Religion in the Northwoods

My interest in churches and the history and human geography of religion has its roots, strangely enough, in the American country western music, television, and movies of the early and mid Twentieth Century.

As an adolescent I spent a great deal of my time with my Grandfather, a native of Rice Lake and a retired National Park Service Ranger. I was fed a steady diet of Gene Autry, Gunsmoke, and Bonanza and I soaked it all up like a sponge.

Later, when I joined the United States Army, I was asked to list my preferences of duty stations and I placed Fort Riley, Kansas at the very top. I sought to escape the heat of the Deep South, where the Army has many of its posts, and the mountains of Carson and snows of Drum didn't appeal to me. I figured Riley was in the Midwest so I'd be closer to family, and it's in a region that interests me, or at least did when I was younger.

My branch manager was more than happy to oblige as Riley is not a popular choice. Perhaps the only posting more likely to result in an assignment based on preference would be Korea, and very, very few people request Korea, so off to Kansas I went.

I was not prepared for what I would encounter.

Riley is nestled in the Flint Hills of Kansas, a region in the eastern third of the state dominated by rolling hills, cattle pasture, and very few trees. It isn't quite what one imagines when picturing Kansas as it isn't flat and its rocky soil limits agriculture; the great fields of grain, sunflowers, and windmills are farther west. Perhaps the most striking feature of the area is its winds. If you visit, you will find it an ever-present companion. It pushes on you as you walk, so strongly that it occasionally tips trucks on highways, and its constant howl nearly drove me mad before I acclimated.  The sound of the wind roaring against the walls of my home eventually became a bit of a sleeping aid, and when it did occasionally die down it was very off-putting. Kansas without wind feels disturbingly eerie.

Riley is also quite remote. Manhattan, home to Kansas State University, is about 15 minutes from post and is roughly the size of Wausau but it lacks the adjoining and sizeable communities Wausau has in its metropolitan area. It's just Manhattan out there by itself. Aside from Manhattan, there's the smaller and much grungier army town of Junction City but after that the pickings are slim. The nearest city of appreciable size is Topeka, about 60 miles away, and the closest city with a well serviced airport is Kansas City at roughly 130 miles. In that way it's similar to the Northwoods but is less densely populated, and that's saying something considering the relative  sparsity of the population of northern Wisconsin. Here you pass through a town every ten or so miles when traveling on Highways 8 or 13 but Kansas isn't like that, it's much more spread out, more desolate.

That desolation, combined with the demands of military life, its workload, and the separation from friends and family, made my adjustment to Kansas difficult, but I found a way to cope. On the weekends I'd jump in my Jeep and drive. I wanted to drive until the road ended but I tried to stay within the mileage bounds dictated by the Army. There was a range that Soldiers were not to exceed without a pass or leave, and I tried to abide by it, but I will admit that on at least one occasion my wanderings almost had me stumble in to Nebraska.

I wanted to see the sights of Kansas and learn its history. In Abilene I visited the Eisenhower Presidential Library and saw the town's less laudable but still famous Greyhound tracks. I toured Council Grove, a town absolutely littered with national historic sites, the most memorable being the still extant ruts made by wagons that once traveled the Santa Fe trail. Closer to Riley, I visited the site of the atomic cannon which overlooks the Post. A relic of the early Cold war, it is one of seven surviving M65 towed howitzers designed to fire nuclear shells. I enjoyed all of it but I saved the best for last and toward the end of my assignment I put in a pass to travel to Dodge City.

I couldn't wait to tell my Grandpa about walking in the town Minnesota actor James Arness made famous in Gunsmoke. Only a small segment of the old western town still exists but that bit was amazing and truly lived up to my expectations. When recounting the visit to Gramps I felt it would be better if I left out the part about how you can smell the town, and its slaughter houses, from miles away before you arrive.

Yep, I feel I did Kansas right.

But in those little Saturday sojourns a tiny seed was planted in my mind. In those small Kansas towns, the ones I'd pass through and in the ones in which I'd stop, I was constantly struck by their historic churches. In every place where people collected, these pioneers and settlers of the great American frontier, surely pressed by the needs of farm and home, took a not inconsiderable amount of time and put in significant effort to erect these buildings that were the focal points of their communities. Each one was unique and a product of love and great care. They stand as manifest expressions of who their builders and congregants were, what they believed, and what they hoped for the future.

Most of the churches about which I'm writing are still active, I don't mean to speak as if they're dead, but I did come to view each as an individual and special specimen. I thought that if I had all the time and energy in the world, I might like to one day tour each one, learn its history, photograph and document it, and perhaps one day record them all in a book.

The Army, as it's wont to do, later moved me around and my Kansas chapter closed but my interest in churches only grew. On returning to the Northwoods I came to view our churches from some of that same perspective I acquired in Kansas, and I've endeavored to learn more about them.

In this series I will share some of the insights I've gained about them, their histories and their current health. I hope you enjoy it.

I know I've written far too much here and that this isn't The Atlantic. Oh how I hate the obnoxious verbosity of The Atlantic. I'll try to be more succinct going forward.

[Photo credit: Public Domain, Farm Security Administration or Office of War Information, United States Government]