Janet's Blog

The Wounded Knee Creek flows right through the middle of the family ranch, which borders South Dakota to the north. The ranch, which is used by various extended family members for hunting and vacations, has been one of my favorite places ever since I visited there for the first time, nearly 60 years ago. Now, my grandchildren are the fifth generation of our family to explore everything the ranch has to offer, next to, over, and even in the Wounded Knee. As soon as we arrive, sleeping arrangements are negotiated--some in the main house, and others in the bunkhouse nearby. Then, the kids all beg to go down to the swing, hanging from a 150 year old Cottonwood tree that sits on the creek bank. On the Sunday afternoon before Memorial Day, Bill and I arrived a little earlier than the rest of our crew, so as soon as Bill turned on the electricity and primed the pump so the plumbing would work appropriately, we transferred the food from our cooler to the refrigerator, and headed down to the s...

It was a gorgeous, mild, sunny afternoon in late December or early January, at least five years ago. I was walking with Jackson, my fluffy little dog, on the path that runs parallel to the Monument, and rejoicing in the sunshine, which was beginning to melt the four or five inches of fresh snow covering the path. When we were almost back to the car, a young jogger came running up to us, nearly out of breath. "Be careful!" he panted. "I just heard a bunch of coyotees !" Now, I had heard the coyotes, too. There is at least one coyote family that lives on the national park land, and it isn't unusual for me to hear them, especially around sunset in the winter. In fact, it hadn't been too long since I had actually seen one adult coyote, leaping from one prairie dog mound to another, trying, unsuccessfully, to pounce on its dinner. I had snapped a couple of pictures with my phone, but the coyote was too far away, and too close in color to the brown prairie grass, ...

I'm not going to lie. November has never been my favorite month. I just don't like the abrupt, visual change from fall to winter, from vibrant greens and golds and oranges, to dull, lifeless browns. I prefer balmy days to bitter, cold ones. I would rather walk outside when the breezes blow gently, instead of forcing myself to trudge down the sidewalk into a blustery gale. Long shadows appear early, after Daylight Savings Time ends in November. November is supposed to be a month of thankfulness, so I must talk myself into being grateful, even now. I look for interesting textures in the fading landscape. I relish the beautiful sunsets. I enjoy the time spent with family, when we celebrate November birthdays and Thanksgiving. I even find myself looking forward to approaching blizzards, just because the dazzling, white snow provides an excellent contrast to the normally overwhelming, brown terrain. Celebrating November birthdays turns a dreary day into a happy one. Ev...

I was twelve, the first time I went to the ranch, on the Pine Ridge in northwestern Nebraska, with my family. But I heard about the swing several years before. Dad first hunted at his uncle's ranch with his Dad and brothers as a young teen, and continued after he and Mom were married. Mom and Dad went with their parents and siblings, almost every fall, to hunt deer and turkey. I was pretty young when they came home and told the story of how Dad and (I think) Uncle Lee hung a swing high up in an old Cottonwood tree, so they could swing out over the Wounded Knee Creek.  When everyone gathered at the ranch for a week of maintenance and repair, and the kids were finally allowed to come along, we could hardly wait to try out the swing. Oh, we hiked, and fished, and roasted marshmallows over the fire, and rode horses by the hour. But the swing was something special. There is nothing like flying high, over the water below, on a warm summer day. I have seen pictures of my pare...