Bush-whacking a route along the Oregon Trail east of Alcove Spring Historic Park

The perfect tone

It came to me as I crisscrossed the big meadow for the umpteenth time that by trying to photograph everything I was, in fact, photographing very little. I was putting a lot of miles on my feet, I was building up a debilitating thirst, I was sweating profusely in the triple-digit heat and I was wearing myself to a frazzle, but I wasn’t actually accomplishing anything. It was a poor excuse for a revelation, more nagging or fault-finding than a catalyst for improvement, and though I blew it off at the time as just a symptom of stress, exhaustion and dehydration, it returned to me in the days following the Orchestra on the Oregon Trail and has not left me since. And this time I’m paying attention.

The inaugural event, held on Sunday, Sept. 6, at Alcove Spring Historic Park north of Blue Rapids, was as lavish and lyrical as it was imagined to be. About 1,500 people crowded a large meadow encircled with low wooded ridges and a panoply of dazzling white tents, with a 90-foot bluff behind the main performance tent forming an almost perfect amphitheater. For six hours music filled the meadow, with a succession of red dirt country, bluegrass and folk making way to classical tunes performed by the Topeka Symphony Orchestra. There were nature walks and photo walks and botany walks and star-gazing and historical re-enactors and mountain men and a covered wagon with two immense oxen, and so many things to see and do, and so varied, that it was nearly impossible to find time to do them all. Indeed, some suggested, there were too many things to do, a statement not often heard in a venue meant to appeal to a broad mass of people with differing tastes.

I tried covering them all and failed, and somewhere in the middle of the afternoon wondered why my weeks-long preparation of hiking the hills and dales only made the inclines steeper, the miles longer and my legs wobblier. I finally came to the conclusion that exercise and physical activity are no substitute for rest and rejuvenation. I’d been pushing myself far too hard for far too long and my body was telling me that something had to give. 

Sometime during mid-morning, as the heat began building in earnest and dust rose in plumes from the road as wave after wave of volunteers rolled in, I stood on the performance stage photographing the musicians as they tuned their instruments. The effect was one of random chaos, discordant snatches of musical notes and keys with no attempt at harmony. The low moan of a cello gave way to a violin’s lively riff, the reedy fluting of woodwinds sounded crisp and clean before being drowned out by the rumble of a huge bass drum, and the rain-like shimmer of a harpist’s strings collapsed before a deep-throated blat of a tuba. It was a jarring cacophony, almost painful to hear at such close range.

When the conductor, Kyle Wiley Pickett, took his place at the podium, the dissonance faded to stark silence. It was as if the entire world caught its breath and held it, the musicians frozen in place with eyes on Pickett and Pickett staring back, the thin reed of a baton held aloft in his right hand holding them motionless and entranced, captive to his spell. 

“Tune,” he said. 

The stillness was shattered by a wall of sound. And if it began as a jangly, inharmonious riot, within seconds each instrument blended and melded into the others to form a tone so pure, so perfect, so utterly captivating, that it seemed the very essence of music. I wanted it to go on and on without end, that single unified note embracing the intrinsic summation of each disparate instrument, combining and integrating them into quintessential tonality of perfection. 

I almost staggered at the beauty of it, and was still reeling when Pickett flicked the wand and the opening strands of John Williams’ “The Cowboys Overture” broke the trance.

I heard little of the actual performance later in the evening, nor of the other bands that opened. I was off galavanting around seeking things that never fully materialized, and all the while listening for that tone, to catch it as it fled before me, as ephemeral as the breeze.

In many ways, I’m still listening for it. But I cannot hear what I do not listen for, and I cannot listen unless I pause, and I cannot pause without admitting that my pace is untenable. Which it is. 

It is time for a break. I am going away for a while and don’t know when I’ll be back. I’m going on a journey to find that tone, perhaps wordless, perhaps photographic, perhaps with no chance for success, but success is not the only measure of a life. I want to grow still and tranquil and listen, not with my damaged ears but with my heart. 

Becoming voiceless scares me, but somewhere in the silence are the answers I seek. I have enjoyed sharing my journey with you, but now I must move on and let others speak. Their words are their own and mine are stilled. Goodbye, goodbye. You are forever in my thoughts. 

The wilderness next door

From comments I keep hearing both online and in person, participants in the inaugural Orchestra on the Oregon Trail are expecting either a Symphony in the Flint Hills experience or a pioneer slog through the howling wilderness. Several I’ve talked to are shunning the event based on rumors of infestations of poisonous snakes that make Alcove Spring Historic Park a veritable death trap. When I tell them that I’ve hiked almost every square inch of the place for over 15 years and have seen exactly one poisonous reptile—a timber rattler—I can see in their eyes that I’m wasting my breath. Rumors trump facts any day. While neither expectation is entirely accurate, there is something to be said for being careful within the boundaries of the park.

Located six miles north of Blue Rapids, Alcove Spring is something of a mix between the two concepts. Unlike the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve where many of the Symphonies are held, only an interconnected series of meadows are open, with the remainder choked in almost impenetrable deciduous forest. Hiking trails wind through open meadows, cross sun-dappled creeks and climb wooded hillsides, and are, for the most part, perfectly safe for even inexperienced hikers.

What seems utterly foreign to me is the amount of chatter I’m hearing about the dangers of the place. Most of it comes from outsiders, residents of the larger cities where parks are groomed and neat and tidy, but a surprising amount is being generated right here by people who have never stepped foot in the park. Organizers for the event are advising people to bring bug spray, and while that’s a good start, it might be helpful to include a little note explaining that the Alcove Spring genus of mosquito seems to be attracted rather than repelled to the scent of DEET. Semi-scientific research conducted over the spring and summer suggests that it actually whets their appetite, making them not only more aggressive but more insatiable.

Then again, it’s probably best to keep that quiet.

It appears that the average person finds the outdoor experience both mystifying and faintly menacing. There are any number of ways to get hurt there, from tripping over the occasional strand of rusty barbed wire to twisting an ankle on a loose rock, but the vast majority of visitors stick to the meadows and never face anything more difficult than a slight elevation gain. The park is both perfectly safe and a perfect place for an outdoor concert.

There are a few caveats, however. Several years ago I had just descended through the woods to the culvert below the railroad grade and started across the upper meadow when what had been a rich medley of birdsong suddenly went silent, as cleanly and abruptly as if a switch had been thrown. Startled, I stopped and glanced around. The meadow abutted the overgrown railroad grade creating a steep, nearly impassable barricade to the east, and heavy woods encircled the remainder of the clearing except for a small slot to the west where a narrow two-track opened to the big meadow. Not a breath of air stirred the leaves. Not a bird called nor sang nor flew. 

There was something deeply disturbing about the stillness. I stood there listening as hard as I could, trying to rationalize what I was experiencing. Maybe an accipiter had flown into the woods in pursuit of prey, I thought. I’d seen that before in darkly shadowed recesses along Seehan Creek, indeed, had once almost collided with a sharp-shinned hawk as it chased a dark-eyed junco. It was the only plausible explanation I could summon, so I shook off my unease and turned to go.

A twig snapped in the shadows along the rocky channel of the creek.

Not an accipiter, then. Something that walks. Something that stalks. 

Two-legged or four? I looked for movement along the tree line and seeing none reached into my fanny pack and withdrew a small Colt .380. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing.

I started walking, keeping my pace steady and slow as if unconcerned. Near the west end of the meadow the road crept to within several feet of the creek, and though I could dimly peer into the shadows, the fact that I saw nothing only added to my unease. I picked up the pace and slipped into the larger meadow where a sense of relief was cut short by the snap of another twig. I was being followed. 

Whatever it was, it stayed with me for another quarter mile, and when it broke off it was with a sensation of being let go, or released. I made it back to the car in record time.

So yeah, Alcove Spring is still a wilderness of sorts. Bring your bug spray—you’ll need it. Watch for snakes and poison ivy or, on the wooded trails, vast spider webs with massive orb spiders lurking at face level. There are ticks and chiggers and mosquitoes galore, and people have been known to get lost, and maybe, just maybe, there are bigger things to worry about, but there’s no reason to be afraid. Or not too many reasons. Well, maybe some.

Good grief, I’ve already said too much. Forget about it. Enjoy the music. And remember: there’s safety in numbers.

In memory of Jack Haller

Loss upon loss

According to the latest U.S. Census figures, for the first time in 125 years the population of Blue Rapids dropped below 1,000. For residents of the second largest city in Marshall County, this was big news, distressing news, news that many felt was the harbinger of things to come. Vocal doomsayers knowingly wagged their heads as though they alone had been privy to this latest demographic downturn, and sneering “It’s all downhill from here” ignored the fact that with the notable exception of 1980 it had been downhill since 1890 when the population had surpassed 1,000 as our fledgling settlement took hold on the banks of the Big Blue River.

There had been something reassuring about the one grand mark, as if possessing quadruple digits ennobled the city somehow or magically guaranteed its survival when so much of rural America continued its long, slow slide into forgetfulness. And suddenly that was no longer the case. Talk on the street was that we needed to pad the census with unborn babies or pets with human names, and more than a few voiced their opinion that cats and dogs and chickens should be snuck in, yet, as was pointedly made clear, chickens are banned within city limits by decree, an act over which reasonable folk still seethe and consider idiotic if not heretical. The population decline even played a role in the last mayoral election when one candidate vowed to elevate the population back to its former status. While it was a worthy goal, indeed, one shared by many fellow denizens, he failed to clarify whether its implementation would be accomplished through personal application or from, shall we say, a collaborative effort. He lost.

I don’t see his rejection at the polls as an act of fatalism on the part of voters, nor do I sense even a shred of apathy. If anything, I’d describe it as an act of weary acceptance, grudging, to be sure, and not a little worrisome, but short of launching a procreative campaign to boost our numbers or importing migrant workers—not that we have enough housing, a shortcoming familiar to most small towns—there really isn’t much we can do about it other than adapt. And we’re good at that. It’s got us this far and it will get us through the next 125 years, if we try hard enough.

But numbers only tell part of the story. When taken as a whole they tend to blur distinctions, to marginalize the individual integers that comprise the sum. Our minds can easily envision one or two or a handful of people, but a thousand? Never. They become a faceless, nameless mass. And that summation doesn’t describe Jack, who died last week, or Donita, who also died last week, and though Jack was a longtime resident of our city and Donita was a resident of Marysville, she was nevertheless part of our community, by which we mean our rural sphere of influence. 

Jack was, well, Jack. A tireless jokester and self-promoter, his deeds lived up to the hype. During WWII he crossed the North Atlantic 38 times under the Air Transport Command, and following the war he settled down with his new wife, Maxine, to farm and operate a television and appliance business. His list of sub-careers included securities and real estate broker, heavy equipment operator, technical engineer at a local radio station and home contractor. He was involved with virtually every organization from the Lions to the Masons, served in city government, and was responsible, either in part or whole, for the Blue Rapids community center and the creation of Alcove Spring historic park. But mostly he loved baseball.

He was also one of the first people to welcome us when we moved here from Denver. For him it was an opportunity to regale us with stories about Jack, something he excelled at it. To hear him tell it, Blue Rapids wouldn’t exist without his many deeds. He’d cap the end of most of his tales with an incontrovertible “And that’s the truth,” punctuated by the jabbing of a long bony finger and a mischievous grin, and in most ways it was. He only knew two types of jokes—corny or scandalous—but his repertoire was endless.

Much like Jack, Donita always wore a smile, even during her worst bouts of chemo treatments. She was bright and brilliant and witty and always made the best of any situation no matter how deplorable it might be. When her hair fell out she donned colorful scarves or crazy hats, as if making fun of the cancer that would eventually kill her. Life wasn’t a game to her, but she saw no reason to take it so seriously. I imagine she was still smiling when she closed her eyes for the final time, and while ours dimmed and faltered, it was only a temporary setback. To remember Donita was to smile.

And so we do. Call it adaptation, call it weary resignation, call it survival mechanism, call it what you will, but it’s important and it needs to be done. Life is short. We have less time than we think. Our communities are small and growing smaller. Hold on. Smile. We are never, ever alone.

Finding balance

I’m on the phone with a well-known agricultural economist discussing his definition of macro economics when the conversation goes south. Or not south, actually, just sideways and backwards and forwards across 50 years and a dozen geopolitical entities and the Euro crisis and Russian’s involvement with Ukraine and the yen versus the dollar and the Great Depression and market shares and economic trends and drastic, sweeping demographic transformations that will turn the beef industry inside out, and while I can almost keep up with the guy he occasionally pauses his breathless diatribe to ask if I’m still with him, if I understand what he’s telling me, and apologizing, too, for such a roundabout answer but then the answer is both complex and arcane and involves not just Kansas ranchers but the immensity of global markets and financial systems and food biases and a verifiable host of other factors that influence the answer, and please bear with him as he brings the conversation to an enlightening denouement.

“Okay,” I say, and he’s off again, certain of his facts and the bewildering connections linking them like a vast and incomprehensible spider web, and uncertain about my grasp of worldwide events both past and current—for which I cannot blame him, the average person being fairly incognizant of the great forces at play—when he pauses to ask if Im conscious of the recent financial debacle in Ireland.

“You bet,” I lied, and on we go.

Surprisingly, after 15 minutes of of meandering, the economist wraps it all together into a tidy package that makes perfect sense. I’m impressed. I’m also not entirely certain that I care.

This has nothing to do with him. The man’s limitless overview of world markets was nothing short of genius, and his ultimate explanation was such that anyone could understand. That’s an impressive accomplishment. 

My problem is that my interest in news and world events has faded. What was once a gradual shift toward inspirational or educational resources over news updates has now become a rout. It’s not that I believe news has lost its value, only that news has lost its pertinence in my life. Whether or not I delve into the European crisis to determine how it affects me in a tiny prairie town in northeastern Kansas is immaterial to what will or will not transpire in the coming days, months or years. Ditto for the majority of other headline-inducing reports. As a businessman I stay informed about tax changes and new regulations and policies that have direct bearing on my business, but other than that I pretty much steer clear of anything involving news updates. 

Needless to say, as a reporter I felt deeply divided over the change. I couldn't readily admit it to my friends and relatives, but kept it secret, hidden, as if it were a loss of faith, which in many ways it was. I had believed in the news, had valued the unbiased collection and dissemination of factual news stories, and had, as others had, become increasingly disturbed at the mainstream media’s erosion of ethics and the celebritization of content. Reading about the newest nonsensical measure proposed by Kansas legislature or the hearing the latest libelous political ads didn’t enlightenment me so much as make my blood boil.

It finally dawned on me that an informed citizen was a continually agitated citizen. And I didn’t want agitation—I wanted inspiration. I wanted creativity and art and music and culture and the beauty of the natural world. Having entered my sixth decade, it was time to distance myself from anything that did not make me a better photographer, a better husband, a better neighbor, a better man. The world can and will go on without me.

For the most part, the few friends I mentioned this to felt that I was neglecting my duty as a free-thinking individual who would eventually be called upon to vote for crucial political positions and legislation. And I can see their point. Though I assured them that I would do the research and vote accordingly when the time came, I’m not sure they believed me. 

One day not long ago a friend dropped by, and we sat on the porch sipping beer while sweat trickled down our faces and mosquitoes buzzed in our ears. He was the husband of a newspaper-owner and one of the most educated people I’ve ever met—in other words, not the most ideal person to admit my declining interest in news gathering—and yet out of the blue he said that a friend of his had decided that the news media had reached an unsustainable level of toxicity, and henceforth he would eschew anything and everything that did not built him up. “Sometimes,” his friend said, “you just have to live your life.”

For a moment I sat there in stunned silence, oddly encouraged by the validity of the statement. Sometimes enlightenment needs no backstory, no roundabout elucidation. In a complex, convoluted world, sometimes truth is the least complicated thing of all.

“Your friend is a wise man,” I said.

His smile was infectious. “Which is why I no longer care, either,” he said.

“Do tell,” I said, and he did. 

The second annual Washington County plowing bee, held at Lanham, Kansas

Greenleaf's Citizens National Bank celebrates 100 years with a community bash