NIGHT OF STORM
Scary things happened now and then when we were growing up on the homestead. One of the most terrifying experiences I ever had was in mid-summer of 1929, when my sister Jean and I spent a large part of a night out on the prairie, lost in a violent storm.
It had started out as a typical hot summer day, nothing special about it. The weather had been very dry for weeks, so that our well at home could not provide enough water to satisfy our cattle and horses. Nearly every day we pumped the well dry, and then had to wait several hours for it to refill. As a result of that, we had begun to water our milk cows, which we pastured on the open range to the east of our place, at an old abandoned well about a mile and a half from our place. The well had been dug by one of the early homesteaders who had later abandoned his claim. Our Dad had cleaned out the well, put a new platform over it, and installed a common cistern pump, and a trough and a small tank from which the cattle could drink. So each day, as a part of the chore of bringing the milk cows home, we had to take the bunch up to the old well, pump enough water for them to tank up to their heart's content, and then bring them on home in time for milking. Because the pumping of the water was quite a big job for one youngster, usually two of us would go after the cows.
On this particular day, my older sister, Jean, and I were sent after the cows. We started early enough, walking, and accompanied by our dog, Laddie. Everything went quite normally as we went east to the coulee we called Brush Fork. That was about two miles from home. We looked up and down the coulee from a particular hill we used as a sort of lookout point, and spotted the cows grazing about a half mile to the north. It didn't take long for us to get up there, round them up, and start them toward the well.
Only one thing was a bit worrisome--the cows didn't want to be driven, it seemed, and in the west there was a huge dark cloud rising, already covering the sun. We knew enough about weather signs to judge that we might get an electrical storm that night, but didn't particularly worry about that. We had seen lots of "dry storms" that summer, when the lightning and thunder were very close and noisy, but no or little rain had fallen.
The cows were thirsty, and it took a long while to pump enough water for them. Finally they were ready for the walk home. But now the storm cloud was covering nearly all of the sky, and it was getting dark quickly. We could see lightning off to the west, and there was a strange stillness. The air seemed to be standing still, most unusual out there where there was always a breeze.
We started the cattle toward home, about a mile and a half away, old Laddie helping, and hurried them along, as we hoped to get home before the storm would strike. But it was no use--suddenly the whole bunch of cows hiked their tails up in the air, and began to run back toward Brush Fork. There was nothing we could do to stop them. And then we heard the sound of the wind and rain! It came on us so suddenly, and it became dark so quickly, we had scarcely enough time to grab hold of each other's hand. The rain was icy cold, and dressed as we were in light summer clothing, we soon were shivering. The wind was powerful, blowing right in our faces, from the direction we needed to go to get home.
With the wind, the lightning, and the rain, we were nearly blinded. Our faithful dog had disappeared, whether following the cattle or not, we didn't know. There was absolutely nowhere we could go to get out of the rain.
That must have been about six o'clock in the evening. For the next four hours we wandered around on the treeless, unfenced prairie. In the brief flashes of lightning we could only get a momentary impression of a clump of sagebrush, or a gully. We couldn't see any familiar landmarks. The rain poured down; this was no mere shower; it was a cloudburst! In no time at all the water was standing on the ground, and the gullies and creeks began to flow. Because we knew the storm was coming from the west, we tried to walk south, letting the wind and rain hit the right side of our faces, but even that was difficult and sometimes impossible to do. We just went on and on, not knowing where we were, crossing what by now were sizeable streams running down the little gullies and coulees, sometimes up to our knees in rushing cold water.
I admit that we were frightened, too, by the closeness of the lightning and the loudness of the tremendous thunder claps. Unlike many other storms which we had experienced, it was not over quickly, but continued on and on. At times we would change directions, sure that home lay in this direction, or that. I was only ten years old at that time, and Jean was eleven, but we were equals out there in that stormy night. Though we believed in God, in a general way, I'm sure that we didn't pray. We just kept telling each other that we would get home somehow, and hung on to each other tightly, so we wouldn't get separated. Except for the lightning flashes, it was pitch dark.
After about four hours, and no one knows how many miles we had travelled, a flash of lightning revealed a fence corner, with a pile of rocks, and on the rocks an old abandoned wash tub! Immediately I knew where we were--at the northeast corner of the James place, about a mile and half straight east of our home. I had walked by that corner many times over the years. Now by the light of the lightning flashes, we could follow the James' north fence which ran most of the way toward our home. Unless you have been totally lost at some time, you have no idea what a relief this was to our minds!
But to follow the fence, we had to walk directly into the wind and rain, and that was difficult. Also, that particular stretch of prairie was nearly covered with prickly pear cactus. Not that we hadn't run into any of those earlier, but we surely didn't need any more spines in our poor feet. We were both wearing light shoes, and the cactus spines had easily gone through the sides and soles. We were both literally limping on both feet!
We had gone about a quarter of a mile toward home when we saw a light! It was up on a ridge to the north of us, and we knew it must be our Dad coming out to look for us. We left the fence and turned toward the light, calling at the top of our voices, although there was little chance anyone even a short distance away could have heard us in the wind and rain and thunder. Then the light went out! I remember telling Jean that the wind must have blown out the kerosene lantern Dad had, and that he wouldn't be able to light it again in all that wind.
After calling as loudly as we could several times, and getting no response, we gave up, turned back to the fence, and again worked our way west toward home. About three quarters of a mile from home, we had to go down a steep hill and cross a deep ravine. This ravine drained a large area to the north, and when we got down to the stream we found a real torrent! I was afraid to try to wade across it, but we decided we might get lost again if we tried to work our way up around it. So holding hands tightly, we ventured out. That water was nearly up to my waist! It was very difficult to keep our feet under us, but the stream wasn't wide, and we made it across safely.
Now we had familiar ground ahead of us. We left the fence, walked around the big double-knobbed hill we called Government Hill, and came on down to our east fence. Soon after that, we saw a lantern coming toward us again. Dad had run most of the way home, relit the lantern, and was coming out again to look for us. You can't know how glad we were to see him! He hugged us both so tight, and then led us on to the house. Mom was waiting up for us, dreadfully anxious for fear that we might not be found before morning. She had hot water on the stove, and towels ready to dry us off. Silly, by that time I was thinking I was quite the hero, having found our way home. We told and retold our tale, then finally got to bed about midnight. Laddie, our dog, had come home without us, and that had really worried our parents. As we had guessed, the wind had blown the lantern out on Dad's first try to find us, and though he must have passed within two or three hundred yards of us, he had not been able to hear our shouts.
"All's well that ends well," my Mom used to say. I don't know whether she applied that saying to our experience, but it was true. Neither Jean nor I so much as caught cold from our night out in the storm. The next morning was bright and sunny. The whole earth looked clean and fresh. Dad hitched up the team, and with our milk cans, pails and milking stools in the wagon, we went out to find the cows. We found them alright, about two miles from home, and milked them there on the prairie.