We traveled Wednesday to the Anchor Ranch and delivered several copies of Wade's Stories to the present owner, Duane Voigt. Mary used to babysit the Voigt children, and so, with that pleasant relationship, we received a warm welcome from him. Filling the air with several hours of stories, he told us that as a younger man his friends hung the nickname "Windy" on him. A widower, often referring to Alma's memory and the life they made together on the ranch, he gave us a four-wheel drive tour winding among, sometimes atop, the buttes cresting the horizon.
As the afternoon wore on, I realized more than one story echoes in this rugged landscape. Of course the Wade story reverberates. Another, Duane's family, displaced from Elbowoods by the construction of the Garrison Dam and the rising waters of Lake Sakakawea, drove their herd of cattle overland in the 1950's to this place, a trip of about ten days. Finally and presently, Duane's daughter and family, the present operators, have strung miles of six-strand barbed wire around the ranch, "buffalo fence" he called it, to hold their large herd of buffaloes.
Over the years, the Cannonball River has flooded and changed course because of spring thaws and heavy flooding. The pickup slowly descended one dry bank of its old riverbed and strained to climb the opposite bank as we rolled slowly on the rough ground toward sites he wanted to show us. He laughed as he told us how Wade's daughter placed a sandstone marker inscribed "Wade" on a steep hilltop. She wanted to accommodate Duane and be sure the spot she chose did not interfere with his haying equipment. For sure, it seemed like the pickup had all it could do to find traction to climb up there. The marker, carved by an early craftsman, was used as the cornerstone of the old farmhouse and salvaged when that house was moved to a new location.
He told us of another marker on the ranch and took us to it. One of Wade's daughters wanted her ashes spread from a hilltop where the wind would carry them across her old home. He said on the day of the memorial service he counted cars from thirteen states that had parked at the base of the hill. Inscribed simply, "Georgia 1914-1995," it is there to last the ages. Duane said as the ashes were poured from the urn, a southerly wind took them straight-away from the hill and spread them across the prairie and the river. I can only imagine this is just the way she wanted them to spread, and it seemed to me a beautiful way to spend eternity.
Many times yesterday I wished I would have had my recorder along because of the richness of the stories he told. I told Duane he has a book inside him, too. I hope we can do it someday soon. The cattle drive he and his family made stands along as a story.
