The 320

The Kysar Farms property in North Dakota actually consists of five separate pieces of land, totalling 1,162 acres, within about a 4 mile radius and only accessible via well-worn, dusty (or muddy, depending on the weather) county roads. They are named according to their size, in acres. For example, the home and lodge are located on the 160.

I’ve been to the 320 twice before, once with my Uncle Bud and once with my cousin, Kurt. Both times, we were in a pick-up truck and just drove straight across the property on a brush-hog path. Both times, the conversation centered around the lack of wildlife on the property as compared to the others. We’re not sure why, but the 320 is noticeably bereft of birds, pheasants in particular. Even though there are some mature trees and viable habitat cover, especially in the area of the original homestead, and the property is bordered on two sides by cropland (providing plenty of food for birds), it’s still a wildlife wasteland.

The property definitely has a different aura from the others, if a property can have an aura. It’s mysteriously melancholic winds blow through the tall grass with whispers of a bygone era. Bordered on the south side by an abandoned school house and on the north side by a century-old cemetery, this unassuming plot of land surely has stories to tell.

The silos still stand, four of them in all, as if they are simply patiently waiting for this year’s harvest to fill them up. They will stand empty again this year.

Backed by a double row of mature trees, some twisted by hard winters and strong winds, the silos and pump house are all that remain of the original homestead. The rest of the property is rugged, with buttes that provide stunning vistas of a part of North Dakota steeped in a tradition of farming. The land itself is rocky and uneven, undeniably providing a daily struggle to maintain crops and a constant search for water. Very little of the 320 was ever actually farmed. Most has always been left wild to the winds of time.

Coyotes have left their evidence behind, in the form of a lost cow’s carcass from a couple of years back, and, more recently, flattened grass where they have bedded down for the night and traces of scat scattered around the entire 320 acres. But, Denali and I didn’t even see a coyote that afternoon as we blazed new trails across the property on Big Red. Not a bird, not a field mouse, not a deer, not an animal anywhere. It might have been unsettling in its lack of life, but we found peace in its solitude. Bordered on two sides by active cropland and the other two sides by farmland populated with cattle, this isolated section of land is reserved for hunting. There is a kind of quiet justice in that.

Upon exploring the abandoned school house to the south, we found a two-story, four-room school with blackboards on three sides of each room with the fourth side being floor to ceiling windows. There were electrical outlets giving away the secret that it couldn’t have been abandoned terribly long.

Upon further research, I found out that Cherry Butte Consolidated School was built in 1913, three years after the town of Regent was founded with a population greater than 200. Consolidated schools were a new concept at the time, replacing the lacking education offered in rural one-room school houses. Students had to travel many miles to attend school here, but classes were larger and teachers better trained. Transportation was provided for the students via horse and buggy.

The main intent of the Consolidated School concept was to provide an education for country kids that was equal to a city education. Unfortunately, shortly after Regent’s peak population hit 405 in 1950, farming methods became more mechanized, land was consolidated, and traditional homesteads were abandoned along with the Cherry Butte School.

The school yard is now overgrown but the metal playground equipment stands strong as a reminder of the strength and resolve engendered in rural America.

The cattle in the adjoining pasture are curious and eager reminders that progress has its victors as well as its victims.

On our way home, Denali and I stopped at the cemetery bordering the north side of the property. Knee to waist high grass has long since buried any grave markers. The only tell-tale signs that it’s even a cemetery are the rusty iron gate and the fact that this small plot of fenced-off land isn’t harvested. There is something innately sad about a cemetery that’s been forgotten. Perhaps the spirits of the residents there now spend their days roaming the 320, since it’s the only peaceful, unharvested property for several miles. Perhaps that is where the overwhelming sense of melancholy comes from.