It
was always an exciting journey. From our farm, where the terrain was
flat and the roads neatly marked the section lines, you could go
just two miles south and two east, and enter an enchanted land. Here
were steep hills, deep canyons, clear streams, and tall cottonwoods.
And if you crossed the cattle gate and followed a winding pair of
ruts, you could descend to a grove of trees near a placid little
stream appropriately and prosaically named "Sand Creek."
Here, possibly at the turn of the century, someone had homesteaded,
and built a house and a barn. The crumbling walls of each of these
buildings remained, and offered wonderful exploration opportunities
for small boys. Here, to this grove of cottonwoods, we would come
for a variety of reasons. This is where we sometimes gathered for
"Children's Day." This was a summer day when the church family put
aside all farm work and gathered for a celebration especially
planned for the children of the church. There were all kinds of
games and usually a program where the children performed. The tables
were laden with a country potluck such as only farm wives can
provide. The roast beef, sausage, and fried chicken came not from
the store, but directly from the farmyard. The bread, the pies and
cakes had been freshly baked just for this day. Often there would be
a plenteous supply of watermelons, which were floating in a tank of
cold water. And sometime there would be tubs of ice laden with
bottles of pop. For some this meal was the highlight of the day.
For the men and older boys, the highlight may have been the softball
game. There was a flat area near the trees and bases were set up to
designate a playing area. Sides were chosen, and a highly
competitive contest ensued. The younger boys would watch the fun for
a bit, but soon would look for even more excitement. Sand Creek
beckoned and pulled at them like a magnet. Soon the shoes would come
off and they would begin to follow the winding stream as it led them
south of the cottonwoods. There were minnows, frogs and turtles to
catch, rabbits to spot, and sometimes, snakes of different kinds to
admire.
The stream curved gradually to the southeast, sometimes widening
into larger pools. Eventually the creek made a rather sharp turn and
ran almost due north. This spot was the destination, for here were
the cliffs. There they stood, rising high above the creek, standing
as sentinels, keeping eternal watch over the valley below. Standing
by the creek you could look up and watch the swallows whose nests
dotted the walls, and you could see small caves and burrows and
wonder what animals inhabited them.
The more daring thing to do, however, was to find a place where you
could get a hand and foothold, and begin an ascent. Soon there would
be a line of boys following a leader, who would mark an upward path
and all the rest would eagerly scramble up the almost sheer wall of
the cliff. Within minutes they would emerge against the skyline,
breathless, but victorious. When you got to the top, you could stand
in wonderment as the panoramic view unfolded before your eyes. You
could see the winding creek, the road in the distance, and of
course, all of the people back at the gathering site. You could
stand at the very edge of the cliff and imagine what it would be
like to be an eagle and fly in graceful circles over the valley
below.
Too soon, the softball game in the distance came to an end, and
people began to gather their things, and car horns began to honk,
calling us all back. The magic of the cliffs remained, however, and
we would find other times to come back.
It
was not unusual for us to go to this area to pick sand plums. Sand
plum thickets were prevalent here, and every summer we would seek
out the best place to find the succulent fruit. A good sand plum
year provided enough fruit for bountiful stores of plum jelly, and
quart jars of canned plums for pies and saunt plumemoss. Small boys
and girls did not stay with the pickers long. They stayed just long
enough to eat their fill of sand plums. Soon they were off on their
own, exploring the creek and climbing the cliffs.
As
we got older we developed other interests, but it seemed that we
never missed an opportunity to visit the cliffs. One such visit
brought with it a great and wonderful surprise. It was springtime,
and we had one of those Kansas storms that often come during that
time of the year. As we explored the creek, we could see that the
quiet little stream had recently been a torrent. Brush and debris
marked the farthest boundaries where the turbulent waters had raged,
and we were awed to think that this had happened on a dark night
when no humans were present to witness natures power. As we rounded
the bend where the stream flows under the cliffs, we stopped in
disbelief and amazement. The area below the cliffs had been
profoundly altered. Where there had always been a narrow stream
there now was a rather large pool of clear water. Upon closer
observation and measurement, we soon found that it was quite deep
and the water was unusually clear because of the sandy bottom
The raging waters had created for us a beautiful pool, and our
thoughts immediately turned to swimming. It did not take long for us
to shed our clothes and explore this godsend. This became our
swimming pool for the remainder of the summer, and we even
constructed a sturdy diving board on its banks. This would have
continued to be our summer swimming place, except that another
frog-strangler came along sometime later, and we experienced a
reverse surprise. We found, to our dismay, that the pool was gone,
and the placid little stream ran again beneath the cliffs, and only
the cliffs had been witnesses to the change. They, in characteristic
fashion, refused to comment.
The cliffs remain for me a cherished memory of my childhood. The
time came when I had sons of my own, and often when we visited
Meade, we would go to the cliffs. Even then, exploration might yield
new insights into the history of the area. Just to the north of the
tall cliffs, as we followed the stream, we would come to some
outcropping formations, where the soil and rock had been formed into
what looked almost like a cave. Here we would often stop to have
target practice with the single shot rifle we sometimes took on
these trips.
On the
walls, in the shelter of the roof above, we found, on one occasion,
some hieroglyphics that were of great interest to us. These were not
ancient carvings, the work of some Native American artisans, done
thousands of years ago. These were carvings of rather recent origin,
proof that others, from the generation before us had also enjoyed
the cliffs. Here we could see in bold letters, carved with a sure
hand, the declaration that George loves Marie. We all knew that
George was Uncle George, who had lived just a few miles to the
north, and had loved and married Aunt Marie, who had lived just a
few miles to the west. It was not hard to calculate that it must
have been about fifty years ago that Uncle George had visited this
sheltered spot, and decided to leave a symbol of his undying love on
these walls. When, someday, I go back to the cliffs, I want to go
and see if time has been kind to the hieroglyphics on the little
cliffs. Maybe, if I look carefully, I can find something that I
myself carved there for another generation to find.
(copyright Vern Zielke)
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