmore became an epic struggle for money, political support, and artistic independence. And from the very beginning, it sparked intense

debate. For some, the sculpture was a shrine to democracy, a triumph of engineering, and a source of national pride. For others, it was a symbol of desecration, broken promises, and white supremacy. Nearly a century after its creation, Mount Rushmore remains as awe-inspiring and controversial as ever. This is Episode 3 of our six-part series on America's monuments, Four Faces.

In 1889, South Dakota became the 40th state. Over the decades that followed, its residents continued to rely on farming, forestry, and mining to make their living. But by the 1920s, as cars transformed the economy, South Dakotans started looking for ways to boost tourism to their state. One of those boosters was state historian Doane Robinson, who cast his eye on the Black Hills region. Its beauty, he felt, was unmatched, a rugged landscape of forests, lakes, and jagged granite peaks. But he worried that scenic vistas alone were not enough to lure Americans to this remote corner of the country. So in 1923, he led a new effort to attract visitors,

telling state lawmakers that tourists soon get fed up on scenery unless it has something of special interest connected with it to make it impressive. And Robinson had an impressive idea. He wanted to carve a massive tribute to the American West in a cluster of granite pillars in the Black Hills called the Needles. He thought it would put South Dakota on the map. But Robinson knew that such a huge undertaking would require the right artist. Robinson had read about a Confederate memorial that was being carved into a mountainside in Georgia.

He tracked down the man behind that project, a sculptor named Gutzon Borglum. In August 1924, he wrote to Borglum, asking whether a similar carving could be done in the Black Hills. Gutzon Borglum was himself a Westerner, born in Idaho in 1867 to Danish Mormon polygamists. He went on to study art in Paris, training under the celebrated sculptor Auguste Roudin. By the 1920s, the stocky, mustache Borglum was himself a famous sculptor,

renowned for carving a bust of Abraham Lincoln that was displayed in the White House. He was friends with millionaires and politicians, including Leland Stanford and Theodore Roosevelt. He and his wife Mary raised their three children on a 500-acre Connecticut estate he christened Borgland, but his extravagant spending often landed him in debt. Borglum was a man who possessed all the characteristics carving a mountain required—tremendous talent, perfectionism, and an enormous ego. Borglum's arrogance propelled him to take on projects few dared attempt, but his combative temperament made him difficult to work with. He thrived on conflict.

One of his friends reflected, Gutzon was for war, for all sorts of war, six wars at a time. In August 1924, Borglum was working on the colossal Confederate memorial on Georgia's Stone Mountain. He had designed a 1,500-foot frieze featuring Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, Jefferson Davis, and hundreds of Confederate soldiers. The Ku Klux Klan helped fund the memorial, and Borglum shared their strong belief in white supremacy. During this time, he wrote racist letters about the superiority of the Nordic race, voicing his fear that America was under threat from a mongrel horde of immigrants.

But after a decade working on Stone Mountain, Borglum's relationship with the Klan was starting to fray. He was plunging again into debt, and he clashed with organizers over his contract and salary. So Doan Robinson's invitation to the Black Hills couldn't have come at a better time. Borglum jumped at the offer to throw himself into a new, even grander project in South Dakota, even as he continued work on Stone Mountain. Borglum met Robinson on a train in South Dakota to discuss plans for his mountain carving in the Black Hills. As the landscape of cottonwood trees rushed by, the pair began talking through a design. Robinson had envisioned a monument to heroes of the American West, such as Buffalo

Bill Cody and the Native American Lakota chief, Red Cloud. Borglum told the historian he had a better idea. He proposed a national subject, focusing on America's greatest presidents, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. Borglum later added two additional presidents to his design, Thomas Jefferson and his own personal friend, Theodore Roosevelt, for their roles in America's territorial expansion. Borglum said that the four portraits would represent the founding, preservation, growth, and development of the nation. Borglum dreamed up his monument at a time of growing nationalism in America. The United States had just helped win World War I, and the economy was booming. Borglum believed

that America's burgeoning global superiority could only be expressed by art on a colossal scale. He saw the sculpture as an enduring monument to the Republic, one that would survive through the ages like the pyramids of Egypt. Gazing on the Black Hills for the first time, Borglum declared, American history shall march along that skyline. But from the beginning, the monument sparked controversy. As news spread of the ambitious plan, local journalists and environmentalists were horrified by the idea of carving up part of the Black Hills for commercial gain. One editorial questioned,

why should we desecrate the work of nature with a puny work of man? Still, local business owners and politicians rushed to support Borglum, hoping the monument would give their remote state much-needed publicity, attracting tourists and their wallets. The sculpture's most important champion was South Dakota Senator Peter Norbeck. Norbeck was a stout, plain-spoken son of Norwegian immigrants who rose out of childhood poverty to walk the halls of power in Washington. He was passionate about developing tourism in the Black Hills, and he would be key to turning Borglum's dream of a mountain memorial into a reality. After his visit to the Black Hills, Borglum returned to Georgia to continue work on Stone

Mountain. But by February of 1925, the Confederate monument had run out of money, and the committee overseeing its construction fired Borglum, citing his offensive egotism and delusions of grandeur. Borglum flew off in a rage. He took an axe to his models and raced across state lines before police could charge him with destruction of property. But as the Stone Mountain Project was breaking down, Senator Norbeck was lobbying legislators for permission and funding to carve the needles in South Dakota. Norbeck easily secured permission at the federal level. Most state officials in South Dakota also supported the monument, but they stopped short of committing money to it, especially after hearing that the Stone Mountain Memorial was in shambles. A few months later, Borglum returned to the Black Hills

to settle on a location for the monument. Riding horseback through the mountains, Borglum set eyes on Mount Rushmore for the first time. He knew instantly that he had found the site for his sculpture. The granite cliff faced southeast, guaranteeing maximum sun exposure. Borglum made some rough sketches, already envisioning how he could transform the rock into the heads and torsos of four presidents. Borglum thought he had found his canvas, but he had also chosen a site with a long and disputed history. The place was named after Charles E. Rushmore, a wealthy New York attorney who visited the Black Hills in 1885. But long before it was called Mount Rushmore,

this towering, pine-clad bluff was sacred to the Lakota Sioux. The Lakota called the mountain Six Grandfathers, after the powerful spirits of the East, West, North, and South, the sky above and the earth below. In an 1868 treaty, the United States government promised the Lakota Sioux property rights over all of the Black Hills, including six grandfathers, in perpetuity. But just a few years later, prospectors discovered gold in the region. White settlers moved in, and the government broke the treaty. The United States forced the tribes to relinquish their claims to the land, pushing them onto federal reservations. The Lakota mounted a resistance that lasted until 1890,

when finally U.S. soldiers killed some 300 men, women, and children at Wounded Knee, a creek in the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. It was the final clash of the long, bloody wars between the U.S. Army and the Plains Indians. So for the Lakota, Mount Rushmore was a sacred peak stolen from them. Carving it with the faces of four presidents was a traumatic reminder of the U.S. government's betrayal and theft. But for Borglum, Mount Rushmore was the ideal spot for his grand shrine to American

expansion, a monument that had become his new obsession. And he wasn't about to let anything or anyone stand in his way. Imagine it's August 1925. You're staying at a game lodge in South Dakota's Custer State Park. You're a U.S. Senator representing South Dakota, and you're sitting down for a nightcap with Gutzon Borglum, the man you're relying on to finally put your state on the map. Well, cheers, Senator. Borglum takes a sip of the wine, then winces. Hmm. A little too earthy for my taste, but fitting, though, I suppose, for the wilderness. You must come visit me at Borgland someday, Senator. I only stock the best in my cellar fitting though, I suppose, for the wilderness. You must come visit

me at Borgland someday, Senator. I only stock the best in my cellar. Oh, I don't doubt it. Anyway, cheers to choosing a site. Rushmore, huh? I won't lie, I wish you'd pick somewhere with better road access. Roads can be built, Senator. I've just spent ten days on the mountain. If you could see the way the light strikes the cliffside at dawn, the granite is as good as I could have hoped for. Much better than Stone Mountain. Well, I am glad you are pleased with it. Borglum sets down his glass and begins scratching out a likeness of George Washington on a pad of paper. His face is flush with excitement.

Well, Senator, we must talk plans. The vastness of that landscape demands something even greater than what I first envisioned. I'm going to carve a grand entablature beside the four presidents. It'll tell the whole history of America, important dates and events. Your eyes widen as you glance over at his drawing of a large inscription. This monument seems to be getting more elaborate by the day. When you say the whole history, yes, the whole history will honor America's great builders and explorers, Lewis and Clark, Sam Houston. What do you think? Does William Seward deserve a spot? Let's back up and talk numbers. What's your latest estimate on the cost of this thing? But Borglum turns back to his drawing. Well, whether it costs a half a million dollars

or 10 million, it doesn't really matter. I'm not worried about the money. Well, that's good, but someone has to be. You seem to take it for granted that this will all go off without a hitch. Senator, I trust you'll come up with something clever. Mint commemorative coins, perhaps, or find some idle millionaire with deep pockets. Rockefeller, or maybe that fellow in charge of U.S. Steel. Gutzon, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Do I need to remind you that you're not technically under contract to start work at all? Borglum leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

Do you have someone else waiting in the wings with my talent and expertise? Tell me, are there many sculptors of mountains here in South Dakota? You must introduce me. I'd love to meet them. No, of course not, Gutson. You know you're our man. Borglum smiles and returns to his sketching. But you're left wondering how you'll ever come up with the money for this monument, and whether you can manage Borglum's boundless vision, and even more boundless ego.

In August 1925, Borglum chose Mount Rushmore as the site for his sculpture, but he still lacked the funds to begin work, a prospect made more difficult by the mountain's remote location. Mount Rushmore was only accessible via old logging trails. The nearest road ended three miles away in the small town of Keystone. Just to start the monument would first require a massive investment in road building, in addition to the half-million dollars Borglum estimated it would cost to carve the mountain. On October 1st, hundreds of people climbed up to the base of Mount Rushmore for a

dedication ceremony complete with speeches and music. The local business community had raised $5,000 for survey work, but it wasn't nearly enough. Over the next two years, Borglum, Norbeck, and Robinson scrambled to find wealthy donors, making little progress on the mountain itself. Borglum was still not under contract, and his personal finances suffered to the point that he could not pay his mortgage on Borgland, his Connecticut estate. Still, Borglum continued to forge ahead with plans and sketches. And then the project had a breakthrough. In the summer of 1927, Senator Norbeck convinced President Calvin Coolidge to vacation in the Black Hills. While continuing his presidential duties,

Coolidge enjoyed the scenery and spent his time trout fishing in a creek kept well-stocked by local boosters. Three weeks turned into three months, giving Borglum time to persuade Coolidge to participate in a second formal dedication of Mount Rushmore in August. Coolidge donned cowboy boots and a 10-gallon hat for the ceremony, in which he gave a speech

pledging government support for what he called a national shrine to the spirit of patriotism. In a display of showmanship, Borglum clambered up to the summit and drilled six symbolic holes, marking the starting points for George Washington's face. Finally that fall, Borglum and a small crew began blasting away granite for Washington's sculpture. But it was a false start. Bad weather and a shortage of manpower and money continued to hamper progress. Soon enough, funds dried up, bringing work to a halt for an entire year. It had already been three years since Borglum had first set eyes on Rushmore. But by 1928,

despite grand plans and relentless efforts, unless Borglum could find a massive cash infusion, it looked like his shrine to American democracy was doomed to fail. In November 1991, media tycoon Robert Maxwell mysteriously vanished from his luxury yacht in the Canary Islands. But it wasn't just his body that would come to the surface in the days that followed. It soon emerged that Robert's business was on the brink of collapse, and behind his facade of wealth and success was a litany of bad investments, mounting debt, and multi-million dollar fraud. Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery Show Business Movers. We tell the true stories of business leaders who risked it all, the critical moments that define their journey, and the ideas

that transform the way we live our lives. In our latest series, a young refugee fleeing the Nazis arrives in Britain determined to make something of his life. Taking the name Robert Maxwell, he builds a publishing and newspaper empire that spans the globe. But ambition eventually curdles into desperation, and Robert's determination to succeed turns into a willingness to do anything to get ahead. Follow Business Movers wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app.

I'm Tristan Redman, and as a journalist, I've never believed in ghosts. But when I discovered that my wife's great-grandmother was murdered in the house next door to where I grew up, I started wondering about the inexplicable things that happened in my childhood bedroom. When I tried to find out more, I discovered that someone who slept in my room after me, someone I'd never met, was visited by the ghost of a faceless woman. So I started digging into the murder in my wife's family, and I unearthed family secrets nobody could have imagined. Ghost Story won Best Documentary Podcast at the 2024 Ambies and is a Best True Crime nominee at

the British Podcast Awards 2024. Ghost Story is now the first ever Apple Podcast series essential. Each month, Apple Podcast editors spotlight one series that has captivated listeners with masterful storytelling, creative excellence, and a unique creative voice and vision. To recognize Ghost Story being chosen as the first series essential, Wondery has made it ad-free for a limited time only on Apple Podcasts. If you haven't listened yet, head over to Apple Podcasts to hear for yourself. While progress on Mount Rushmore slowed to a crawl in 1928, Senator Peter Norbeck was back in Washington fighting for funding. Norbeck had an ally in President Coolidge, who became committed to the project after his summer stay in South Dakota. During Coolidge's final days in office in February 1929, he signed a bill into law appropriating matching funds up to $250,000

for Mount Rushmore, close to $4 million in today's money. The law also created a 12-member Mount Rushmore National Memorial Commission to oversee construction and allocate the funds. Finally, it seemed like the project was building momentum. But just months later, the stock market crashed, and the American economy spiraled into the Great Depression. With private money drying up, Rushmore would increasingly depend on the federal government to keep it afloat. But this meant that officials would repeatedly come into conflict with Gutzon Borglum, who was fiercely protective of his artistic vision. As the Depression deepened, unemployed men in South Dakota were desperate to find jobs,

and jobs were to be had on Mount Rushmore. At first, Borglum resisted hiring locals he considered unqualified, but with carving falling behind schedule, he had no other choice. He used his limited funds to hire local miners who were familiar with using jackhammers and dynamite. Every morning, up to 50 workers climbed 700 steps to the summit of the mountain. Using harnesses and thick steel cables, they were lowered down the face of the mountain, dangling high up in the air as they worked, blasting and drilling to shape the rock into the 60-foot-high faces of four presidents. First, the workers used dynamite to blast large chunks of granite off the mountain and create general shapes. The next stage of the carving was a process called honeycombing, in which the workers drilled shallow, closely spaced holes in a grid

pattern. The workers used chisels and hammers to remove small pieces of rock between the holes, creating the contours of eyes, lips, and noses to match Borglum's models. At the end of each workday, the workers were covered head-to-toe in granite dust. And then finally, after nearly a year of work, George Washington's head was recognizable enough for Borglum to hold yet another dedication ceremony. On July 4, 1930, an aircraft flyover and rifle salute marked the unveiling of Washington's granite portrait. Newsreels of the event played in theaters across the country. Rushmore captured the nation's attention, and tourists began to journey to the Black Hills to see the work in

progress for themselves. But Borglum had spent most of his remaining budget on the ceremony, and the workers were exhausted after laboring 16-hour days in the lead-up to the dedication. Just weeks after Washington's head was unveiled, carving once again slowed to a crawl. The following year brought new problems. Work had begun on Jefferson's head, located to Washington's right, but the rock on that section of the mountain proved too crumbly to withstand carving. After 18 months, the workers were forced to blast away their work and start over, relocating Jefferson to Washington's left. By 1932, the project was piling up debt. With the economy still in tatters, there was little hope of attracting private donations. Construction on Rushmore shut down, and the workers were laid

off. Borglum barnstormed around Washington in search of sponsors, but once again it was the tireless Senator Norbeck who came to the rescue. The government had begun distributing relief money as the Depression worsened. Norbeck managed to secure $100,000 to pay workers on Rushmore. The following year, he arranged for the monument to come under control of the National Park Service, paving the way for even more federal funding. But money was just one of the many challenges on the mountain. The workers were doing delicate work in extreme conditions.

Borglum constantly complained about what he saw as their inexperience and lack of skill. But their task was immense. No one could predict the difficulties they would encounter in their struggle to transform the mountain into Borglum's vision of the huge, expressive faces of presidents. Imagine it's a blistering hot day in the summer of 1935. You're high up on a small, suspended platform on Mount Rushmore, working on the carving of Thomas Jefferson. You're an

experienced stonecutter, just like your father and grandfather. You moved to the United States from Italy 15 years ago, hoping your talents would take you far. But you've never faced a challenge like this before. Your assistant hands you a chisel and studies the rock. You think this will work? You wipe your brow with your handkerchief and shrug. It has to. If we fail, it's going to look like the president has a cold sore. Earlier, you were forced to dig a dark strip of feldspar out of the pale granite, but this left a gaping hole in Jefferson's upper lip. Your assistant gives you a wry smile. I'm still haunted by the crack above his right nostril. Can't wait until

this is over and we can move on to Lincoln. I prefer old Abe anyways, as far as presidents go. As long as they look like they're supposed to look, it doesn't matter to me. All right, lower it down. Ah, steady, steady now. From the clifftop above, workers lower a heavy piece of granite down to you until it's suspended level with the lip. The stone measures two feet across, 10 inches wide and ten inches deep. A few days ago, you carefully picked it out of the rubble pile and shaped it to fit the dimensions of the crevice. All right, you want to do the honors? Your assistant nods, his face blazing with determination as he drops a ladle into a bucket of molten sulfur. Careful now.

He pours the sulfur into two holes you've pre-drilled into the piece of granite. All right, let's slot it in. Quickly now, though. We've got to make sure these holes match up with the steel pins in the cavity. Your assistant beams as the rock slides perfectly into place. Like a glove. You smile, feeling like you've really started to prove yourself on the mountain. Maybe even enough to be tasked with carving Lincoln's eyes.

That would be an honor. But whatever. You just hope the boss is happy. Work on Rushmore was not always supervised by Gutz and Borglum. He frequently left the mountain for months at a time to raise money and work on other commissions. While he was gone, Borglum left the monument in the hands of time to raise money and work on other commissions. While he was gone, Borglum left the monument in the hands of his son, Lincoln, and his other assistants. The most skilled of them was chief carver Luigi del Bianco,

an Italian immigrant and classically trained artist and stonecutter. Bianco solved the difficult challenge of filling a crack on Jefferson's lip, and he was also responsible for Lincoln's lifelike eyes. Borglum described Bianco as the only intelligent, efficient stone carver on the work. But when Borglum was on hand to oversee carving, his workers chafed against their combative and demanding boss. Borglum constantly complained about the inexperience of the former miners who did the majority of the carving. But Borglum reserved his fiercest anger for the government officials that he believed were interfering with his project, and no one bore the brunt of the sculptor's ire as much as John Boland, the general manager of the project for the Mount Rushmore Commission and the National Park Service. Boland was a mild-mannered local businessman and a former mayor of Rapid City, South Dakota. He had backed the monument from

the beginning, spearheading a local fundraising drive. Boland was tasked with allocating government dollars for Rushmore, and he had come to Borglum's rescue multiple times, even giving him a personal loan that saved the sculptor from the brink of financial ruin. Despite this, Borglum was convinced that Boland was out to undermine him. He resented Boland's control over the purse strings, calling him uncultured and meddlesome. He complained that Boland was interfering with his creative vision. The spats were so testy that Senator Norbeck was repeatedly forced to step in as a mediator

and to help with fundraising. But in 1935, Norbeck was fighting cancer. Despite this, he still managed to win a new federal appropriation of $200,000 for Rushmore, nearly $4 million in today's dollars. The following year, the National Park Service upgraded infrastructure on the mountain, making construction more efficient, even as Borglum butted heads with the Park Service's chief engineer. That August, the hard-earned Jefferson Head was finally unveiled in a ceremony attended by President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Progress continued unabated for the next year. Then, in 1937,

the Lincoln head was nearing completion, and the Theodore Roosevelt head was well underway. Borglum was brimming with confidence about his masterpiece. Speaking at the dedication for the Lincoln head in September, Borglum declared, We have literally driven a super-clipper into the stratosphere of noblest human aspirations, on a crust and a gallon of gas, in spite of a resisting, unbelieving world. Proudly, Borglum celebrated his victories.

But behind the scenes, a contract dispute was bringing his conflict with government officials to a head. Borglum wanted more money, but the commission refused to budge. Borglum was furious, especially after working months without pay while waiting for a new contract. He became more determined than ever to wrest control from the Mount Rushmore Commission, the National Park

Service, and above all his nemesis, John Boland. Beyond carving the four presidents, Borglum had dreamed up increasingly elaborate plans. He envisioned a grand stairway of 800 carved granite steps, leading up to a large inscription he called his entablature, as well as a cavernous hall of records inside the monument, where he wanted to store the original constitution and Declaration of Independence. But Borglum's new contract made no mention of any work beyond finishing the four faces. John Boland wanted to make sure that the main sculptures actually got done, on time and on budget, before anything else was added to the monument. Borglum was now 70 years old, and Boland feared the faces would never be finished if

something happened to the aging sculptor. But Borglum was convinced that his artistic vision was being stifled by government interference. He resented having to get the commission's approval on his creative decisions. He had devoted the past 12 years of his life to the carving of the monument. So over the next several months, he would launch a bitter war to win full control over the sculpture. But the struggle would take a heavy toll. And soon the future of Mount Rushmore would become even more uncertain as America's attention turned to the looming threat of a second world war. In a quiet suburb, a community is shattered by the death of a beloved wife and mother.

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Join Wondery Plus and The Wondery App, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. In the spring of 1938, Gutzon Borglum was a man on a warpath, desperate to rid Mount Rushmore of government interference. Borglum moved to Washington and lobbied his friends in government, threatening to stop work on the memorial unless his demands were met. One of his biggest champions, Senator Peter Norbeck, had died of cancer in 1936. And without Norbeck playing mediator, Borglum was unfiltered and uncompromising. In March, he told the Secretary of the Interior that Boland and the men on the commission were incompetent, deliberately dishonest, and determined to degrade his sculpture. He didn't stop there. Soon, he took his complaints directly to the White House, bombarding President Franklin D.

Roosevelt with angry letters. He complained, The Mount Rushmore Memorial has been bullied, starved, victimized from the beginning by local cheap ward politicians and a man from the Park Department. I must now request this interference must all stop and stop at once. His relentless efforts paid off. When Borglum's congressional allies introduced legislation to set up a new commission in May of 1938, they had the support of both the Interior Secretary and President Roosevelt. Ever the team player, John Boland issued a statement declaring,

My only desire is to have the Mount Rushmore Project completed and to have Mr. Borglum carry on his great work. He agreed to step down from the commission. In June, Congress dissolved the Mount Rushmore Commission, authorized the completion of Borglum's staircase, entablature, and Hall of Records, and then approved $300,000 in funding, half of what Borglum had asked for. A new commission was formed under Borglum's control, with no involvement from Boland or the National Park Service. Thrilled with his victory, Borglum returned to South Dakota and moved ahead quickly. Washington, Lincoln, and Jefferson's faces were all complete, with just detail work remaining. Only Teddy Roosevelt's head was left, the face shrouded in scaffolding as workers labored furiously. Along with overseeing work

on Roosevelt's head, Borglum began excavating granite for his Hall of Records, an 80-by-100-foot vault to be carved into the rock behind Lincoln's head. He also started designing a restaurant, a reservoir, and a grand entrance gate. But after workers blasted 70 feet into the mountain, they realized the granite was too hard to carve any further. Plans for the Hall of Records were abandoned. Then in June 1939, Borglum received more bad news. President Roosevelt was streamlining the federal bureaucracy to better handle the lingering depression and the looming war in Europe. To cut costs, Roosevelt placed Rushmore back under the control of the National Park Service.

The Park Service insisted that all work focus on the four faces alone. Lawmakers in Washington feared that if the United States entered the war, the government would be unable to fund Rushmore's completion. So the pressure was on to finish the monument as soon as possible, especially as Borglum's health had started to deteriorate. And soon enough, in February 1941, Congress cut off funding to Rushmore in order to prioritize defense spending. Days later, Borglum died unexpectedly from complications during prostate surgery. Overnight, the larger-than-life force behind Rushmore was gone. And so, too, was any possibility of the additional features Borglum

wanted, or the chance to carve the presidents to their waists as originally planned. With Borglum gone and the budget nearly depleted, the Park Service asked Borglum's son, Lincoln, to take the four heads as near to completion as possible. Twenty-nine-year-old Lincoln stepped into a massive void left by his father. He and his team spent the next few months on detail work, including Lincoln's collar and the hair on Jefferson and Roosevelt. Then on October 31, 1941, the workers laid down their

tools and work on the sculpture stopped for good. Even though Borglum's plans were not fully carried out, Lincoln insisted that the monument's final form was more effective than his father's original designs. After 14 years, some 400 men had removed 450,000 tons of granite to carve Rushmore, at a total cost of nearly $1 million, or $17 million in today's money. Over the next several decades, Americans flocked to Mount Rushmore in droves. By 1970, the monument was drawing nearly 2 million visitors a year. But as the monument attracted tourists, it also continued to draw controversy. For the Native American residents of South Dakota, the Mount Rushmore Memorial persisted as a symbol of white supremacy and a bitter reminder of the violence inflicted by the U.S.

government. In the words of Lakota Chief John Fire Lame Deer, they could just as well have carved this mountain into a huge cavalry boot standing on a dead Indian. But even before Mount Rushmore was finished, the Lakota had started their own monument in the Black Hills. In 1939, Lakota Sioux Chief Henry Standing Bear commissioned sculptor Korchak Julkowski to carve a mountain memorial to counter the four presidents' faces. Standing Bear told the sculptor, My fellow chiefs and I would like the white man to know that the red man has had great heroes too.

They chose the 19th century Lakota warrior Crazy Horse as the subject. Located 17 miles from Rushmore, the monument would depict Crazy Horse riding a horse and pointing in the distance. At more than 500 feet tall, Crazy Horse would dwarf the 60-foot busts on Mount Rushmore. But the monument ended up sparking its own controversy, with many Lakota people questioning whether Crazy Horse would have wanted to be immortalized in further carving of a sacred landscape.

The fight for Native rights entered a new phase in the 1960s and 1970s, as a spirit of social and political protest swept the nation. And Rushmore once again would become a flashpoint. Imagine it's September 1970. You're at Mount Rushmore on a ledge just behind the head of Teddy Roosevelt. Two days ago, you and two dozen fellow activists set up camp on the mountainside. Thou shalt not murder. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt honor thy treaties. One of the leaders of your group shouts through a bullhorn to the tourists below while you organize

supplies. You've been to protests before, but this is the first time you've taken part in an occupation of a federal monument. You hand a can of red paint to a pair of protesters as they unfurl several sewn-together bedsheets that will serve as a banner. You plan to paint the words, Sue Indian Power in bold letters across the banner, draping it right over Washington's face. But just as you pick up a brush, you're distracted by a panting reporter who's walking straight towards you.

Hello there. I was hoping you might grant me an interview. Your gaze moves from his camera to your fellow activists, wondering if you're really the best person to be talking to the press. Well, our spokesman is around here somewhere. No, you look like you'll do just fine. I don't want to carry this camera any further. Just a few questions? You know that if there's one thing this protest needs, it is publicity. So you take a deep breath and straighten your shoulders. Okay. What do you want to know? A beleaguered cameraman, also panting from carrying equipment up the mountainside, gives a thumbs up to indicate that he's rolling. The reporter raises his microphone towards you.

What's your goal here today? These lands are legally ours by treaty, and we've come to take them back. The reporter has a dubious look on his face. That's a look you've seen many times before. How do you propose to do that? We want to meet with the Interior Secretary and demand the Black Hills be given back to us. Back to you. Could you explain that history for our viewers who don't know? You relax a little. As a history student, this is where you're most comfortable. Yes. The federal government said this land would belong to us as long as the sun shines and the grass grows. Then six years later, they sent General Custer into the Black Hills, and then they discovered gold. After that, they turned around and took this land from us. The reporter pauses

for a moment, considering your words. For you, what is the meaning of this occupation? This is the first Sioux uprising here since the stand against General Custer, and this is a breeding ground right here. You are going to see a spark. So you cling to the hope that someday this land will be yours again? We're going to continue this resistance against these oppressors to continue to fight for what is rightfully ours. The reporter nods at the cameraman to stop rolling. Ah, thank you. But surely this occupation is purely symbolic, right? You're not actually thinking you're going to reclaim the Black Hills. Symbols matter.

If they didn't, why would you have gone to the trouble of carving those presidents into this mountain? The reporter raises his eyebrows, and you get a sense that he may be starting to see Mount Rushmore and your movement in a new light. You just hope you can get the U.S. government to do the same. In August 1970, 23 young Native Americans scaled Mount Rushmore and set up camp, draping a banner over the mountain with a slogan, Sioux Indian Power. The protesters demanded the federal government honor its 1868 treaty guaranteeing Sioux ownership over the Black Hills. They remained on Rushmore for three months until severe winter storms drove them off. But the protests didn't end there. In 1971, protesters once again occupied Rushmore, and in 1973, 200 activists occupied the South Dakota town of Wounded

Knee for more than two months. In gunfights with authorities, two activists were shot dead, and a federal agent was shot and paralyzed. Then in 1980, the Supreme Court upheld a ruling granting the Sioux Nation more than $100 million in compensation for the illegal seizure of land, including the Black Hills. But the Sioux have continued to refuse the money, now worth over $1 billion, insisting that the land was never for sale. Ownership of the Black Hills remains in dispute to this day, as does the meaning of the region's most iconic landmark. For many, it's a source of pride, a colossal symbol of American achievement and patriotism. But for others, it's a painful reminder of the injustices suffered by Native people. Perhaps most of all, it's a towering monument

to the boundless ego and obsessive drive of the headstrong sculptor who never lived to see it finished. From Wondery, this is episode three of America's Monuments from American History Tellers. On the next episode, in the early 20th century, San Francisco was one of America's leading metropolises, but to fuel its economic growth, it needed a bridge. Building over one of the most treacherous straits on the American seaboard, engineers and binge all episodes early and ad-free right now

by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham, for Airship. Sound design by Derek Behrens. This episode is written by George Ducker, edited by Dorian Marina. Our senior producer is Andy Herman. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marsha Louis, created by Hernán López for Wondery. Richard Bandler revolutionized the world of self-help all thanks to an approach he developed called neurolinguistic programming.

Even though NLP worked for some, its methods have been criticized for being dangerous in the wrong hands. Throw in Richard's dark past as a cocaine addict and murder suspect, and you can't help but wonder what his true intentions were. I'm Sachi Cole. And I'm Sarah Hagee. And we're the hosts of Scamfluencers, a weekly podcast from Wondery that takes you along the twists and turns of the most infamous scams of all time, the impact on victims, and what's left once the facade falls away.

We recently dove into the story of the godfather of modern mental manipulation, Richard Bandler, whose methods inspired some of the most toxic and criminal self-help movements of the last two decades. Follow Scamfluencers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Scamfluencers and more Exhibit C true crime shows like Morbid and Kill List early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery+. Check out Exhibit C in the Wondery app for all your true crime listening.