As is normal for this time of year, we’ve had some strong wind days during the past three to four months. But, just as for heat, or its absence, cold—or for the force of gravity-- we know the existence of wind only by its actions. No one has seen the wind, but “when the trees bow down their limbs, the wind is passing by.” 

A common reminder of wind from decades past was the presence of numerous windmills drawing ground water for humans and livestock. The modern wind-driven turbine is increasingly being used to generate electrical energy. And on hot days we always welcome a cooling breeze.

Most of us are enthralled by the rare glassy smooth, mirrored surface of some lake or stream, but most usually the wind, to some degree—sometimes violently—is pushing the surface into waves. I’ve heard that, because of the long north/south “fetch” of the Tuttle Creek Reservoir, a strong north or south wind can push the water into waves five to six feet high. Some days no sort of boat normally purchased in this area is safe out on the reservoir.

Strong wind currents from various types of storms have caused many airplane and ship wrecks and brought untold amounts of destruction to human lives, homes, schools, churches, factories, businesses and infrastructure, and trees.  The sea off Cape Hatteras, part of the coastline of North Carolina, has been called “The Graveyard of the Atlantic.” We live in “Tornado Alley,” an area that encompasses much of the Midwest and the South, and increasingly the Upper Midwest and East. Our Atlantic coast is known as “Hurricane Alley.” And in California, residents dread the annual onslaught of the Santa Ana winds. In New England, it’s the windy “Nor’easter” storms that especially can cause trouble. Many Kansans, and surely including numerous MLH residents, have tales to tell about the effects the wind had on topsoil during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. 

One of the countless examples of regionalism of awareness and of attitudes is that the Dust Bowl was an abstraction for this pre-teen farm boy during the 1930s in the Missouri River Bottomlands some 100 miles east of Kansas City. I recall one day, early dusk, when I was walking with my Dad from the barn after he had milked our Jersey cow. I asked him about the unusually orangish sunset sky. He remarked that it was “just Kansas blowing by.”

One prediction from students of climate change is that storms from driven winds will increase in both number and intensity. It seems that we are seeing that trend now. The insurance industry is reeling from the deluge of claims brought from the greatly increased damages sustained from such storms; we now speak of an increased number of storms and of billion-dollar-storms. And the industry has been forced to realize that both wind and water have to be considered when assessing damages from hurricanes.

However, without the effects of wind, we would not have certain of the natural spectacles we enjoy. The huge piles of sand we see in Great Sand Dunes National Park in southern Colorado are the result of winds blowing for eons of time across the broad, flat and dry San Luis Valley west of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, picking up and piling sand up against the western flank of those mountains.  And wind surely played a major role in forming the giant dunes of the Sahara Desert in Africa, those of the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore in Michigan, as well as the dunes we sometimes see in other deserts and along some seacoasts.

Another type of soil displacement results in what are called Loess Hills (pronounced luss), a German word meaning “loose,” which refers to a gritty, yellowish-to grayish-tan type of soil often made up mostly of sand and clay. These sediments can be found blown into hills in eastern China, north-central Europe and in our own Midwest. By far the largest assemblage of loess hills in our Midwest is the 200-mile long strip (up to 25 miles deep east-to-west) in Iowa just east of the Missouri River. Some of these hills are 250 feet high, among the tallest known.  

In the Midwest, the Loess Hill story began some 25-30 thousand years ago when the great ice sheet covering the Midwest as far down as the NE corner of Kansas began to melt and recede from the area. As the glaciers melted—mostly during summers--water filled the Missouri River Basin. With winter—and reduced melting—the water level in the basin dropped, and large amounts of silt were left behind, exposed. Much of that silt was swept up by the strong winds of that time and dropped mostly just east of the Missouri River, in western Iowa. This cycle was repeated over thousands of winters until about 12,000 years ago.

A road cut through a loess hill shows the lack of that stratification into layers of clay, limestone, shale, dolomite, etc., that we see in a typical Flint Hills road cut. Loess soil is very loosely organized and easily subject to erosion. People have settled in these hills, but much care has to be taken with how the soil is disturbed or tilled.

No wonder our language is permeated with words and expressions related to the concept of moving air. We sometimes speak of a strong wind as a blow. We speak of a puff of this-or-that, describe as all puffed-up someone who is mouthy, boastful or cocky. We blow up tires and also blow them out by hitting a sharp object while driving; blow off a person, meeting, idea, or an opportunity; blow up a balloon.  We blow up at someone, blow up things with explosives, while our plans and dreams sometimes blow up. We speak of having the wind at our backs.  We test the wind when we float a new idea. But all is not lost; we do blow kisses to loved ones and friends—on the wind.