Across The Fence: Before Barbed Wire

Dad sat comfortably on the one-legged milk stool, his capped head pressed firmly into the flank of 'Little Red' as he massaged the old cows udder.

Then, placing a galvanized bucket between his knees, he wrapped his fingers around her teats and began the rhythmic squeeze and pull that brought down the milk. The stream of milk against the buckets side drummed like the sound of a steady rain on a tin roof and brought the barn cats running.

I stood a few steps back, leaning against the smooth, stock-worn boards of the bunk behind the milking stall, my bare hands shoved deep into the denim pockets of my Big Smith overall's as I watched Dad begin the morning milking. A brisk fall breeze forced its way into the old barn through the gaping cracks that had gradually formed between ancient shiplap siding.

Dad grumbled words that I knew were not to be repeated, as the stream of warm milk, with a slight green tint, foamed into the bucket.

Despite my youth I knew that the green milk meant that the cats would be getting an extra helping and we humans would be adding a spoonful of sugar and a splash of vanilla extract to our mealtime glass of milk.

"Run on down to the hedgerow and throw those hedge apples out of the pasture," Dad instructed without breaking the steady rhythm of his milking.

Although, as a general rule, cattle don't make hedge apples a regular part of their diet. they will on occasion eat some of the so-called fruit when it falls to the ground. But when old 'Bossy' decides to make a meal from the fruit of the Bois d'arc. there are bitter consequences. Not for old 'Bossy,' but for those who are dependent on her produce.

I was scarcely 5 years old when the chore of keeping hedge apples out of the pasture was added to my list of responsibilities.

In northeast Kansas, hedgerows were a common sight across the rolling hills of fertile Missouri River Valley farm and ranchland. The last stand of hedge on our place was about a quarter of a mile stretch that ran north to south at the far corner of our main pasture. The original hedgerow had stretched for several miles, but over the decades had been cut back, used up and cleared out.

When I left my home place in the late 1960s, there were several large piles of cut and trimmed logs that were destined to become firewood or replacement posts for barbed wire fence lines. There were also a couple of upright stacks of eight- and 10-foot poles that leaned against each other like the lodge poles of a teepee. These stacks made great secret hideouts where, as a little boy, I would wiggle in between the poles to sit inside on the bare ground and relish the quiet solitude. Those stacks of logs and the short stretch of live hedge are now long gone.

In the late 1860s, about 18,000 bushels of Bois d'arc seeds were shipped from their natural habitat in Arkansas and Texas to territories in the northwest and central plains. These early seeds were sufficient to provide an estimated 60,000 miles of hedge fence.

On July 18, 1873, a little more than a year and a half before the patent and mass production of barbed wire, the Galveston News ran an article on the cost of fencing in the great state of Texas. The article bemoaned the required expense of "... one hundred and fifty millions of dollars" for farmers and ranchers to build needed fences using the traditional methods of wood plank and rails or stone.

The article ended with the observation that "owing to the great scarcity of timber in many parts of the state, we can scarcely expect to renew these fences with material similar to that now in use, and as neither stone nor wire can be brought into general use, our only economical alternative is to cultivate hedges or live fences, which cost but little to grow, will last for generations, require no repairs other than pruning, and will keep out stock of all kinds, large or small."

In the early 1900s, travelers through the plains of central Kansas and Nebraska as well as large portions of central Texas would frequently see the odd sight of long ribbons of green hedges that crisscrossed the otherwise bland and monotonous landscape. These hedges were the result of early fencing practices during the 1860s and 1870s in regions where timber and stone were unavailable.

As a substitute, the Bois d'arc, or Osage orange tree was used as a fast growing and hearty hedge. By 1871, this fencing substitute became the most popular alternative. It was reported that in Cloud County, Kan., 100 percent of the fences were Bois d'arc.

One of the earliest accounts of the tree was recorded by Scottish explorer William Dunbar in his journal of 1804 during his exploration of the Ouachita River. Meriwether Lewis sent cuttings of the tree to President Jefferson in March of 1804 but attempts to cultivate the tree from cuttings was unsuccessful. Early French settlers to the river valley where the tree was commonly found, gave it the name bois d'arc which means "bow-wood" as it was most often used by the Native Americans of that region for making war clubs and bows.

Lewis was told that the people of the Osage Nation regarded the wood of the tree so highly prized for making weapons "that they traveled many hundreds of miles in quest of it." The wood of the tree, being strong, flexible and durable was also common in the river bottoms of central Texas and was used by the Comanche in the making of their bows.

By 1878, the vast majority of fences on the plains were Bois d'arc hedge rows. A letter to the Galveston News on Jan. 17, 1878, signed N.F.G. ended with these words, "Barbed wire makes a good but barbarous fence, and ought to be dispensed with as soon as possible ... but for durability and efficiency nothing can equal a good hedge."

A few short months later, Glidden would patent his "steel barb fence wire" and the industrial revolution would make its greatest and longest lasting economic impact on the Great Plains. The original "horse high, pig tight and bull strong" Bois d'arc hedge fence was eventually replaced by widely spaced posts and millions of miles of barbed wire.

In 1934, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt launched the WPA project, "Great Plains Shelterbelt." The plan was intended to modify the dry weather patterns and aid in preventing the devastating soil erosion that was occurring on the Great Plains.

By 1942, the program had accounted for the planting of more than 30,000 shelterbelts containing 220 million Osage orange trees that covered nearly 19,000 miles.

I don't know when the hedge row on my growing up place in northeast Kansas was planted. I do know that the long, straight line of impenetrable, thorned branches was a part of our pasture fence where pheasant and quail sheltered. It was a place that in spite of the hard, sharp thorns I could climb above my youthful height and gaze out across the pastures, watch the sunlight ripple over the pond and listen to the quiet.

Once a year I would be obliged to pick up and chuck hundreds of softball-sized hedge apples out of the pasture, a chore that doubtless developed my ability to fire a baseball from deep center field all the way to home plate.

As we harvested the hedge row, we made our own indestructible fence posts, posts that my granddad, my dad and I set in fence lines that ran rifle-barrel straight. In fact, there are some of those posts, that granddad set nearly 100 years ago, that are still in use today.

Besides fence posts, Dad and I cut hundreds – if not thousands – of cords of firewood. Hedge burns longer and hotter than any other hardwood and it was hedge that we burned in our big iron stove for all of the winters that I lived there.

Using a two-man cross-cut saw, our every evening task – after all other chores were done – was to add as much wood to the pile as we could. I remember the smell of fresh, sweet sawdust and the sharp snap of wood as I drove a steel wedge across the grain. I remember the crackle of burning wood in the stove and the intense heat that often caused that old wood burner to glow red-hot in the dim light of a winter evening.

There are fewer and fewer hedgerows of Bois d'arc across this country as land is cleared for needed production. I think I may add some in the rows of our windbreak if for no other reason than nostalgia.

M. Timothy Nolting is an award-winning Nebraska columnist and freelance writer. Contact Tim via e-mail at [email protected]