The River Niangua

Have a great day and enjoy the trip. Adios

Standing on the south bank of Bare Foot Pass

An old grave site of early settlers across the river from McKee Ridge

Looking downstream from Moonvalley bridge

Niangua below Moonvalley Bridge

The river flowing past Cat Hollow where once a huge Indian vilage lined its bank

A Sunday Morning Along The Wild and Beautiful Free Flowing River Niangua

Foot Prints Into The Dawn Of History

On One of My Last Expeditions and a Story Yet to be Told

A Painting of Mine Depicting Prehistory Life Along the Niangua

Me, Not far from Cave in Story, After Camping on the North Face of A Bluff

A Cave Much Similar to One in Story

A sculpture of mine, the face of Prehistory

Foot Prints Into The Dawn Of Prehistory

The journey to distant horizons was undoubtedly intended as a point of origin but little did I realize just how an elusive trace it would be. My footprints can be found along the way and beyond several millenniums into the deep shroud of prehistory. The trace plainly speaking did not follow a straight line, for after all I was and am Earth bound. I discovered early into the journey I would not reach the horizon I so wanted to find. There is an inherent part of me that fueled an insatiable curiosity and greatly influenced my desire to explore the unknown. I also discovered the unknown would always be just out of reach and no absolute conclusive discovery would ever be made.
My foot prints can be found along with tantalizing fragments of early mankind that dated back long, long before the birth of Christ. Retracing the roads, trails and mere paths that meandered unhurriedly into the dawn of man has brought me closer to kindred spirits of old. I share the same DNA as some of them possessed, therefore enabling me to fashion from stone or wood desired images and the same talent that allows me to paint on canvas my interruptions of what I see and feel. Upon their land I stood, where beneath my feet lay their stories and much of it is lost or misplaced. My life story is not lost or misplaced as yet.
The life-way of early man has and is constantly being analyzed, tangled in a web of controversy of conflicting opinions. I have no doubt that I traced man back to at least eighteen thousand years or more, but even so I was no where near the infancy of humans. The physical aspects I encountered and closely noted along the way stirred my imagination; therefore all that I have learned or possess of the journey is subject to dispute. This is of little concern to me, for I have no desire to add the bedlam of wonderful assumptions that will never cease. My journey to distant horizons represents a personal endeavor, a splendid and frequently dangerous adventure into Prehistory and has provided me with a deeper sense of immortality.
The wraths of the gods have and still remain a major aspect of mankind. Many of the gods emerged from the collective mindset of early man, influenced by the wind, fire, sun, rain and every conceivable superstition within the early humans. Sacrifice became an important ritual in the belief that one could obtain favor or spiritual afterlife if something of great importance was offered to the gods. Blood the essence of life eventually became the mainstay sacrifice for scores of centuries, resulting in many poor souls put to death. Incredibly within a short period of time something changed and a part of humanity found solace not in the sun, moon and stars but in man’s inner being or eternal soul. This dramatic change resulted in the establishment of fundamental values, however blood sacrifice prevailed but with animals. The written word was established and thus the Old Testament appeared on the scene changing forever the hierarchy of controlled religion. Jesus Christ the Son of God brought forth Christianity to put an end to blood sacrifice by giving of his earthly body and blood to die for man’s sins on a cross.
As far as I know man is the only creature on Earth that buries his dead with ceremony. Carefully placed in the ground, or laid on a funeral pyre where ultimately the body is reduced to ashes, therefore releasing the spirit or soul. The elaborate tombs of the kings of old, attest to the belief that these individuals were thought to be immortal.
There were many burial grounds of the Prehistory people in the Americas at the arrival of the Europeans, sadly many of the grave sites were plundered or simply plowed under for planting crops. Many of the burials contained artifact to be used by the deceased on the journey to the afterlife. Precious metal, stones and finely woven garments and pottery were respectively and lovingly place with the deceased. Weapons for the male were very important and the very best placed in the grave. In some cultures it was not unusual where at least one female was killed and her body placed in the grave. There was I am inclined to believe exceptions made in the ritual of placing the deceased in the ground. I know of two burials where both deceased were females and the bodies had been mutilated. In one grave the feet and hands had been removed and an attempt, (poorly executed) partially cremated. The other site also contained a female, pregnant at the time of burial had met her death by a savage blow to the head and both of her feet had been removed. The cremation was also incomplete. These two burial sites were approximately thirty miles apart, one located on the Niangua River the other on the Osage Fork River. I can only assume these two women were punished dreadfully for some reason. I doubt if the two events were directly related. After noting type of pottery shards in and around the burials it is my opinion both individuals died about ten thousand years ago.
In the summer of 1970 while following a creek, (tributary of the Niangua) I located a north south bluff. This bluff is approximately one mile up river from the Niangua Bridge. The bluff is well above the floodplain of the river and faces east. The bluff in comparison to others along the river is not impressive. It appeared to me at least to be very old and in a state of marked deterioration. Huge chunks of its face had broken off and slid or rolled down a steep slope. Much of the top portion of the bluff was no more. The primary disruption of the bluff had not been recent, but occurred several years before. Erosion however, was taking its toll on the ancient pinnacle. In one very large piece I noted a sizable deposit of crystal clear quartz and it was evident to me at least that some of it had been chipped or cut out.
The slope I was to traverse was covered in thick brush and briar, so much so I was forced to remove my pack and hold it in front of me to continue on. It was a struggle to climb the slope and I times the brush was higher than my head and I could not see the bluff. After about thirty minutes I took a break and smoked my pipe. I decided I was about half way up when I stood to begin the climb again.
Red wasps are noted for their huge nest, especially in remote areas. Most nests are relatively close to the ground and if avoided, the wasps are not a threat. I finally came to a small clearing and could see the bluff clearly on up the hill. Anxious to begin exploration of the formation I stepped out of the brush, but in doing so came directly in contact with a very large wasp nest. The nest was teeming with deadly sentries and they immediately swarmed around me, stinging me. I could not run, for the brush was too thick and fell to my knees and pulled from the backpack an old blanket I always carried. The wasps were hitting me unmercifully. They sounded like hail hitting the blanket. Under the blanket I began pulling dead leaves into a pile. I was afraid I would be stung to death and had decided to set afire the leaves in hope of driving them back.
Several minutes past until I had a large pile of leaves under me and I struck a match and drop it onto the leaves. Smoke billowed up, but I stayed under the blanket until I could no longer breathe and with back pack in hand I darted out into the clearing. The more aggressive wasps followed and I took a few additional hits on my neck and arms, but within a few seconds the wasps dispersed around the smoke. I clawed my way up the remaining distance to the bluff and collapsed. I don’t remember how many wounds I had, but too many nevertheless. Water from my canteen cooled my feverish skin and I sat for a time resting quite shaken and wounded by the event. My left hand swelled grotesquely and I could feel other stings on my neck and back and arms. There was little I could do but leave and return another day.
Upon my return to the bluff a few days later I wisely averted the nest and in the cool of morning began a careful exploration. Near the north end of the bluff I discovered what looked like a tunnel large enough for me to enter and I did so but with caution, for in the past I had been confronted by skunks, coyotes and on two separate occasions by a female bobcat and in another cave opening a wounded buzzard. Snakes were also a danger, especially Copperheads.
I discovered quickly the opening was not the beginning of a tunnel, but a direct access into a spacious cave. I settled back on my heels and slowly played the beam of my flashlight the length, breadth and height of the cavern. Intrigued by what I saw, a cavern of at least thirty feet in length and breadth, with a ceiling height of about twenty feet. I slowly scanned the area and found erosion had damaged the floor on each side of the cavern for about three feet out from the walls. Gravel and mud covered these areas. The center of the cavern appeared to be bone dry. Near the front where I sat, I saw with dismay two pot holes from previous digs and on closer scrutiny found them to be very old. Upon standing up I look back and discovered the original opening had been quite large, but now was choked with fragments of the bluff that had collapsed many years before.
I took from the backpack a small garden spade and knelt down at the highest point in the center of the cave and began pushing aside the soft dry dirt. It didn’t take long until I had a hole around me about eight inches deep. It was during this time I raked across the fragment of a large shell tempered earthen vessel. Moments later I found the rest of it. I carefully laid the pieces aside and widened the hole and near the east end discovered hearth stones and bone fragments belonging to turkey and deer. Wood ash and charred wood was evident around the stones. Two small Dalton type points were also found. (I had yet to use a screening box and later chose not to do so.)
After a short break, smoking my briar and enjoying a cup of coffee I moved to the west end of the dig and began pulling the dirt up and over the rim of the dig. Pot shard, animal bones and small scrapes of leather was abundant for about the last twelve inches down. Three hours had past when I discovered human rib bones lying east to west. A story was about to unfold, a secret beyond recorded history.
I remove an oversized paint brush from the pack and began brushing aside the
powder dry soil, revealing with each stoke more of the skeletal remains. I lost track of time as I worked, completely absorbed in the discovery at hand.

By mid afternoon the skeleton lay before me, remarkably well preserved, containing small clumps of hair and some mummified facial features, but not enough to determine sex. I had disturbed some very small bones in or near the center of the skeleton and upon closer examination discovered them to be the remains of a child. A portion of the skull about the size of a chicken egg was noted.
The discovery of the smaller bones literally set me back and I turned my complete attention to the adult remains. With a magnifying I started at the top of the head and found a hole and with this in mind slowly covered every inch of the skeleton. It did not take long and the story was near completion considering the time it had lain there. Both feet had been removed and each leg bone fractured. Evidence of charring was also evident on the lower torso. The only artifact found in the burial was a braided rawhide bracelet still clinging to the left wrist bone.
During the next hour I began replacing all the artifacts as I had found them and carefully filled in the hole and then it was time to leave. Outside I took the time to roll stones into the opening as best I could to preserve this haunting place, where once life and death occurred. Adios.

The Song of a Man and His Dog

Young Indian Creek Smokey

The Song of a Man and His Dog
The man stood alone on an Ozark hill, listening to the faint bawl of a lone running black and tan hound. The autumn night was bright, the air was still. Far below tall sycamores shadowed Indian creek. The man continued to wait, his head bowed and he smiled and looked down into the gloom of the deep hollow below. The bawl of the hound was that of his own Indian Creek Smokey and he was on the scent of a Wiley raccoon.
“Come on Smokey,” the man sang softly, “bring that coon up the hollow and put him in a Sycamore tree.”
The man turned then and headed toward the southern ridge, ignoring the briars and clutching Ivey vines, for he knew soon the hound would tree. The man reached Indian Creek, jumped across and headed up the ghostly ridge. He ducked below a willow branch and stopped to listen.
“Hey Smokey sing to me,” the man called out and smiled.
The deep resounding bawl of Smokey sent the man hurrying on into the pale moonlight. His anxious eyes searched the wooded slope caught up in the melody of the running hound. After several minutes the man stood resting against a twisted oak tree and waited. The song of the hound grew louder and then he burst from the brush in close pursuit of a large raccoon. The raccoon leaped from afar onto the trunk of a mighty Sycamore and disappeared into the high canopy. Smokey caught up in the moment sat down and sang a treeing song and then began a chewing and fussing around the old tree. The man praised the hound and shined a light up the tall, tall tree. And there he saw a big boar coon peeking out of a hole about as safe as he could be.
The man squinted into the sky and noted the first flush of dawn. “Come on Smokey it’s time to go,” sang out the man. “We’ve had our play. That was a good hunt boy and that old coon will be a waiting for us another time.”
Adios

An Angel In The doorway Or Maybe Not

A Time To remember

The Power Of The Written Word

I have in my lifetime witnessed some very strange occurences and discovered that some of these events were explainable or close to it. Within a fog rising from the opening of a very large cave early one morning revealed quite clearly to me or so it seemed human images and they faded as quickly as they had appeared. The ghost of a woman that had passed away appeared to me one night in my home. The specter frightened my dog and she lay down and whimpered. A friend of mine who lay dieing asked me if he would know when it was time. I told him an angel would be waiting at his door. Early the next morning as his wife entered his room he told her to step aside for there was an angel in the doorway. He passed away moments later One particular day several years ago while sitting in a small room in the rear of the building that housed the U. S. Post Office and trying to finish a chapter in a book I was writing. My wife, the Post Master of our town, occupied the front part of the building separated by one door. The spring day was bright with sunlight and very pleasantly warm. Nothing seemed amiss to suggest an unusual day and I sat at my desk quite content enjoying a cup of coffee, pecking away at the keyboard of my word processor, changing a sentence or two from time to time. I stood up to stretch my legs and think about how I would finish the chapter.
Later, with a steaming cup of coffee in hand I sat down again still uncertain how I would end the chapter. I could not decide whether to end the life of one of the characters or let him live and become a major aspect of the book. Pondering the question, evaluating the man who stood on the brink of death, I sat with fingers poised to either kill the man or let him live.
Unbeknownst to me, my wife at her station was suddenly confronted with a cold wind entering the outer doorway, so cold she shivered uncontrollably. She sat down unable to stand for a few moments.
The mail carrier came and found her sitting and asked if she was ill and she replied she didn’t know but was very cold.
During this time or shortly after, perhaps a moment or so I made a decision to let the man live and thought no more about it.
An hour past and during that time my wife was still not feeling much better and commented on the cold wind that had entered her work place, for as I have said it was a very pleasant day outside.
Sometime during that approximate hour and after my decision to let the man in my book live, a neighbor came to town and told the store keeper across the road from the post office he had come close to drowning in the Niangua River after falling from his mule. The fall had addled him, he said and he couldn’t get up and lay face down in the water. Struggling desperately he tried reaching for the bank, but couldn’t get a hand hold and just as he was about to give up he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into my face. He said I quickly pulled him upon the bank, but too weak to speak he said, he lay there for time before sitting up and looked around for me, but I was no where to be seen..
He finally managed to get astride the mule and by the time he reached his house was feeling much better and came to town to tell of his close encounter with death. He told the storekeeper he didn’t understand why I didn’t wait around, but wanted to thank me for saving him from drowning. The man left and returned home.
The storekeeper came to the Post Office and told my wife of the incident and asked if I had returned from the river. My wife told the storekeeper I had been in my studio all morning and the neighbor must be mistaken.
Some later I confronted the neighbor about his experience at the river and he without hesitation expressed gratitude for saving his life. He asked why I hadn’t stayed and had been a bit disappointed by my quick departure from the scene.
I told him he must have been mistaken and it was someone else who had pulled him from the river.
“No,” he replied emphatically, “it was you!”

Adios

A Hat and An Open Road

The above are some of my credentials and represent memorable events in my life and continue to do so. Adios

Take Notice Elizabeth

Short Stories, A Journey Across The Ozarks And Beyond

A Boy's Journey Through The Troubling Years Of The 1940's

This Morning Elizabeth I received your letter. The Book, Life Along The Dousinberry and South Through Barefoot Pass will be in the mail very soon. Both books will be signed and dated. I deeply appreciate your interest and I am quite certain you will enjoy the books. Thank you. Adios

Heidi And Me And The Secret Garden In Bloom

AS If To Say To Me, "This won't Happen Again."

The Sumac Tree Crowns The Wild Garden

The lilies Will Not Be Outdone

A Beautiful Jewel in the Garden

I found this old statue broken and put part of it back together and now it watches over the secret garden

Hollyhocks that originally came from England over a hundred years ago.

A quite, polite rain slipped across the crossroads this morning. Heidi waited in her house until it passed and then we went walking along a road bordered by wild flowers, nodding in the breeze. Heidi has changed so much in the last few weeks and I think she forgets at times the bad days of her past. She does not care for strangers and is a very private creature. This morning after returning from our walk she sat quitely while a photo of her and I was taken. The secret garden is in full bloom. Adios