Tag Archives: blacktop

Blue Side of Nowhere Pt. 2

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On a recent trip to Pawnee National Grasslands looking for early migrating raptors and antelope herds moving north through the short-cropped grass, we were on the lookout for anything moving. The land was empty to the horizon with nothing stirring but tufts of last years golden grass waving in the fitful wind.

Pawnee National grasslands is located 40 miles west of nowhere and 61 miles east of too far. This makes it hard to find unless you really want to get there. We did so we persevered. Not really lost but unsure of where we were we would drive into little towns like Grover, population less than you’d expect and ask “Where are we?”. One reticent local we spoke to answered with gestures more than words, saying we were here pointing downwards, and we should go that way indicated with outstretched arm, and then with a flick of his thumb indicated we should then go that way, which may have been to the right. It was clear as mud but helped us on our way.

There are two large monolithic limestone buttes that rise several hundred feet into the air, sort of like a miniature Ayers Rock, or Uluru as the natives musically call it but doubled, that tell you have reached the virtual center of the Pawnee National grasslands. The full view of these is best obtained by climbing up a steep rutted dirt road that you thought when you turned onto it from another steep rutted dirt road, might take you to the Buttes as they’re called. And the joy and relief you feel that you were right adds to the enjoyment of seeing them, standing there in all their glory, just where the rumors had it they’d be.

Since we were high up on a neighboring ridge with the buttes and half the world at our feet we felt like it was a good place to stop and consider. Much time was spent watching the buttes, waiting to see it they’d move, they didn’t, but the wind through the grass did. The occasional bird flying overhead did, the sun did, but not us. We stayed as still as the buttes and had lunch. Beauty doesn’t negate hungry. All your senses must be fed.

It wasn’t long before the sun had made its relentless journey to the West and threatened to dive behind the blue wall of mountains ending another day. The sky turned an even deeper shade of blue and the realization that we were on a ridge in the middle of nowhere and had many miles to go before we saw civilization again made the decision to leave for us. We began the bumpy jolting journey down towards blacktop and waiting modern life.

The lights jumped crazily over the two ruts that were the road and darkness raced towards us at the speed of light. The hundreds and thousands of miles it felt like we had traveled, although the speedometer said much less, seemed even longer in the encroaching darkness and it was a small relief to suddenly top out and find smooth blacktop under our wheels again. We were on a low ridge forming one side of a wide flat valley that the magic began to happen.

Fog, or mist, no it was fog, much much thicker than mist, substantial and definite as it began to form what looked like, from a distance, impenetrable clouds of pale blue light rising out of the valley floor. At first it was just wispy and directionless. Then as if deciding it was its time to become alive it rapidly formed into opaque fingers that quickly stretched across the valley seemingly barring all access to the outside world. Strangely beautiful it wasn’t long before the entire valley was engulfed in it’s eerie luminescence. It seemed slightly intimidating in its ghostly beauty but if we wanted to get home and at that moment home seemed like a welcome place to be, we entered the valley and trusted to the fates that our journey would be a safe one. Entering the blue side of nowhere had its risks but what doesn’t these days.

The odyssey to Pawnee Buttes National grasslands was a unique experience. Meeting strangers who became helpful, finding lost roads and quirky little side trips, locating the buttes and watching them turn from pure white sandstone to the golden colors of end of day on its smooth-sided walls made every moment one that will be permanently etched into our memory. But what made this a truly meaningful and unforgettable experience was the pale blue fog of the high plains grasslands. What we now call the Blue Side of Nowhere.

Long Way To The Bus

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2015-12-02LongWay8320click to enlarge

It’s a long ways down to the blacktop where the Contos kids catch the bus. Maybe four miles or so. They live back a ways on a make-do ranch that Rog and Emmy started just after they were married. It ‘s always been touch and go, some years ok, and ok means just getting by, and other years it’s been hell in a hand basket. This year has been hell in a hand basket.

The ranch has always seemed like an accident waiting to happen. In fact Rog would say, If he had a duck it would drown, that ‘s how bad the luck was. Two years ago the spring that fed the pond dried up and they dug a well but it’s been fitful to be charitable. Rog had to sell off a good third of the herd to pay the well digger and now it looks like he may have to sell some more to buy an old truck to haul water if that well stays slow.

Emmy goes into town to work a little, she’s helped out at the Grayson’s store but they don’t pay much, but Edith gives her a few yards of cloth every so often so she can make Mizzy a new dress or Fip a shirt, but cash hasn’t been plentiful. Used to be Rog would give the kids a ride down to the bus in the morning but now with gas like it is they have to save what they can for the tractor. If they don’t get the hay in they may have to buy feed this winter and that would just about tear it. So the tractor is now first priority. They’ve talked with Chas Cummings down at the bank to see if they could get a little more money but he said no and given the circumstances he didn’t see how he could extend that note anyway. He didn’t even bother to say sorry but he did say good luck. Emmy had to drag Rog out before Chas could call the sheriff.  Rog said he’d been wanting to hit that bastard ever since high school and man it felt good. They didn’t have a lot to say to each other on the way back to the ranch.

Mizzy and Fip were aware of the problem a little, it would have been hard not to be with Mom crying some and Dad yelling and cinching up Rebo too tight when he saddled him. Dad even threw the empty oil can he had from topping off the oil in the John Deere at Buck and he loved that dog. Fip told Mizzy they needed to stay out of sight for a while because he remembered that whipping he got last fall and didn’t want another one. Even if he had been good since then. When dad got mad it was best to lay low.

Mizzy was thirteen, gangly, tall for her age, whip thin. She had big green eyes and no hips. Not even the first sign of them. She was wearing one of her cousin’s hand me down jeans and she had to wear a pair of suspenders to keep them up because there was nothing there for a belt to hitch to. She was going to be pretty in an open, wide-face kind of way before too long. If her hair stayed red like it was she was going to be her dad’s biggest problem. Already a boy or two had hung around her a little too long. Ms. Dabbin her teacher had moved Mizzy up to the front row so she could keep an eye on things.

Fip was eleven. He was short and stocky like Emmy but he was quick, both in speed and thinking about things. Not much got past him and he thought pretty deep about what he saw and heard for a kid. He didn’t say much to others but he talked a blue streak to Mizzy until some times she just had to say Fip hush I can’t even think with you going on. Give me some peace. Fip would be quiet for a while but he had so much going on in his head he just couldn’t keep it bottled in. Then the dam would burst and out it would all come until Mizzy nearly frantic would lock her self in the outhouse to have a moment to herself. That was one place that was sacred for privacy and it was her last refuge.

On the way to the bus this morning Mizzy and Fip were walking along. Mizzy kind of quiet, keeping her head down, not picking up her feet like she should and Fip was like Buck was when he was a puppy. Running off 75′ or so then waiting for a minute and when you didn’t catch up fast enough racing back to you to tell you hurry up then taking off again. He must have walked that distance to the bus four times to Mizzy’s once.

Once he looked back and saw Mizzy sitting in the road all hunched over kinda shaking. At first he thought it was funny but as he ran back he saw she was crying and that really scared him so he ran back even faster. The sack she had been carrying had some how split and their lunch was laying all over the place. They were as close as brother and sister can be but they’d never been much for touching or hugging. Fip reached out to touch Mizzy’s shoulder and said What’s wrong? Did you twist your ankle? Something bite you? Mizzy just sobbed and kept looking at the ground. Should I run back and get Mom? he asked. Finally she said No, I’m just feeling out of sorts. Help me pick up our lunch. Fip immediately began gathering stuff up saying, See it’s alright it’s hardly dirty at all. We can brush it all off. Why you crying so much over dropped lunch? I don’t know she said. I’ve just been feeling funny for a while. Like I’m all itchy inside and can’t scratch it. I get sad for no reason, then I get mad. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t want to ask mom about it. I don’t want her crying no more, especially over me.

Well if you ain’t hurt, you better get up or we’re gonna miss the bus. If dad has to take us to school you’ll have plenty to cry about and me too probably. Here, I’ll carry that for you. Let’s go. I’ll race you down to where that rock is. No you run on, she said, I’ll be along in a minute. It’s a long way down to the bus.