Celebrating American Pioneer Spirit

                              I would never have made a good Pioneer.  I’m grateful others did.

               An adventuresome, tough-minded spirit was required to leave even the most primitive of homes to traverse the Smokey Mountains, across the Appalachians into Kentucky, Tennessee, and points west. Being invited to drop-out of Girl Scouts would disqualify me as a candidate for Pioneer-Settler.
               The Mighty Mississippi offered another hurdle, and beyond that, the Ozarks, or further north, the expanse of the Great Plains. Think of Laura Ingles’ family as they farmed north into southeastern Dakota territory, that account I read through memoir in the “Little House” books.  Movies such as "Dances with Wolves" starring Kevin Costner portrayed a classic depiction at that incredible time in history. I can experience through imagination, but my desire to participate is nil.

             The Badlands, “badder” then than now due to centuries of wind and water erosion, appeared like a foreign spectacle. 

Crossing the expanse of forbidding and treacherously rugged terrain, nothingness and barren mountain ranges, imagine the settlers astonishment as they encountered the Rocky Mountains. A  pass through the Rockies allowed a push to the Pacific, with pioneers gazing upon forests thick and primeval, and rivers plunging into cascading waterfalls.

Our country's glorious landscape  was fearsome when the country was in its infancy.  Add to that, the hostility settlers encountered in pursuit of land and the defiant reluctance of the Native Americans to relinquish what was theirs by heritage wrote a difficult and sad chapter of history.
               Wealthy easterners ultimately flocked by automobile to experience the American West. Many men came West in search of jobs or wealth through gold mining.  Artists, architects such as Frank Lloyd Wright, and entrepreneurs opened the West as President Teddy Roosevelt challenged Americans to preserve and conserve the natural beauty that is America.  

Grand and colossal exclamations in artistry were created to mimic the American spirit.

The movie depicting a search for connections, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" was filmed at Devils Tower in eastern Wyoming. Richard Dryfuss and Stephen Spielberg thrilled patrons with an unusual encounter, a lava rock formation created not by a volcanic eruption, but by erosion wearing away the soil to reveal the stone. Native American legends regarding its formation underscore the spirituality of the Natives.  The land is formidable in Wyoming, with beauty in rare forms creating a perimeter from Devils Tower to Cody, Wyoming and the Rocky Mountains into Yellowstone area.  South through the Tetons and across the forests into the Hole let me know the extremes of the area. Prior to leaving the eastern area of Wyoming, I recognized Sundance, WY, home to multiple stars of the current era, including Robert Redford. My interest was for the beauty of the land and landowner.


                I’ve not seen all areas of the USA, but what landscapes I have gazed upon swell my heart with inspired joy.  Amazed at the diversity of our USA’s landforms and agriculture, I thank God for this country, and for my ability to see it and celebrate its beauty. Textbooks, family photos, slide shows, and Facebook photo albums cannot clearly share what the mind’s eye can behold.

 

                We saw more wildlife than I would have imagined. 

Antelope, Bison, Elk, Wolf, and a Raven. I’d never actually seen a Raven.  A crow, a vulture, an eagle, yes, but a Raven? Never had I come up close and personal with that bird of ancient lore. But, I spent 10 days with one.

While I can exclaim the marvels of this trip over and over again, in the same sentence, I can mutter: “Nevermore.”  Out here, out West, in the Yellowstone area, at the front of our tour bus, this particular Raven is a Raven-Lunatic.

Our tour guide personifies the Raven-Lunatic. We won’t be doing this kind of bus-adventure again anytime soon, and not ever again with The Raven.  We believe in The Mama’s and the Papa’s version of travel:  “Go where you wanna go; Do what cha’ wanna do, With whomever you wanna to do it with…”

The Raven is “certifiable.” By definition, a tour guide should ‘guide.’  She needed guidance, herself, “bless her heart.”  She guided us to McDonalds and Wal-Mart.  I kid you not.  Lunch on your own – the bus with 50 people pulls up to McDonalds. She refers to it as a “squat and gobble.”Yick. 

If we weren’t parked at McDonalds, she was getting the bus driver to pull in at Wal-Mart, because she forgot a jacket.  Another Wal-Mart in another town to exchange said jacket and get another size.  Really. Had it not been for the bus driver and his wife, the “tourists” would have exhumed Frank and Jesse James and considered Murder for Hire.

On the flip side of the coin, all pre-paid meals presented a cruise-ship amount of food that was delicious and filling.  And, we traveled to sites we would never have discovered were it not for our bus driver and his wife who orchestrated the trip to a large degree. We saw it all – unless the snow, rain, or clouds covered the opportunity. Still, it was beautiful USA and I would not have missed it for the world. The adventure was terrific, and I finally just quit listening to The Raven, regardless of what she “quoth-ed.”

As long as Bossy Bertha keeps her cool and speaks in a calm voice, “Make a legal U-turn…,” we will drive ourselves and create our own Fly and Drive Fall Foliage or Pacific Northwest Tours.  I hold a map really well and USA’s open highways and gorgeous landscapes lure us to explore from sea to shining sea.

Native Americans declared the lands "BAD."

Highlighting the third day on the trail was the awesome cliffs comprising The Badlands National Park.  A scenic loop through this park was a wonder to behold – in the middle of prairie land, grasses, corn and hills.  As far as the eye can see, fields of grain (as in amber waves of…) give way to grassy hills beyond description. They are not rolling hills as in East Arkansas, but unbelievable humpy hills.  Fields of sunflowers reaching for light add a different dimension, and then, all at once, the limestone/sandstone rock formations jut skyward.  Coming out of the Badlands, back onto more of the prairie, we saw colonies of prairie dogs perched upright looking at our covered wagon ambling across the landscape.

Cotton Landscapes Take My Breath

                    The cotton is flowering; some is making bolls.  Soon, the fields will be covered with white gold, like snow blanketing a winter landscape.
                    Cotton picking is coming later and later, it seems. My husband’s memory of Labor Day involves picking cotton for cash to be spent on carnival rides, games, and cotton candy during the annual Rector Labor Day Picnic.  I have no personal knowledge of that, of course, as my knowledge of cotton once came from a garment tag.
                    Being raised in south Arkansas, I was indoctrinated with the timber business and oil.  Becoming a baroness of either or both was a goal, never accomplished.  Planting pine seedlings, walking the rows, selecting cut areas happened under my turned-up nose.  If it involved dirt, I was not really interested.  Royalty checks were another matter altogether.

              In northeast Arkansas, though, farming is a way of life.  Today, farms are enterprises and conglomerates.  Farm managers direct the multi-million/billion dollar business.  Watching the markets for cotton as opposed to corn is of great interest, and farmers often plant both.  I’ve learned a lot.  The business end of cotton growing and harvesting is very interesting, but it’s the beauty that captivates me.
               As far as the eye can behold, horizon to horizon, cotton will soon cover the land.  Machines that resemble dinosaurs will rumble through the fields, picking, tumbling, aerating, and forming the fluffy bolls into compact modules ready for the gin. My husband’s dad was an expert ginner, always able to provide his customers the best dollar for the longest and finest strand, so his son's stories about ginning cotton interest me.  When I visited my first cotton gin, the sights and sounds were stunning.
            Living over 40 years in Memphis, the Mighty Mississippi elevates my heart rate.  Rivers, railroads, and magnolia blossoms still quicken my spirit. But, as of late, cotton landscapes take my breath.





(Jared Vaughan Artworks, NE Arkansas cotton field)