Ashley County Now (2025)

14/10/2025

The Living Corridor: Owls, Bobcats, and the Continuum of Life

(From “The Deep Past of the Lower Ouachita” — Ashley County Now Series)
by K. Brad Barfield

Long after the mounds went quiet and the drums faded into memory, the forest remained alive with motion. Between the Ouachita and the Saline, life still moves along the same invisible highways that carried the first hunters, the first farmers, and the first prayers. The riverine corridor—those sinuous threads of water, woods, and wetland—is still a living continuum, binding the past to the present through fur, feather, and claw.

Here, ecology is not a backdrop to history—it is the continuation of it. The same terrain that sustained the Caddo and Quapaw continues to shelter their silent descendants: the owls that watch, the bobcats that prowl, and the deer that slip between the cypress roots at dusk. In the dim green light beneath the canopy, time folds upon itself.

The Owl’s Domain

In every Indigenous tradition along the Ouachita, the owl occupies a place of mystery. To the Caddo, it was a messenger of the unseen world—a watcher between realms, feared and revered in equal measure. To hear its cry at night was to be reminded that the forest is never truly empty.

The barred owl, with its haunting refrain—who cooks for you, who cooks for you all—is the most common voice of the bottomlands. Its sound drifts like an echo through the cypress brakes and over the quiet waters of Felsenthal. The great horned owl, larger and more solitary, rules the upland ridges. Both species hunt from perches once used by men for fishing and by women for gathering cane and clay.

The owl’s wisdom, in the Caddoan worldview, was balance. It could see through darkness, but not for conquest—for comprehension. To know when to strike and when to wait was the heart of survival. In this sense, the owl was both predator and philosopher—the embodiment of patience that mirrored the slow cycles of the river.

The Bobcat’s Path

If the owl represents knowledge, the bobcat is motion—the quiet persistence of life that refuses to vanish. Known to move along the same creek systems used by Indigenous hunters for millennia, the bobcat is both elusive and ever-present. Its padded feet leave barely a mark in the mud, yet its presence defines the health of the ecosystem.

Modern ecological surveys confirm what ancient people already knew: apex and mid-level predators like the bobcat are essential to equilibrium. They regulate populations of rodents and rabbits, prevent overbrowsing of seedlings, and ensure the regeneration of the forest. The Caddo would have seen this as part of the moral order of creation—each being carrying responsibility within the web.

The bobcat’s den, often carved into hollow cypress stumps or beneath riverbank roots, mirrors the old Indigenous campsites—sheltered, dry, close to the water, and always within earshot of the forest. In the reflective light of an early morning slough, one might see its shadow ripple across the surface—a reminder that even in our absence, the river still keeps its guardians.

A Chain Unbroken

The continuity of life along the Ouachita is not an accident—it is the natural consequence of the river’s endurance. The very geography that sustained ancient cultures sustains modern wildlife. The oxbow lakes and bottomland hardwood forests form one of the last intact ecological corridors in the southeastern United States, allowing species to migrate, adapt, and thrive.

The Felsenthal National Wildlife Refuge, though designed in the twentieth century, unknowingly perpetuates a Caddoan principle: protection through respect. Its mission—to preserve habitat, waterfowl, and biodiversity—echoes the old belief that stewardship and gratitude are the same thing.

In a world where wild spaces shrink daily, Felsenthal stands as proof that the old wisdom still breathes. The barred owl’s call and the bobcat’s track are living footnotes in the same story begun ten thousand years ago.

The Human Thread

Modern people sometimes forget that we, too, are part of the corridor. The same rains that feed the Ouachita fill our wells. The same cypress roots that hold the riverbank in place prevent the erosion of our own foundations. The same pulse of seasonal flooding that nourished Caddo cornfields now sustains the hardwood forests that purify our air.

To walk through the bottomlands is to walk into one’s own ancestry, whether by blood or by belonging. Every species here, every sound and shadow, carries a fraction of the same old intelligence that guided the first settlers of the land. The deer’s trail is the same one that led to clay pits and fish traps. The call of the barred owl is the same one that marked the evening’s turning of the world.

Silence as Continuity

If you stand still long enough in the deep woods near Felsenthal, silence itself becomes the teacher. The wind through cane, the dripping of water from moss, the wingbeat of an unseen bird—these are the syllables of a language older than speech. To the ancient peoples of the Ouachita, these sounds were not background—they were the voice of the land, speaking of renewal and belonging.

When a bobcat slips past or an owl turns its head toward you, it is not coincidence. It is the land acknowledging your presence. It is the continuation of dialogue between the living and the remembering.

The Continuum of Life

The Caddo, Quapaw, and their ancestors believed that the spirit world and the natural world were not separate realms but one continuous cycle. The owl that hunts above the river may carry the spirit of an elder; the bobcat that watches from the bank may bear the memory of an ancient hunter. Such ideas were not superstition—they were recognition of connection.

Even today, biologists studying animal migration patterns in the region often marvel at how instinct leads creatures along the same ancient routes used by early humans. It is as if the river itself encoded its knowledge into every being that walks beside it.

The Ouachita remains a living bridge between epochs. Its corridors hold both history and hope—the assurance that as long as the forest breathes, the story will never end.

Sources

Derived from The Deep Past of the Lower Ouachita.txt, supported by the following works by K. Brad Barfield:
The Soul of the Bottomlands; An Ecological Profile of the Bobcat; 2: The Owls of Ashley County, Arkansas; Riverine Lifeways in Southeast Arkansas; The Return to Felsenthal; Indigenous History Along the Ouachita River.

14/10/2025

The Caddoan Synthesis: Wisdom of Field and Forest

(From “The Deep Past of the Lower Ouachita” — Ashley County Now Series)
by K. Brad Barfield

The Caddo people did not build kingdoms of stone—they built balance. Their empire was not measured by conquest or gold, but by how gently they could live within the pulse of their rivers, forests, and fields. In the wide valleys of the Ouachita, the Caddo perfected what might be called a synthesis of field and forest, a union of cultivation and wildness that remains one of the most sophisticated ecological systems ever developed on this continent.

Their legacy was not simply the earthen mound or the finely engraved pot. It was a worldview—a way of being human in rhythm with nature. Across thousands of years, they wove together agriculture, foraging, spiritual ceremony, and environmental awareness into a single enduring pattern. That pattern—the Caddoan synthesis—is still visible today in the way the Ouachita landscape holds its own memory, refusing to separate culture from ecology.

The Agricultural Web

By the eleventh century, Caddo farmers had mastered the art of sustainable abundance. Their gardens along the Ouachita floodplain were carefully chosen—high enough to escape the spring floods but low enough to receive their silt. The Three Sisters—corn, beans, and squash—formed the base of their agricultural web. Each crop served the others: the corn rose tall and straight, the beans climbed its stalks, and the broad squash leaves shaded the soil, preserving moisture.

But the Caddo did not abandon the wild. Their fields were bordered by forest gardens where persimmon, pawpaw, mulberry, and black walnut grew in deliberate arrangement. They managed these woods with fire, pruning, and harvest, ensuring a constant rotation of food and materials. Their “wild” forests were anything but—they were cultivated ecosystems long before the word “ecology” was ever spoken.

In the uplands, they tended patches of native to***co, used in ceremony and diplomacy. Along the sloughs, they gathered lotus root, cattail pollen, and the edible bulbs of arrowhead plants. To the Caddo, every niche had purpose; every season brought a new chapter of the same endless story of interdependence.

The Language of Fire

Fire was the Caddo’s oldest tool and their most sacred. Controlled burns cleared undergrowth, renewed grasses, and drew deer and turkey to the edges of new shoots. Fire created balance—too much, and the forest suffered; too little, and it choked itself. In this way, they tended the landscape as one might tend a household hearth, with attention and restraint.

Even their ceremonies reflected this understanding. The Sacred Fire, burning atop the temple mound, was both literal and symbolic. It represented the life of the community, the eternal dialogue between destruction and renewal. When fields were burned after harvest, it was not just agriculture—it was prayer.

Art as Ecology

Caddo art mirrored their ecological harmony. Pottery designs often carried motifs of water, wind, and serpentine movement—the same patterns that shaped the river. Engravings of concentric circles or interlocking spirals symbolized the balance between human and natural cycles. In these forms, one can see the philosophy of interconnection—the idea that the shape of a pot and the curve of a river are made from the same gesture.

Even their burial vessels reflected this continuity. Many Caddo pots were made with crushed shards from earlier generations, literally binding ancestry into each new creation. The vessel, like the field, was never created from scratch—it was always grown from what came before.

Knowledge Without Writing

The Caddoan synthesis was not taught in schools or written in texts—it was passed through oral tradition, observation, and imitation. Elders taught children to read the seasons by the color of the sky, to know the fish by the feel of water, to listen to birds not for song but for information. Knowledge was embodied, not archived.

In this world, philosophy was practical and daily. The way you built your house, burned your field, or stirred your pot was part of your theology. The riverbank was both classroom and cathedral. To live well was to understand your own impermanence—that your footprints, like your ancestors’, would soon be taken by the next flood.

A Living Equilibrium

This synthesis—neither primitive nor pastoral—represents a level of environmental intelligence modern societies still struggle to match. The Caddo did not romanticize nature; they cooperated with it. Their management practices maintained biodiversity, prevented soil depletion, and promoted resilience against climate shifts.

Even the structure of their towns reflected equilibrium. Ceremonial centers stood at the crossroads of trade routes and ecological zones—where upland and lowland met, where wetland turned to ridge. Villages were arranged in circles, echoing both the sun and the flow of time. No corner of their world was wasted; no part of it stood apart.

Modern Echoes

Walk through the Crossett Experimental Forest today, or stand at the edge of the Felsenthal bottomlands, and the pattern still whispers through the canopy. The pine, the oak, the cypress—all grow in a quiet choreography of succession that mirrors the ancient cycles. The bobcat moves through the understory just as it did a thousand years ago, and the barred owl still calls over the same pools that once reflected Caddo fires.

Even modern ecological science, with its talk of “sustainable systems” and “regenerative design,” is only now beginning to rediscover what the Caddo practiced as second nature. Their agriculture was permaculture. Their forestry was selective harvest. Their theology was ecology.

The Thread That Endures

When the European world arrived with its boundaries and economies, the Caddo system fractured under pressure—but it did not vanish. Its wisdom persisted in memory, song, and story. It passed into the oral traditions of the Quapaw and Chickasaw, into the field habits of early settlers who unknowingly borrowed their fire cycles and planting patterns, and into the very soil that still responds to the same rhythms.

The Caddoan synthesis is not merely history—it is instruction. It shows that civilization and sustainability are not opposites. They are the same word spoken in different tongues. And the Ouachita River, still flowing through this ancient classroom, remains the teacher.

Sources

Derived from The Deep Past of the Lower Ouachita.txt, supported by the following works by K. Brad Barfield:
The Caddoan Synthesis: An Examination of Prehistoric Wisdom; Riverine Lifeways in Southeast Arkansas; Currents of Culture: Life on the Saline and Ouachita Rivers; The Return to Felsenthal; The Soul of the Bottomlands; Indigenous History Along the Ouachita River.

14/10/2025

Felsenthal: The Sacred Refuge of Water and Time

(From “The Deep Past of the Lower Ouachita” — Ashley County Now Series)
by K. Brad Barfield

In the deep south of Arkansas, where the Ouachita River folds upon itself in looping curves of memory and mud, lies a place that has seen the rise and fall of every chapter told in this series: Felsenthal. To the mapmaker, it is a refuge—36,000 acres of floodplain forest, cypress brake, and oxbow lake. To the archaeologist, it is a living archive—home to more than two hundred recorded sites spanning ten thousand years of human history. But to those who know the land by heart, Felsenthal is something older still: a cathedral of water, where time itself moves in circles, not lines.

It is here that the voices of the Ouachita’s past still echo most clearly—where the hunter’s flint, the potter’s shard, and the fisherman’s net weight still rest in the same soil as the boot prints of modern men. The mounds rise like vertebrae of a buried world, and each flood renews the script, carrying the old stories into new sediment. Felsenthal is the Ouachita’s memory made visible.

The Landscape That Remembers

From above, Felsenthal appears as a vast mosaic of water and forest—a labyrinth of sloughs, creeks, and old river channels that seem to have minds of their own. The Ouachita bends and doubles back, meeting the Saline River and then spreading into the great bottomlands of Ashley and Union Counties. Each bend is a boundary, and each oxbow is a page torn from an ancient book.

Long before the refuge was established, this land was a corridor of life for the Caddo, Quapaw, and earlier peoples. Its high natural levees provided dry ground for villages; its swamps and lakes yielded fish, mussels, and waterfowl in endless supply. The archaeological record here is among the richest in the Southeast: Paleoindian points on terrace ridges, Archaic shell middens along slough banks, Woodland and Coles Creek mounds on natural rises, and Caddoan village sites clustered near the confluence.

Each cultural layer adds a voice to the chorus. Together, they tell a story of continuity without interruption—a people who lived within the flood rather than against it.

The River’s Pulse

To walk through Felsenthal is to feel the river breathing. The water rises and falls twenty feet between seasons, reshaping the land like a slow-moving sculptor. This natural rhythm, once dreaded by engineers, was the same pulse that sustained millennia of Indigenous life. Floods brought fresh silt for crops, filled fish ponds, and nourished the cypress roots that held the banks together.

Modern humanity has long tried to tame this rhythm. In 1980, the Felsenthal Lock and Dam was completed, permanently altering the hydrology of the lower Ouachita. It raised water levels to aid navigation and created a vast reservoir where backwaters and bayous merged. Yet even within this engineered basin, the ancient pattern persists. The river still rises. The river still retreats. The pulse continues, just beneath the veneer of control.

The Felsenthal National Wildlife Refuge, established in 1975, was conceived partly as mitigation—to protect what would otherwise have been drowned or forgotten. In doing so, it inadvertently preserved something even greater: one of the most complete cultural landscapes in North America.

A Sanctuary for Memory

The refuge today stands as a sanctuary not only for egrets, deer, and black bears, but for the memory of the land itself. Each archaeological site—whether a small scatter of pottery or a massive mound complex—represents a heartbeat in time. The Hogpen Slough, Pond Creek, and Cross Bayou areas all contain sites that span thousands of years, where prehistoric life can still be traced in fire pits, postholes, and shell piles.

To stand on a mound in early morning fog, the cypress knees rising like sentinels, is to glimpse the layered continuity of existence. The air hums with the sound of insects, the whisper of wings, the murmur of water under leaves. Somewhere beneath your boots may lie a hearth once tended by a Caddo woman boiling fish stew, her pottery marked with spiral motifs echoing the river’s curves. The earth remembers her hands, and the water still moves to her rhythm.

From Wilderness to Refuge

Felsenthal’s transition from inhabited wilderness to protected refuge reflects the paradox of modern conservation. In saving the land, we often erase the human story that shaped it. The word “refuge” implies something unpeopled, untouched, but Felsenthal has never been that. It was cultivated, fished, burned, prayed upon, and named by countless generations before the first surveyor drove a stake. The soil is cultural, not empty.

Archaeologists working in the refuge today are rediscovering what the Caddo and Quapaw always knew: that ecology and culture are the same conversation. The patterns of settlement follow the same logic as the movements of deer or fish—the search for balance, for continuity, for life lived in rhythm with the flood.

The Sacredness of Water

The Indigenous understanding of the Ouachita’s waters was profoundly spiritual. To the Caddo, water was both ancestor and messenger—the medium between worlds. Sacred fire and sacred water were complementary powers: one consumed, the other renewed. Felsenthal, with its endless reflections and submerged forests, remains a living symbol of that balance.

Each morning when fog rolls over the sloughs, the world seems half-dream, half-memory. The lanterns of early fishermen glint on the surface where the sacred fires once burned. Every ripple is an echo. Every tree is an altar.

The Refuge as Testament

In the end, Felsenthal is not a monument—it is a testament. It proves that a landscape, if left to breathe, will tell its own story. It holds within it the intertwined destinies of nature and humanity, tragedy and renewal.

The water still floods the same lowlands. The owls still call through the same trees. And when the river rises high enough, it erases the boundaries between now and then. The mounds become islands, the past becomes present, and the Ouachita remembers everything.

Here, at the confluence of rivers and histories, the land endures as both witness and teacher—a sacred refuge of water and time.

Sources

Derived from The Deep Past of the Lower Ouachita.txt, supported by the following works by K. Brad Barfield:
The Return to Felsenthal; Riverine Lifeways in Southeast Arkansas; The Soul of the Bottomlands; Currents of Culture: Life on the Saline and Ouachita Rivers; Indigenous History Along the Ouachita River; The Caddoan Synthesis: An Examination of Prehistoric Wisdom.

14/10/2025

Ashley County Now Presents
Clay, Fire, and Memory: Conversations on Caddo Craft and Culture
Series Introduction — “The Fire Returns”

Tomorrow, beginning at 4:00 AM on Wednesday, October 15th, 2025, Ashley County Now will publish a new sixteen-part essay series titled “Clay, Fire, and Memory: Conversations on Caddo Craft and Culture.”
Each essay will appear every hour on the hour until 8:00 PM, guiding readers through a full day’s reflection on one of the oldest and most beautiful traditions ever rooted in the soil of southeast Arkansas: the art, philosophy, and enduring legacy of the Caddo people.

This series began as a conversation—between Brad and Gemini, between curiosity and reverence, between the past and the present. What started as a question—How did they first figure this out?—grew into a long, thoughtful journey through thousands of years of ingenuity. Together, we traced the story of how the Caddo and their ancestors turned earth and fire into meaning.

From dawn to dusk tomorrow, we’ll walk that story one vessel at a time. Each essay—written by K. Brad Barfield—explores a different chapter in the dialogue between humans and the land: the discovery of clay, the mastery of fire, the evolution of form, the role of women’s hands, the meaning of burial, and the ongoing revival of Caddo pottery in our own time. Across sixteen pieces, readers will see how the Ouachita and Saline Rivers shaped not just landscapes but thought itself—how observation became art, and how art became philosophy.

The Caddo story is a story of continuity. Every pot, every pattern, every act of creation built upon what came before. Broken pieces were not discarded—they were crushed into new clay, strengthening future vessels with the memory of past fires. Through this series, we’ll see that the same principle holds true for culture itself. The wisdom of the Caddo still tempers our understanding of who we are and where we come from.

Each essay is written in the voice and rhythm of Ashley County Now—part historical reflection, part local meditation. It’s a project that honors both scholarship and spirit, linking archaeology with imagination. You’ll travel from the earliest hearths of the Ouachita basin to modern Caddo workshops in Oklahoma, where descendants still shape clay in the same coiled rhythm, still listen for the same language of earth and flame.

Tomorrow’s Reading Schedule
🕓 4:00 AM — Introduction: The First Fire of Civilization
🕔–🕗 5:00 AM to 8:00 PM — Fifteen Stand-Alone Essays, one each hour, from The Magic of Mud to The Circle Reforms
🕗 8:00 PM — Closing: The Echo Beneath the Earth

From early morning light to the quiet blue of evening, each hour’s essay will build upon the last—sixteen parts forming one continuous vessel of understanding. Readers are invited to follow the series throughout the day or return to it at any hour; like the river itself, the current flows in cycles, not lines.

As the autumn sun rises over the Ouachita lowlands, Clay, Fire, and Memory will remind us that we, too, are shaped by the elements we live among. The clay beneath our feet, the air that feeds the fire, the water that smooths and cools—it’s all the same earth that shaped the first Caddo hands. And if we listen closely, we might still hear the echo of that ancient conversation.

Tomorrow, the fire returns.

By K. Brad Barfield
Adapted from Brad and Gemini discuss Caddo Culture (conversation text).

14/10/2025

Broken Calumet: Treaties, Colonies, and the River of Loss

(From “The Deep Past of the Lower Ouachita” — Ashley County Now Series)
by K. Brad Barfield

The smoke of the calumet, once a sacred bond between nations, began to fade in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries as a new kind of wind swept through the river valleys—one carrying parchment, seals, and foreign tongues. The rivers of the Caddo and Quapaw, which had long flowed through a landscape of ceremony and reciprocity, became lines on European maps, drawn by men who mistook possession for understanding.

From the first fragile alliances with the French to the later intrusions of the Spanish and the Americans, the Ouachita River Basin became a stage upon which treaties were offered, signed, and broken—each one a severing of the old world’s harmony. Yet even as the ink dried on documents written in distant capitals, the people of this land continued to move with the current, adapting and surviving, their songs growing quieter but never ceasing.

The French and the Fire

When the French arrived in the late 1600s, they came differently than the Spanish had. They came not with armor and whips, but with muskets, mirrors, and trade goods. They did not conquer the land—they courted it. For nearly a century, French traders and missionaries built relationships with the Caddo and Quapaw, blending diplomacy with commerce.

From Natchitoches and New Orleans, French voyageurs paddled north into the Ouachita, exchanging guns, iron tools, and cloth for salt, hides, and horses. They shared to***co and pipe ceremonies with Quapaw leaders, smoked the calumet, and called them “friends of France.” Yet even these friendships had shadows. The introduction of European trade goods began to shift old balances of power, subtly transforming the fabric of Indigenous life.

Fi****ms altered hunting. Iron replaced stone. Cloth replaced hides. The Ouachita became a river of exchange, but the currency now came from foreign hands.

The Spanish Shadow

After 1763, when France ceded Louisiana to Spain following the Seven Years’ War, a new flag fluttered above the river’s mouth. The Spanish authorities, centered in New Orleans, sought to control the trade networks that had once flowed freely between the Ouachita and Red Rivers. They built small outposts, issued permits, and demanded allegiance. Yet their reach into the deep interior was tenuous.

The people of the Ouachita continued to live as they always had—Caddo farmers, Quapaw fishermen, and traders of mixed ancestry who carried the legacy of both worlds. The Spanish, like the French before them, often depended on Indigenous guides and interpreters just to navigate the waterway’s winding oxbows and bayous. The Europeans may have claimed the land, but they never truly knew it.

Treaties and Translations

The real conquest came not by sword but by signature. In the decades after the Louisiana Purchase of 1803, American surveyors, merchants, and speculators poured into the Ouachita Basin, armed not with guns but with ledgers and laws. The treaties that followed were as confusing as they were devastating.

The Caddo, pressed by debt and diminishing hunting grounds, were coerced into ceding their lands through a series of agreements that stretched from 1803 to 1835. The most infamous, the Caddo Cession of 1835, was signed near modern-day Shreveport and surrendered nearly a million acres of ancestral homeland—including vast stretches of the Ouachita valley—in exchange for a pittance of goods and promises.

The Quapaw fared no better. After signing the Treaty of 1818, they were forced from their Arkansas homeland to lands near the Red River. A second treaty in 1824 further stripped their territory, sending them to what would later become Indian Territory, in present-day Oklahoma. The treaties, written in languages they did not fully understand and interpreted by intermediaries with conflicting loyalties, marked the unraveling of centuries of stewardship.

The calumet, once the symbol of balance and sacred promise, had become a diplomatic prop—a tool of manipulation wielded by men who understood ceremony but not sincerity.

The River of Exile

By the mid-nineteenth century, the Ouachita had changed form yet again. What had once been a spiritual highway of exchange had become a corridor of displacement. Canoes that had once carried trade goods now carried families moving westward against their will. The same waters that had nourished villages now witnessed their abandonment.

Settlers and surveyors carved the landscape into property, renaming creeks and ridges after their own families, their measurements erasing what oral history had preserved. Mounds were plowed flat for cornfields. The ancient saltworks became industrial brine wells. Even the great bends of the river were dredged and straightened in time.

But beneath this transformation, the older geography endured—quietly, defiantly. Each oxbow retained its arc. Each flood still carved the same sacred lines. The river refused to forget.

Fragments of Friendship

Despite centuries of deception, not all relationships were lost. Some French families remained intertwined with Caddo and Quapaw descendants, their surnames lingering in southern Arkansas’s early censuses. A few American officials—most notably local Indian agents and missionaries—advocated for Indigenous rights, documenting languages and customs that would otherwise have vanished. Their journals, written along the Ouachita and Saline, preserve fragments of a friendship that once defined the land.

The calumet itself, that sacred pipe, persisted too. Among the Quapaw and Caddo descendants today, the act of smoking in council remains a ritual of peace and remembrance. Each exhalation is a reminder that breath, not ink, is what binds people to one another.

A River Remembered

To tell the story of the treaties and the colonies is to tell the story of a broken promise. Yet it is also to recognize the endurance of those who refused to disappear. The Ouachita still runs through Caddo and Quapaw memory; it still carries their language in the names of its creeks, its ridges, its songs.

Every time the water rises and the mounds glisten in the mist, the land seems to whisper: We remember. The treaties failed, the papers faded, but the river endures—its current carrying both loss and resilience.

The calumet’s smoke may have scattered, but the covenant of the land remains unbroken.

Sources

Derived from The Deep Past of the Lower Ouachita.txt, supported by the following works by K. Brad Barfield:
The Ogáxpa in Arkansas: A History of the Quapaw; The Caddoan Synthesis: An Examination of Prehistoric Wisdom; Riverine Lifeways in Southeast Arkansas; The Return to Felsenthal; Currents of Culture: Life on the Saline and Ouachita Rivers; The Soul of the Bottomlands.

Ashley County Now

14/10/2025

14/10/2025

14/10/2025

14/10/2025

14/10/2025

Address

Telephone

Website

Alerts

Contact The Business

Shortcuts

Share