Ancestors

The first owner of record of this land was the Union Pacific Railroad, which bought up wooded tracts from the U.S. government in the 19th century. The government had resettled the Lenape people nearby, then forced them to relocate to Oklahoma and merge with the Cherokee. As far as I can tell, this spot would have been part of the Lenape hunting runs and probably hunting territory for the Osage and the Kanza before that. None of these groups are my ancestors of blood.

By the time the Lenape came to this part of the country, they had been shoved halfway across the continent, converted to Christianity and renamed the Delaware, for the main river near their original home. The river was also renamed for an English governor of Virginia, Lord De La Warr. Our township is named for a chief of the Turtle Clan of the Lenape, John Sarcoxie, who farmed the Delaware Commons with his band on the banks of the Kaw River, south of here. One name seems a small survival, compared to all that has been lost.

Delaware Indians who participated in negotiations in Washington, D.C., in 1867. Seated (Left to Right): James Ketchum, James Conner, John Conner (Principal Chief), Charles Journeycake, Isaac Journeycake, John Sarcoxie, Sr. Standing (Left to Right): James McDaniel, a Cherokee present at the discussions, Black Beaver, Henry Tiblow (interpreter), John Gill Pratt (U.S. Indian Agent), Charles Armstrong, John Young. The identifications are made in Weslager,  The Delaware Indians: A History. The photograph can be found in the Western History Section, University of Oklahoma and at the Bartlesville Public Library.


Along the north face of the hill a small stretch of older oaks and hickories still stands despite the railroad and its logging. The rest of the land runs more to black walnut, honey locust, elm, hedge, redbud and hackberry now, with Eastern red cedars taking over wherever they can. The steep north slope ends in a ravine running beside the road. A deer trail follows the contour of the hill near the top, taking advantage of a small ledge above the drop-off.

This corner of the land was considered too rough for farming. A previous owner ran cattle below the hill, after putting up barbed wire to keep them from tumbling down into the gulley. The hilltop and the north and west slopes seem to have been left alone.

I recently heard the original inhabitants of a place referred to as “ancestors of bone.” The ancestors of this place were transients: Kanza, Osage and Lenape hunters, French trappers who married into the Kanza, railroad loggers. They left nothing here, not even bone. I can’t actually be certain that anyone hunted or camped here or stood near the hilltop to watch the sun set over the creek.

The deer still walk here, although the hunters have vanished. Today I walked the deer trail and left an offering of tobacco near an old oak, in thanks for the gift of one small survival of wilderness.

Freeze and Thaw

Water and ice

In the depths of winter, the height of the season, the weather often follows a rollercoaster cycle: freeze, thaw, and freeze again. The January thaw is a recognized meteorological phenomenon around here. This year we’ve had several thaws, with stretches of single-digit nights between them.

The climate here in the middle of the continent depends on the weaving of cycles thousands of miles away. Mild air from the Pacific rolls in regularly. Sometimes it brings rain or wet snow. It also traps Arctic air in the north, building up until it looms over Canada like a glacier. Outbreaks of polar cold come roaring down across the plains. Road crews and TV weather forecasters shift into high gear.

Moss and snow

After snow, the warming air melts the earth into mud. When the deep freeze starts again, dirt turns solid. Deer tracks are set in stone. With the next thaw, the soil becomes powdery earthbound dust. This is the pattern that transforms rock into topsoil, crack by tiny crack. Gaia recreates herself each winter, with each grain of earth.

I walk in the woods every chance I get. The rare 60-degree days are gifts from spring, but I walk farther on cloudy days that never get above 40. My world is transparent in winter. I can see through the trees to the road at the foot of the hill, a neighbor’s barn, the bright surface of a lake in the valley.

Hickory bud

Hickory and oak trees make gray buds. Red twigs brighten at the tips of dogwood trees. Black clusters form where seedpods attach to redbud branches. This year the first snowdrops bloomed on Twelfth Night. The woods are getting ready.

A Scottish legend says that the Goddess Brighid grows old and bent and gray as the rocky hills with the season. At the start of February she strikes a stone with her staff and releases a flowing spring. She drinks the living water and becomes young again, as lambs begin to be born and flowers spring from the ground.

In the next thaw, I will dig a little hard soil from my garden and put it in a pot. I will water it and set it beside my wood stove. As it warms with the year, we will move toward spring.

Snowdrops

Snow Labyrinth

The stones marking the paths of the labyrinth vanish under as little as two inches of snow. Trails I’ve laid down all year are gone as if they never existed. The landmarks I thought I knew throw me off course. Let’s see: if I stay to the left of the thornless locust, I should pass on which side of the entwined elms?

Rabbit, I think

The first tracks in the snow are usually rabbits. Two paws together, showing toes, are the bunnies. The deeper split print with a longer stride is probably a deer. None of them follow the paths I’ve laid out; our intentions are too different. They’re making a living in the cold. I’m wandering around in circles.

There’s an Irish legend about the straying sod, an innocent-looking spot where faeries have crossed the track. An unsuspecting traveler returning home from the pub late at night may be detoured into a bog when he steps there. This strikes me as a creative excuse that might not fly when the traveler finally staggers home.

Deer, probably

The labyrinth in winter is one large straying sod. It tricks me into breaking my patterns. It shows me other ways, decoying me deeper into the woods. Soon I’m up to my knees in buckbrush and greenbriar. Just beyond the thorns, though, another set of deer tracks leads me on down the hillside.

Definitely cat

Following tracks in snow is compelling. I keep expecting to stumble upon deep secrets, magic groves, mysteries. And even within a stone’s throw of the road, the mysteries appear: a young oak still wearing its golden leaves, cedars surrounding the sky pond, the path leading back to the house. I’ve come full circle, wandering like a rabbit, twisting through an uncharted labyrinth, turning like the year.