Pilgrimage to Mix Run
Although Tom Mix wasn’t the first cowboy to take to the screen, he was certainly the first to become a cultural tour de force. Like many in Hollywood, he battled personal demons throughout his life. But unlike many of his contemporaries, Mix was careful — obsessive, even — to make sure that these vices were never a part of his public persona. To countless young boys across America, he was goodness, plain and simple. His iconic white cowboy hat sharply contrasted the black outfits worn by his enemies. The plots of his films were simple, and never without a strong moral. His movies were good versus evil in the purest sense — but not without a healthy dose of fun and some remarkable showmanship.
I have a poster hanging in my office advertising Tom Mix and his “Wonder Horse” Tony’s appearance as part of the Sells-Floto Circus in the early 1930s. I have a framed photograph on my desk, with a printed signature that reads, “To my Straight Shooter pal Charles, with best wishes, Tom Mix” (the Straight Shooters were Mix’s official fan club, sponsored by Ralston Cereal). I don’t know who the Tom Mix fan named Charles was in 1937, but I’m certainly glad he held onto his cereal premium.
I have visited most of the major sites associated with Tom Mix’s life and death. I have been to his homes in Los Angels, Catalina Island, and Phoenix (the last of which is now a Mexican restaurant). I have been to the Tom Mix Museum in Dewey, Oklahoma, where he served as sheriff for a brief time. I’ve been to both the site of his fatal car accident (near Florence, Arizona) and his final resting place — much closer to home in Glendale, California. One site, however, had eluded me thus far — his birthplace in Mix Run, Pennsylvania.
Tom Mix was born January 6, 1880, but Mix Run — founded by Tom’s great-great-grandfather — was first settled about 1804. He spent the first few years of his life on the family compound before moving to nearby Dubois, where his father, a stable master, began teaching him about horses. From there, the story of Mix’s life has been told countless times — an alleged tour of duty with the Rough Riders in the Spanish-American War (later disproven by historians), local fame across the Southwest for his unmatched riding and roping skills, and a foray at the famed Miller Brothers 101 Ranch Wild West Show in Oklahoma.
By 1910 Mix was already appearing in films, and he quickly became one of the cinema’s earliest stars. After a stint at the long-defunct Selig Polyscope Company, Mix signed with Fox Films. At the peak of his popularity he was making $7,500 a week (the equivalent of nearly $100,000 today). Although his on-screen appearances dwindled at the onset of the Great Depression, Mix remained a popular figure in movie serials and on the radio. He was tragically killed in 1940 when his car swerved into a gully and a metal suitcase struck the back of his neck. Tom Mix was just 60 years old.
I recently had business in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania, and, looking at a map, realized I was as close to Mix Run as I would probably ever be. So I tacked an extra day onto my stay with the hope that I would be able to check this last Tom Mix landmark off my list. I had done my research; a museum existed from the 1980’s until about 2002, where a local couple displayed thousands of photographs and pieces of memorabilia. A marker on the site of the highway gave an approximately location of the birthplace. Mix Run even had a Tom Mix Lane. Early on a Monday morning I hopped into my car and left State College; had I known what I was in for, I might have reconsidered my trip.
My first red flag should have been my GPS, which told me that Mix Run was a hair over 60 miles away, but gave me a travel time of an hour and 45 minutes. Most of the roads appeared to be fairly straight highways, so I chalked it up as a glitch which would sort itself out as I drove along. I passed through small town after small town — Snow Shoe, Moshannon, Karthaus — each smaller than the last, as I watched my cell signal slowly disappear. The weather was alternating between rain and a heavy fog, which made it eerie as I crossed the Susquehanna River and drove through the Quehanna Department of Corrections Boot Camp.
The further I drove, the more my GPS began to concern me. Finally it got to the point where it said I had 10 miles and 45 minutes left in my journey. Surely there had to be some sort of mistake — there was no way it would take that long to drive so short a distance, even in the worst conditions.
Finally, my navigation instructed me to turn right onto Red Run Road and follow it for eight miles. Another glitch! Apple Maps was letting me down, it seemed — there was no Red Run Road to my right. I made a U-turn on the highway and made a second pass. This time I realized that what I had taken to be a gravel driveway was in fact Red Run Road. It was barely wide enough for a car and had a prominent sign that read: “NOT MAINTAINED IN WINTER.” The sorry condition of the road — if it can even be called a road — made me wonder what sort of maintenance it underwent during the other three seasons.
Had I had someone else with me in the car, they might have told me that my Hyundai Elantra was not suitable to drive down such a road for even a few hundred feet, let alone eight miles. The fact that the car was a rental and not even mine to ruin should have been another factor that deterred me.
So, against my better judgement I decided to proceed down the road, armed with nothing but a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and my obsessive desire to visit Tom Mix’s birthplace.
The drive was at times both harrowing and beautiful. Every time I saw a large rock in the middle of my path I was certain it was going to puncture a tire, leaving me stranded with no way of contacting the world at large. I looked for fresh tire tracks, anything to suggest that I was not the only one foolhardy enough to tackle this road in these conditions. During the entire eight mile drive I passed only one other vehicle, a Silverado pickup. I rolled down my window to wave; the couple in the truck were too busy laughing at me to return the favor. I powered on.
For short stretches Red Run Road would turn to gravel, resembling the sort of road I had been expecting to drive. But as soon as I’d hit a comfortable cruising speed of about 10 miles per hour it was back to a waterlogged, muddy rut through the woods. I lost all sense of time — I think the drive took about an hour, but it may as well have been ten times as long. My surroundings were indistinguishable, the downpour constant, and my spirt flagging.
In seemingly every one of Tom Mix’s films there comes a point where all hope is lost. In No Man’s Gold, screened for the first time in almost a century at last year’s San Francisco Silent Film Festival, there comes such a moment when Mix must watch cattle rustlers escape with an immeasurable fortune. But this was a Tom Mix film, so of course his final-act heroics lead him to apprehend the evildoers while also winning the hand of frequent love interest Eva Novak.
As I began to despair that Red Run Road would never end, that my car would break down and my life would end where my hero’s had begun, I thought of Tom Mix and the lessons he taught to the countless young kids in his Straight Shooter fan club. Yes, my situation looked bleak — but what would Tom do? I began to think of my rental car as my own “Tony the Wonder Horse,” seeing me through to safe passage. Tom Mix wouldn’t give up so easily, and neither would I.
It was right around this point that my GPS proudly “pinged” and told me that I had arrived at Mix Run. The destination was on my left, it assured me. I looked to my left — nothing. I drive down the road a bit further — still nothing — until I caught a glimpse of a cabin alongside the river. This was it! Mix Run itself! I felt like I was Ponce de León discovering the Fountain of Youth. Mix Run!
Imagine my excitement, then, when a few hundred feet further down the road a sign emerged from the trees — Tom Mix Lane! This was it, the birthplace of Tom Mix, and there was even a lane named after him. I put my hazards on — for all of the cross-traffic on Red Run Road, obviously — and hopped out of the car to take a picture.
Tom Mix Lane led across the railroad tracks and down to the river. As I proceeded there were a few small cabins to my left — maybe one of these had been the museum? — but there was no further mention of Mix’s name. What there were plenty of, however, were warning signs to potential trespassers. “Proud to Exercise the 2nd Amendment,” read one. “Forget the Dog, Beware the Human and His Guns” read the next. While I suppose they were trying to be funny, they instead felt deadly serious. With each cabin I passed the signs increased in intensity. By the end of the road, the signs were practically advocating outright murder.
I came to a dead end (the road led straight into the river) and decided to regroup and stretch my legs. Of course I picked the only house in Mix Run that was actually inhabited this time of year, because as soon as I got out of the car an obese cocker spaniel began charging — or rather, waddling — straight towards me.
“Don’t mind him, he won’t hurt you!” a woman in her mid-sixties yelled as she ran out of the house. I was hardly worried about the dog’s advances; I was instead excited that I had a real live person to talk to! Surely this woman would know all about Mix Run — maybe she even remembered the museum, or had known Mix’s distant relatives. This was my big break, that would make the entire trip worth it.
“My name’s Charles, and I’m here from California because I’m such a big Tom Mix fan,” I proudly declared as I approached her.
“Who’s that?” was her disgruntled response.
“Tom Mix…the western movie star from the 1920s?” I feebly asked as my heart sank. Apparently it was not my big break.
“It rings a bell. We just moved here eight years ago though, so I don’t really know what you’re talking about.” At this point she was joined by her husband, similarly inconvenienced by my unannounced arrival.
“What’s he doing here?” he asked his wife while disgustedly motioning in my direction.
“He wants to know about some movie star who lived here.”
I thought, “some movie star” is no way to talk about the Tom Mix, but I let it go. After racking their brains they finally remembered that there was a plaque located directly across the river, alongside the highway. They assured me, though, that the gentleman who ran the Driftwood Saloon, the nearest restaurant, would know exactly what I was talking about. They even claimed he had cowboy memorabilia — “John Wayne and s*** like that” — in his establishment, which apparently qualified him as the local expert on all things Hollywood.
After some brief directions (which consisted of “stay left at every fork you come to”), I was back on the road. The condition of Red Run Road got worse before it got better, but I was reinvigorated. I soon pulled into the town of Driftwood, population 67.
Before heading to the Driftwood Saloon I decided to find the aforementioned plaque, located alongside the highway. I doubled back four miles to a site directly across the river from Mix Run — only about 100 feet as the crow flies, but a good 30 minutes worth of driving. There, next to a hazardous turnout, was the saddest looking plaque I’ve ever seen in my life. Balanced at a precarious angle, it seemed to be trying to throw itself off the cliff into the river below. I can only imagine it has a few more winters before it accomplishes its goal of suicide. The plaque reads:
“The famous cowboy star of cinema and circus was born here, January 6, 1880. A soldier during the Spanish-American War, he was renown for his “wild west” roles in hundreds of motion pictures — both silent and sound — between 1910 and 1935. Tom Mix died in an auto accident in Arizona on October 12, 1940.”
Although the plaque does not mark the actual location of Mix’s birth, I appreciate the fact that it is on a somewhat major road, hopefully having inspired at least a few people to stop and learn about Mix for the first time. I took a photo and climbed back into the car — it was an essential piece of the story, the plaque, but it was still not the birthplace. I was nearing a dead end in my search. I headed back into the town of Driftwood to seek further help.
When I pulled up to the Driftwood Saloon I quickly noticed that I was the only non-pickup truck or SUV in the lot. I walked past a group of men smoking cigarettes on the front porch — all in matching camouflage and with rifles slung over their shoulders — and entered the small, darkly lit bar. Hanging on one wall were three small framed images of Mix which looked to be third or fourth generation photocopies. Adjacent to them stood an incongruous cardboard cutout of John Wayne (memorabilia, I thought with a chuckle). Without knowing what to do, I went up to a man sitting at the bar who appeared to be a local.
“Excuse me, sir, but someone told me that the owner of this place might know something about the Tom Mix Museum?” The look on his face told me he had never heard of Tom Mix before.
“You see a group of guys when you walked in? The biggest one — he’s the owner. Maybe he can help you.”
As I thanked him and turned to leave the door opened, and yet another man in head-to-toe camo walked in. “Who the f*** is driving the red Elantra?” he laughed, but as soon as he saw me — dress shirt, slacks, loafers — he let out a contemptuous “Oh….”
“Don’t worry, it’s just a rental,” I tried to explain.
“You’re driving it around here? I sure hope you bought some f***ing coverage.” Realizing that any further self-defense was futile, I slipped out the door.
Having located the owner, I sheepishly prepared to yet again explain my fascination with Tom Mix and my desire to locate his birthplace. So far my devotion to the King of the Cowboys had done nothing but confuse the locals.
As soon as I mentioned the words “Tom Mix Museum” the owner — whose name was Scott, I later learned — interrupted me. “Oh that place has been gone for years. There’s nothing there, don’t waste your time.”
I explained that I wasn’t looking for the museum, but merely the site of the museum — the site of Mix’s birthplace. I’m not sure whether he was bewildered or amused at my quest — or maybe a little of both — but he proceeded to give me meticulous directions.
“You’re going to take the road past Mix Run, past all of the cabins and trailers. And you’ll just keep driving until you come to a bridge — when you reach the bridge you’ve gone too far, though. So you have to backtrack from the bridge about 100 yards, and you’ll see a place where the railroad comes right next to the road. It won’t look like you can drive there, but you’ll want to drive over the railroad tracks, and you’ll find a little path you can drive on. Take that path down along the river, and there’ll be a red building. That’s it. That was the museum. A couple lives there now, but that red building was the Tom Mix Museum.”
“Before the bridge, make a right across the railroad tracks, and down by the river there’s a red building. Right?”
“You got it. And good luck with that car. I hope you have good insurance.”
As I walked away I could hear the group having a good laugh at my expense. I deserved it. But I had what I needed — directions to Tom Mix’s birthplace.
This is the part of the story where I’m supposed to tell you that I followed Scott’s instructions to a T and thereby completed my lifelong goal of visiting the site where my hero was born. But that is only partially true. I followed Red Run Road, past the solitary “Tom Mix Lane” sign, past the home where I encountered the ill-tempered couple. I came to a bridge — just as Scott had described — and putting the car into reverse, I found a small clearing that led across the railroad tracks. So far, everything was lining up.
Now I was driving on a dirt path that made Red Run Road look like an Interstate. The path followed the river, and — there it was. A clearing with a red building. A single story cabin with a horseshoe above the front door. It was just as Scott had described.
There were freshly-carved jack-o-lanterns on the front lawn, so I hoped someone might be home — someone who could confirm that this had indeed been the Tom Mix Museum, built on the site of his family’s home. I quickly began banging on the door; when I was greeted with silence, I tried to peek through the blinds for a glimpse of an inhabitant. No one was home.
I stood there for a minute, completely alone in the central Pennsylvanian woods, and for the first time that day took in the entirety of my surroundings. The sound of the river — the same river Mix would have seen every day as a child. The trees, no doubt tempting for an athletic child to climb. The rugged wilderness, so far removed from the plains of Oklahoma and the deserts of Arizona that would come to define Mix’s career — yet at the same time, there was a palpable sense that his adolescence in this place played an integral part in defining the man he would become.
I don’t know if Scott gave me the correct directions to the site of the Tom Mix Museum. For all I know, he could have been pulling my leg — after all, I was an outsider the entire town of Driftwood saw coming a mile away (literally, in my red Elantra). Or maybe he was simply mistaken — maybe the Mix homestead was located a hundred yards to the north or south of where I was.
I have no way of knowing whether or not I technically accomplished the mission that I set out for that morning. But — trite as this may sound — I’m not sure it matters. I visited Mix Run. I breathed the same air that Tom Mix breathed. I saw the same river and trees and mountains that he saw when he was learning what rivers and trees and mountains were.
I pictured a smiling baby boy in his mother’s arms — and I pictured the tombstone-like monument in outside of Florence, Arizona, marking the site where his life would tragically be cut short all those years later. There are many silent film actors and actresses that I admire, but there’s only one that I can call my hero.