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| Photo by Gwenna Reich |
Today's column is by Ann Vigola Anderson:
There are hidden places in Kansas, known only to kids of my generation, the locals of Gove County, and the intrepid traveler of today. Few pull off I-70, too eager to get to Denver or somewhere with big drinks and snacks. They will miss Kansas’
first National Natural Monument, the Monument Rock formation, reaching up some 50 feet into the Kansas sky.
A place that is as serene and timeless.
It is off the beaten path, there really is no path, and the road is impassable in bad weather. Yet, it is a place of western yore and longing, with the sound of a million bison hoofs thundering on its land, the scent of an ancient ocean caught in its fragile layers and fossils, and the ghost sounds of all those who traveled through the area on the Butterfield Overland Dispatch trail.
Like a lighthouse on the western Kansas horizon, these rocks served to guide those travelers on their arduous journey.
But my cousins and I knew nothing of all of this history. As kids, it was our untouched playground, with towering rocks, endless places to drive our old John Deere toy tractor and truck in the
sandy gravel soil; and to cool against the pale yellow, chalk casting its shade on a hot afternoon.
It was a place we dreamed of the frontier days, Fort Monument, and we were on the lookout for the mighty bison. The bison provided everything for the indigenous tribes, who hunted the plains, and for the early settlers and ranchers, who came to
tame the wild west land.
My Mama gave us an old pelt of some animal and that became our bison robe. We scouted for the bison coming and pretended we were hunting on top of mighty painted ponies.
We climbed the smaller rocks and became lookouts for the mail carriers, traveling through the fort on their way to the far west continent.
We circled our wagons and pretended we were cooking up grub from the chuck wagon, biscuits, pork and coffee.
We spent our day lassoing the wild ponies that ran through Gove County and pretended to hunt the antelope that were here long ago.
My granddaddy told of the blizzards back then when there were whiteouts for days on end. A person could get lost and perish just walking ten feet. The only sanctuary might be to hide in
the Monument Rocks, if you were that unlucky traveler.
He told stories of stranded travelers eating their reins and saddles when they had no food in the storm.
Granddaddy told of seeing a mighty bison, bigger than their wagon, standing in the blizzard one time. He said the bison was covered in frost and ice but, blew a mighty cloud of warm mist into the frozen air. He pawed at the snow covering and bent to eat the small grasses he found. His fur was the color of chestnut and walnuts, with a thatch of thick, heavy fur on his head, like a magnificent hat. The two large horns curved upward into the thin air and his eyes seemed to know the history of the place.
Granddaddy said he stood near the mighty bison and did not move. The bison shook his head and the scent of the prairie and the western sky floated into the air. He seemed to be made of the very spirit of the West. The mighty bison turned and slowly moved back behind Monument Rock, and then, like a ghost, he was gone.
Granddaddy stayed for a good while, taking in the presence of the majesty of the bison and the amazement of seeing him so closely.
Every time, we kids went to play at the rock, we looked for the grandson of the mighty bison but, there were none to be seen.
We found the arrowheads and fossils and left them in their sacred place. They did not belong to us but, to a different time.
On days when the Kansas sunset catches on the Rocky Mountains and tears open with orange and red, I sit against the rocks and think of their mass buried deep beneath the ground. They are like the tall grasses of the prairie, holding tight to their earth and protecting the secrets of millions of years. And I watch for the mighty bison to walk by me.
first National Natural Monument, the Monument Rock formation, reaching up some 50 feet into the Kansas sky.
A place that is as serene and timeless.
It is off the beaten path, there really is no path, and the road is impassable in bad weather. Yet, it is a place of western yore and longing, with the sound of a million bison hoofs thundering on its land, the scent of an ancient ocean caught in its fragile layers and fossils, and the ghost sounds of all those who traveled through the area on the Butterfield Overland Dispatch trail.
Like a lighthouse on the western Kansas horizon, these rocks served to guide those travelers on their arduous journey.
But my cousins and I knew nothing of all of this history. As kids, it was our untouched playground, with towering rocks, endless places to drive our old John Deere toy tractor and truck in the
sandy gravel soil; and to cool against the pale yellow, chalk casting its shade on a hot afternoon.
It was a place we dreamed of the frontier days, Fort Monument, and we were on the lookout for the mighty bison. The bison provided everything for the indigenous tribes, who hunted the plains, and for the early settlers and ranchers, who came to
tame the wild west land.
My Mama gave us an old pelt of some animal and that became our bison robe. We scouted for the bison coming and pretended we were hunting on top of mighty painted ponies.
We climbed the smaller rocks and became lookouts for the mail carriers, traveling through the fort on their way to the far west continent.
We circled our wagons and pretended we were cooking up grub from the chuck wagon, biscuits, pork and coffee.
We spent our day lassoing the wild ponies that ran through Gove County and pretended to hunt the antelope that were here long ago.
My granddaddy told of the blizzards back then when there were whiteouts for days on end. A person could get lost and perish just walking ten feet. The only sanctuary might be to hide in
the Monument Rocks, if you were that unlucky traveler.
He told stories of stranded travelers eating their reins and saddles when they had no food in the storm.
Granddaddy told of seeing a mighty bison, bigger than their wagon, standing in the blizzard one time. He said the bison was covered in frost and ice but, blew a mighty cloud of warm mist into the frozen air. He pawed at the snow covering and bent to eat the small grasses he found. His fur was the color of chestnut and walnuts, with a thatch of thick, heavy fur on his head, like a magnificent hat. The two large horns curved upward into the thin air and his eyes seemed to know the history of the place.
Granddaddy said he stood near the mighty bison and did not move. The bison shook his head and the scent of the prairie and the western sky floated into the air. He seemed to be made of the very spirit of the West. The mighty bison turned and slowly moved back behind Monument Rock, and then, like a ghost, he was gone.
Granddaddy stayed for a good while, taking in the presence of the majesty of the bison and the amazement of seeing him so closely.
Every time, we kids went to play at the rock, we looked for the grandson of the mighty bison but, there were none to be seen.
We found the arrowheads and fossils and left them in their sacred place. They did not belong to us but, to a different time.
On days when the Kansas sunset catches on the Rocky Mountains and tears open with orange and red, I sit against the rocks and think of their mass buried deep beneath the ground. They are like the tall grasses of the prairie, holding tight to their earth and protecting the secrets of millions of years. And I watch for the mighty bison to walk by me.
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