(Warning.  This post has the potential to go nowhere.)

If I step out my back door, and walk to the edge of the tree row that surrounds this place, I can take in a view that always amazes me.

On a clear day, I can see 11 miles to the west, an easy 12-13 to the southwest, 8 to the south, 3-4 to the east, and 3 to the north.

And if there is a mirage on, the visual potpourri from our place is stunning.  Because then, I’ve seen as far as 45 miles in the south/southwest directions, and 20-25 miles in the east/northeast directions. 

I remember one night.  I was driving home and was still 8 to 10 miles southwest of our place.  The mirage easily showed me Liberal’s lights, Holcomb power plant lights, and, closer in, Garden city lights, Cimarron lights, and Dodge city lights.

From my position that night, all lights would have been roughly an equal radius of 45 miles. 

I often ponder what other eyes have looked upon these scenes in bygone days.  Maybe, then, the gal on the plane wasn’t so far off, even though she startled me when she said, after only 2 minutes acquaintance, “You strike me as sort of the history buff kind.”

I had never really thought of myself that way.  In my mind, a history buff pores over his books and data endlessly, researching, ever and anon.  I tend to make foray’s into the past that tell me mostly what I wish to know, and then I leave for the time being.

According to one google estimate, Indians were established in the Americas for 20 some thousand years by the time Christopher Columbus set foot on this soil.  I wonder if they didn’t get a little carried away with the zero’s they attached to that number.  It wouldn’t stretch me to think of the Native American Indian having called this home for 2,000 years, perhaps even longer when Christopher landed here. 

Towards the eastern part of this state, one happens upon fairly regular regions of water, both flowing and in lake form.  But here in the southwest, water has always been a high priced commodity.  It looks like, back in the day, there were three sources of water that were fairly constant.  To the north of us is the Arkansas river.  (Today it is dry.)  A few miles to the south of us is Crooked Creek.  (Today it is dry.)  And, farther south and west, is the Cimarron river.  (Today also dry.)

If those three water sources were viable back then, and most likely they were, and buffalo hadn’t been hunted to extinction, and it hadn’t, this area could possibly have been quite regularly populated.  And, linked together with the fact that in a few places like ours, one can see for miles in all directions, insuring an early sighting of any enemy activity.

An early map of the state and tribe location shows the Comanche tribe in possession of the deep southwest corner of the state.  Their boundary most likely was the Cimmaron river. 

To the north, the Arapahoe lived, and to the east, the Kiowa lived.  The general area in which us western Kansas folks call home, could have been an intersecting point of boundaries for these three tribes. 

It seems it was.  I remember, as a child, finding arrowheads, or pieces of them quite often.  Most of the time, it was after a heavy spring rain, that they came to the surface.  Sadly, a day came when an arrowhead buyer showed up at the doorstep, and, not knowing the treasure trove we had, we let them go. 

But since then, I have kept my eyes open, knowing that as we develop more ground and spread gravel, or plant grass, the likelihood of finding such is rare.

Until yesterday.  I don’t know who all reads this stuff I write, or where you are located.  But if you aren’t located anywhere near here, you won’t know that we have endured some ravaging winds in the last year and a half.  It used to be, 60 m.p.h. gusts were not so common. 

Today, we try to work through them, and sometimes even higher gusts, on a somewhat normal basis.

The ground is scoured clean in some places.  I see fields where farmers have gouged out deep furrows to prevent land from leaving in the wind.  I see some of those same fields where the plow is going into use a second time, as the first round of furrows have all blown shut already.

Yesterday, I took my walk along the trail I normally walk.  It was windy, as it is today, and as it is forecast to be for the next few days. 

The trail looked Martian.  Little, blasted ridges of crusty dirt that held tenaciously were still in place; but there were whole areas that have been swept, robbed of its precious topsoil.

And then, there it was.  First, a rusty, old bailing tine from what could have been a hundred years ago.

And then, on my return, a piece of flint that appears to bear the marks from human hands shaping it into what could have been the off side of an arrowhead, some 200 years or more ago. 

My history heart was enthused, and I have added each artifact to my little museum that also has a pair of eyeglasses, a diary, and an old pocket watch from my grandfather. 

No, I wouldn’t say I’m a history buff, like the Tanzanian girl turned U.S. real estate agent said.  But I do like to think on things like this once in a while. 

And I thought I could write something about what those folks said to one another, in their teepees, here in this place, or what the farmer said to his son, as they put up the first cutting of hay. 

And maybe, someday I will, but for now, this is where I stop. 

As promised in the beginning, it really accomplished very little as far as writing goes.