On or around July 1, 1947, something reportedly crashed in the Corona, New Mexico desert. After word of the wreckage circulated, Major Jesse A. Marcel, an air force intelligence officer for the 509th Bomb Group, stationed at Roswell Army Air Field, and two Counter Intelligence Corps agents surveyed the area. Marcel later claimed to have found an “aluminum foil-thin metal” that was “indestructible in the debris field,” comprising the outer body of the object. Marcel insisted that slivers of metal at the site had “a strange purple writing” on them.

When Jesse Marcel Jr., was eleven, he said that his life took a “strange” and “wondrous” turn late one summer night in the kitchen of his family’s modest home in Roswell, New Mexico. It was there, he said, his father showed the young boy and his mother “the debris from a mysterious crash” that had occurred a few weeks earlier on a ranch approximately seventy-five miles northwest of Roswell.

For the rest of his life, Marcel claimed that his father woke him up in the middle of the night to look at it, telling him it was something he would never see again.

“Though my father was the senior intelligence officer on a base that was home to the country’s most closely guarded secrets,” wrote Marcel Jr., in his book The Roswell Legacy, “he was, to his family, a pretty laid-back guy…But on that night, I saw another side of him. It was a mixture of excitement and confusion, suffused with a sense of wonder that one just doesn’t see in many grown men.”

Marcel Jr professed that his father had spread across the floor materials and objects “clearly like nothing that had been seen on Earth before.”

After an initial report that a flying saucer had been recovered on a ranch near Roswell, the military issued a statement saying the debris was from a weather balloon.

On July 8, 1947 a public information officer at Roswell Army Air Field declared that they had recovered the remains of a “flying disc.” By the end of the day, Air Force base commanders released a second press release asserting the material in the debris field came from a downed weather balloon. General Ramey Roger told the press it was “just a radar deflector from a weather balloon.”

The item that Marcel Jr., said fascinated him the most was a small beam with purple-hued hieroglyphics on it. Marcel maintained that he and his father were told to keep quiet about what he had seen that night.

In April 1979, Marcel Jr., said that he decided to break his silence, writing to a magazine with additional information about what he had witnessed at age 11.

“Imprinted along the edge of some of the beam remnants, there were hieroglyphic-type characters. I recently questioned my father about this, and he recalled seeing these characters also, and even described them as being a pink or purplish-pink color. Egyptian hieroglyphics would be a close visual description of the characters, except that I don’t think there were any animal figures present, as there are in true Egyptian hieroglyphics.”

Interest in the case was recharged, however, when the physicist and UFO researcher Stanton Friedman spoke to Marcel Jr., in the late 1970s.

Friedman wrote the forward to Marcel Junior’s 2007 book The Roswell Legacy and described him as a courageous man who “set a standard for honesty and decency and telling the truth.”

“His legacy is that he had the courage to speak out when he didn't have to about handling wreckage that his dad brought home,” Friedman said at the time of Marcel Junior’s death in 2013. “He worked with artists to come up with what the symbols on the wreckage looked like. He didn't have to do that. He could have kept his mouth shut. A lot of people did.”

Much of the pro-UFO and pro-conspiracy Roswell viewpoint hinges on the value of the Marcel senior’s revelations and the belief rested upon his personal stature and reliability. (He died in 1986 at age 79.) Friedman asserts in his book “Crash at Corona” that Marcel “was exactly who he claimed to be” and as such “was an important cog in a machine whose bare outline was just starting to take form. Others claim that Marcel made “self-contradictory and inflated assertions,” about not only the description of the debris but his own background

“Marcel said that he had a college degree, was a World War II pilot who had received five air medals for shooting down enemy planes, and had himself been shot down—that were proved untrue by his own service file,” wrote author Kal Korff. Korff stated that Marcel was guilty of “exaggerating things and repeatedly trying to ‘write himself’ into the history books.”

Jesse Marcel Jr, earned his own dose of notoriety as the son of the man who said he handled debris from the 1947 crash of an unidentified flying object near Roswell, New Mexico. For 35 plus years Marcel appeared on TV shows, documentaries and radio shows, was interviewed for magazine articles and books and traveled the world lecturing about his experiences in Roswell. He joined the military and later settled in Helena, Montana, where he worked as an ear, nose, and threat specialist. Following the U.S. invasion of Iraq in March 2003, Marcel requested to be reactivated for active duty to serve as a flight surgeon with the 189th Attack Helicopter Battalion, based at Fort Harrison. He died at the age of 76, found dead at his home, less than two months after making his last trip to Roswell. He had been reading a book about UFOs.

Richard O’Connor, Executive Director of the Jesse A. Marcel Library (JAML), worked as an anesthesiologist alongside Marcel Jr., He dedicated the library to father and son and started Crop Circles Research Foundation, Inc., which is “dedicated to increasing our understanding of the UFO and Crop Circle phenomena.”

"He was credible,” said O’Connor. “I knew him personally. He wasn't lying about what his father brought home. He never embellished, only told what he saw.

“A father and his son courageously came forward to tell the world an important truth. That truth was that the debris they had personally inspected, taken from the site of a crashed extraterrestrial UFO discovered outside of Roswell, was not of this world.”

The JAML is nothing like a visit to your standard library, the expression of ideas and free thought are encouraged. Personal UFO experiences may be shared in a non-judgmental environment.

Located at 11 Ponderosa Road, in South Helena, the JAML is open Tuesday evenings from 7 to 10 p.m. Admission is free.

Brian D'Ambrosio is a writer/editor living in Missoula, Montana. D'Ambrosio is the author of more than 300 articles and five books related to Montana history, people, and travel.

Kristen Berube lives a crazy, laugh-filled life with her outdoorsman husband Remi and their three camo-clad children in Missoula, Montana. A graduate of Montana State University and the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology, she loves being a mom and enjoys hiking, fishing, and camping. “Confessions of a Camo Queen: Living with an Outdoorsman” is her first book.

Finally, the best time of the year! The time of year that hunters have been anxiously awaiting has arrived… it is now hunting season! The wait is over and all of those hours spent drooling over animals (also known as “scouting”), all of the practice belly-crawling across the field while simultaneously whispering and animal calling, all of the hours intensely inspecting hunting magazines and camo patterns, all of the shopping carts full of “gear”, and all of the archery and rifle practice is about to pay out BIG. This payment comes camouflaged in the form of adrenaline, chest bumps, antlers, horns, furs, and, of course, juicy steaks. So, why the long face, I ask?

Of course the first weekend of hunting season is filled with hopes and dreams of harvesting that big score. The hopes of finding a giant rack….no, not that kind… Let me reword- the hopes of obtaining a giant set of antlers, hundreds of pounds of steak, and enough bragging rights to last until you make other hunters cry from envy or you die is now upon us. Either way, the outdoorsman is happy. The first weekend is like a fever. The outdoorsman is like a rabid hyena pacing the floors, waiting for the gong to sound midnight so he can jump into his truck, rev the engine, squeal the tires, slam some coffee, and set out on the best hunting season EVER!! You know, every season is the best hunting season EVER! If, God forbid, the outdoorsman is unsuccessful the first weekend, I generally hear things like, “They just aren’t talking yet” or “WOLVES!” This being said, there is still a fevered-frenzy apparent in the outdoorsman’s eyes. An unsuccessful first weekend definitely means SICK DAYS for the following week. Damn work is always in the way! It is okay, though, because next week will be the week of glorious success!

Week 2…No Success

Week 3…No Success

Now we’re into the fourth week of bow season. The outdoorsman has literally bugled his lips off, hiked more miles than Lewis and Clark, sweated enough salt to season 5,000 chicken wings, and lost ten pounds. His eyes now look troubled. The outdoorsman rarely smiles and fakes a smile when he sees fellow hunter’s successful hunt photos. Of course, he is happy that his buddies have been successful, but, damn, he wants to be flashin’ pics around like a gangsta’, too! He is losing sleep, staring at the ceiling, and strategizing his new plan of attack.

It’s now Week 5 and I am getting concerned. I came home today and strangely the outdoorsman’s truck was in the driveway. Why isn’t he at work? Upon further inspection, I see that he is actually in his truck, staring out in the woods. I sneak up to his truck and open the door to surprise him, but I am the surprised one. There he is, dressed in his favorite KUIU camo, listening to, “Livin’ On A Prayer”. Wow… Just wow. I am concerned. Maybe we should look into some sort of antidepressant. The outdoorsman looks at me, then with downcast eyes, shuffles into the garage mumbling something about needing more time. Seriously!? This is just pathetic. Does it not matter that every single stinking year for the last twenty years that he has been successful? No. He just knows that this is will be the year that his “sneaky” charms are not going to work. Sigh. I feel bad for the sap, so I say that it is alright if he wants to take some work days off. I feel as though I have been tricked and manipulated, but I am rewarded with a coy smile. He must be thinking that his plan worked…

Week 6… By now the outdoorsman has eaten so many Mountain House meals it’s possible that if he drinks hot water he’ll turn into fully-hydrated lasagna. He has slept with more rocks in his back than you can shake a stick at and missed 10 days of work. We are broke from all of the unpaid SICK days and the over-limit credit card loaded with gas charges. The kids are afraid of this strange man muttering about needing MORE time, wolves, and black shadows under is now gaunt face. I tell him to go away and not come back until he gets something before we all need therapy. The outdoorsman is brought to life once again. His feverish fury is now ignited again as he loads his hunting pack full of granola bars and hauls butt out the door.

Week 7…My cell phone beeps with an incoming message. I look and see a picture of the outdoorsman grinning ear to ear with his trophy. Thank you sweet baby Jesus!! Thank you hunting gods!!! Thank you!!! Upon the outdoorsman’s arrival, we have to take more pictures to provide bragging paraphernalia and then the outdoorsman goes to bed and sleeps for three days. He wakes up, finally shaves, and is the man I married once again. Now he must go out with everyone else to help them get their trophies…Of course!

The moral of the story is not to worry. The outdoorsman will eventually get something and every year he will doubt himself. I must remember to TRY and be patient and tell him to quit doubting himself. After all, he is a mighty hunter, right? The only cure for the hunting-season-blues is to get dressed in the new camo of pattern of the year and go harvest something for God’s sakes!!!

Good luck to hunters and hunter’s wives!

Kristen Berube lives a crazy, laugh-filled life with her outdoorsman husband Remi and their three camo-clad children in Missoula, Montana. A graduate of Montana State University and the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology, she loves being a mom and enjoys hiking, fishing, and camping. “Confessions of a Camo Queen: Living with an Outdoorsman” is her first book.

How many times have you made date plans with your outdoorsman for a specific time and ended up waiting eons past the appointed hour? The outdoorsman’s inner clock seizes up when it comes into contact with fresh air. I know you’ve seen the quip about “time spent fishing is not deducted from a man’s allotted lifespan.” But they forget to mention that those same hours are stolen from the long-suffering woman back in town. The outdoorsman is out gallivanting around, giddy as a skunk in a dumpster, while you wait at home, pacing, wondering where the heck that yahoo is at. You flip between worried and infuriated. Should I go look for him? Did he get a flat tire? Stink wagon blow up? Sprained ankle? Of course, there is never cell phone service. You swear under your breath if he’s not hurt you are going to kill him. Okay, even if he is hurt, you’re going to kill him! I swear, when the outdoorsman’s clock freezes it makes me feel like a high school girl inventing excuses for why the jerk didn’t call. Except now I really just want to kick his camouflage-clad ass.

But part of you always worries—the what-ifs are too scary. What if he broke his leg and right now is crawling fourteen miles back to the truck? What if an ornery bear chased him up a tree and then sat down to wait him out? Most worrisome of all, what if he handed his beer to a friend and said, “Watch this!”?

The sad thing is, after several such episodes, you come to expect him to be a no-show, and you don’t worry so much. I know a gal whose boyfriend, Kyle, would go on week-long hunting trips that sometimes turned into two or three weeks in the backcountry. The first time, she worried herself sick. But right before last year’s hunting season she joined a women’s dart league at one of the local pubs and really got into it. She found her competitive streak, and realized that her years of tossing popcorn to Pookie, her Yorkshire terrier, prepared her well for hitting the bull’s eye. She was deep into the dart league when Kyle headed out on his annual hunt. It was the following April before she wondered if Kyle had gotten his elk, and she realized she hadn’t seen him in months, so she looked him up on Facebook to see if he was still alive.

We all know what would happen if the tables were turned, right? You’ve gone shopping with a promise to be home in two hours. But the sales are better than you expected, and then you run into friends, and you’re all hungry so . . . four hours later, you’re tossing back cosmos at the club with your gals. The outdoorsman? Poor guy, he’s home all alone, waiting, worrying, drinking beer, eating take-out, ogling the hunting channel, cleaning his rifles—and happy as a dog in stink.

All of which just goes to prove that time, as Einstein realized, is relative. For every minute a guy spends fishing or hunting, there are hours of worry and frustration added to some woman’s life.

So what’s the trick to living with an outdoorsman? How do you avoid all the waiting and worrying and still arrive at events on time? Here’s the secret—the patented Camo Queen algorithm. Ask him how long he plans to be gone. Multiply that by 2.5. Add that total to the time he actually leaves the house. Then, when the appointed hour arrives, set a timer for forty-five minutes. Don’t even think of worrying until that timer buzzes. And certainly don’t schedule dinner or anything else for at least another hour after that. In real life, it looks like this:

He plans to leave at 8 a.m. to fish for 4 hours, returning home by noon. So 4 X 2.5 = 10 hours, starting at 8:50 a.m. (he was in such a rush to get out the door early, he had to come back for his fishing vest), which means you start the timer at 6:50 p.m. It rings at 7:35 p.m. Good. He’ll be walking in the door around 8:30 p.m. hungry as a bear.

The beauty of the Camo Queen system is self-evident: you have all day for yoga, shopping, getting your nails done . . . whatever your heart desires.

Some special activities require an additional factor. If you want your outdoorsman home at a certain time from any of the following, adjust your equation accordingly:

Duck hunting: Add another hour and a death threat.

Deer hunting: Add 2 hours and a death threat.

Elk hunting: Add 3 hours and a death threat.

Horn hunting: Add 2 days, a death threat, and no nookie for a month.

Now, if there’s a movie you want to go see, or you have dinner reservations at a specific time, or if you want to get to the hospital not too long after your due date, then you should use another patented Camo Queen tactic—lie. If the movie is at 8 p.m., tell him it’s a matinee that starts at 3 p.m. Dinner reservations? Tell him it’s brunch and your table is set for 11 a.m. And that date for greeting your first-born? Subtract a month from the real due date and tell him you’re a quick incubator. And threaten to donate the outdoorsman’s truck to the local PETA chapter if you’re not at the hospital three minutes after your water breaks.