RIVER OF NOSTALGIA

Somewhere south and west of Colby, Kansas there is probably a high point. Perhaps it may be several square miles in area and it is unlikely to be laid out in any well defined lines. Elevations are not easy to see, even to the practiced eye. Never the less there is such a place in northwest Kansas. From this area the land slopes downward in almost every direction. It would be necessary to use instruments in order to find the exact highest point and this has been done. Water runoff during storms of course follows the downward slope of the land. So from this point the waters separate and as they flow and gather more water, eventually this runoff is divided and marks the beginning of many water courses that lead to rivers and as the rivers converge the streams eventually empty into the sea. All rivers in this area empty into the Gulf of Mexico eventually. Several streams of water in western Kansas have their beginning at this high point. There was a time when flowing streams rose from the ground and flowed in various directions from this high point. They might be only a damp spot on the surface during cool wet seasons and in the dry season they would be completely dry. As the watercourse reached a lower elevation the water would become more abundant. When the white man first came to this area several streams flowed out of Thomas County. The river of the Smoky Hills (commonly called the Smoky) rose in this area and meandered in a southerly direction for several miles and eventually turned to the east. My father, Frank Morgan and my father-in-law, Hugh Wigginton have told me about the times they drove cattle to the Smoky for the summer grazing season. Not many miles from where the Smoky rose was the head water of the Beaver. It , s flowed in a northeasterly direction and even went into the Republican, which raises out in Colorado and barely touches the very northwest tip of Kansas, but after flowing east eventually enters Kansas flowing almost due south. There is also the Sappa arching north but mostly east. Also the Praire Dog heads in the same area as well as the North and South Solomon and the Saline and Bowcreek. All these streams flow in the general direction of east with the Republican on the north and the Smoky on the south as their boundaries.. It is interesting to note that all these streams come close together in central Kansas. In fact, they do come together one by one and the Kansas (Kaw) river takes all their excess water and carries it into the Missouri on the Mississippi and ends up in the Gulf of Mexico. Most of these streams have north and south forks and the Sappa has three which are appropriately North, Middle and South fork. It is interesting to note that William F. Cody (Buffalo Bill) mentions camping along these various streams when he served as a scout with the U.S. Army. When one who is familiar with this country reads his accounts of making camp along a stream it becomes apparent that there was living water in areas that have been dry for years. I suspect that this drying process has been going on for a long time. A neighbor of mine has an irrigation well that was dug by hand. It is several feet in diameter. He once told me that he has placed floating sticks at the west wall and they will always float to the east side. This lends credence to the idea that our ground water is very slowly moving from west to east. This could mean that the place of the rising of our flowing streams is gradually moving east. Certainly, I know for a fact that this very thing has happened in my lifetime. Let us then go back in time, back to the time when the river, my river, my river of nostalgia, was indeed a flowing stream.
How many hours did I as a boy with a horse and dog, spend in the shade of trees along its banks? How many times did I drive our livestock to its banks when our own windmill did not supply enough water? There is a branch called Sand Creek that empties into this river. The place where they come together marks the spot where I was born. This very spot is associated with my earliest memory. I remember sitting on the east bank of Sand Creek where it joins the south fork of the Solomon. Here I sat while my father stripped off his clothes and washed himself in that clear water. Many a time I have satisfied my thirst by drinking from this stream. Could I count the times that I have crossed that stream or slid on the ice in the pools that iced over in the winter? There was an old swimming hole along its banks and all we local boys knew it well even though the tenant of the land would sometimes chase us out. So many memories - so many years the river was there. Sometimes a mere trickle but it was alive and well. When the floods came it was awesome in its power. A few days later all would be peaceful again. A boy could lay in the soft sand with the dog nearby and the saddle horse cropping grass nearby. What a time for dreams. Who can deny the boy his dreams? Then suddenly one awful night it come to an end. The days for dreaming were over. Does manhood come at a certain age? Does a boy just slowly grow into manhood? Perhaps. But it need not be so. Sometimes it is like the opening of a gate. One passes through it and the boy is suddenly a man. The carefree days of youth are gone. The past is gone forever but the memory does not die. Mom became a widow and we moved away. It is seldom easy to break the ties that ^^. bind. Even the hardships and the pain seem to be less severe. The poets of old understood this. Consider the words written by Lord Byron in "The Prisoner of Chillon" These prison walls to me had grown An hermitage, and all my own And half I felt that they had come To tear me from a second home. And so it was! I remember coming back later. As we came over a rise and the valley that I knew so well, with its flowing stream came into view I seemed to enter a deep void. At that time the roots from whence I came were wrenched with an awful finality from the soil where they had grown. At that moment I knew that they would never again take root on this earth. I knew the awful feeling of nostalgia. And it has been so. I was to drift over half the world during the coming years. I saw those far off places and people with strange ways. The highways and the byways of the world beckoned and I eagerly trod upon them, but the place to rest was as elusive as the end of the rainbow. Strange indeed are the ways of fate. That seemingly endless road came full circle and here I was once more on the banks of my beloved river. Did the roots that were once pulled so violently from the soil go down again? I think not. Instead they appeared to merely find a resting place. Content they were to abide here by my river. A great truth slowly became apparent. We shared a bond. I knew the power of this bond in the service of my country. There is a special feeling among men who offer their lives for a common cause. The time was to come when I was to understand that this river was a dear friend. May we go back in time again. You see my paternal grandparents came and settled along this river. My father was born beside it and so was I. My grandfather and grandmother first met along its banks. They made their living and raised their children beside it.
My father held the family's cattle on the rich grass along its bottoms. He weathered the storms on night herd and saw the lightening play on the tips of their horns. He was one of the last of the line who rode for the big ranches that once dominated this area. The woman who was to share forty five years of my life grew to womanhood in like manner. There was however one thing between us that neither of us could ever understand. She too was born along this river as was her mother before her. Her life continued along its bank. Her roots along it were never severed. She was born, lived and died here. Truly she saw it dry and in flood and all stages between. It was truly her home in every way. When I first came back to this river I could look out and see a flowing stream. It was truly alive but the ravages of time slowly drew from it the lifegiving water. All that remains is a dry watercourse marked by dead or dying trees. Most of the people see just a low spot between two ridges when they even pause to notice it. It is only a part of the land and nothing more. It is to them of no value unless it produces a crop. My father-in-law remembered when they brought the herd home for wintering along the stream. There was the tall grass that was left for winter grazing. Much of it would reach the stirrup of a mounted man. There were also the stacks of hay cut from the same lush bottom. You understand that this was so because that grass sent its roots down and shared the water with the flowing stream. I used to sit with him, and shared many a happy evening. He loved to share the past, and how it once was but is no more and I was a rapt listener. Lonesome, he was as he lived alone. I know now that we forged a special bond. A bond not unlike the one we shared with the living river. Time moves on and change is indeed a part of life. Would we want it any other way? I doubt it. There is a story in the ancient writings of a man who once entered paradise, that place of eternal bliss, the fruit he said "tasted rotten." Such is life. My father-in-law, my mentor if you please; has passed on, my river is no more. My wife is gone too and I am alone with my memories. How can I make anyone understand? Am I sad? No! Am I content? No! Do I regret the passage of time? I think not. There was a specific time that I remember and this is how it happened. As I came home in the evening I first came in sight of the river and it came upon me with a blow. There was no water. My river was dead. No more was she a living stream. Something had passed from my life forever. Perhaps there is a fitting sequel to all this. My wife and I awoke one morning and we were surrounded by water. My river had become a raging flood. We held hands and walked waist deep through the flood to higher ground. Looking back: my wife is gone, the river is dry again. I wonder if my river was telling me. See! I am not dead, I am like the enduring hill through which I flowed. Your memories are yours to keep, only do not mourn my passing. It is enough that we shared a time together.