Kathleen O'Neal Gear & W Michael Gear

Welcome to the online home of best selling authors Kathleen O'Neal Gear and W Michael Gear.

W. Michael Gear and Kathleen O’Neal Gear are best selling authors & award winning archaeologists who have written over 60 books.



We woke at 4:00 a.m. to discover it was raining, our first rainstorm of the year. Starlight was shining through gaps in the clouds, and the air was fragrant with the mingled scents of wet earth and drenched junipers. What all that means is that, for the moment, spring has arrived.

The thing about northern Wyoming, however, is that you may have a lovely few days in March, but they are inevitably followed by subzero temperatures, so we never put away our down coats until the end of May. Still, green grass and wildflowers are erupting everywhere. The hills have a faintly green shade and the buffalo have started to shed their heavy winter coats.

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It’s a cold cloudy afternoon here, 38 degrees. We’ve seen several days of sub-zero temperatures this month, which means the buffalo are growing long thick coats. Out the window in front of us, they are using their heads as snow shovels to get to the grass beneath the crusted ice. If you listen, and the wind is just right, you can hear them talking to each other in deep-throated rumbles. Like the echo of thunder in your dreams, buffalo voices seem to call to human beings, as they have for hundreds of thousands of years, promising that springtime, warmth, and renewal are not too distant. It’s a comforting sound. Probably because somewhere deep in the human consciousness, their voices mean food is near, and you and your children are safe.

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October, 2013


It’s snowing hard in northern Wyoming, our second snow in the past ten days, and a sure sign that summer is over. In anticipation of the storm, this morning we picked the last of our green tomatoes, as well as the tomatillos, tiny squashes, and squash blossoms. After dredging slices in egg and flour, we fried them in olive oil for lunch. They were delicious, more so because we knew they represented the last gasp of summer.

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Summer Newsletter, 2012

We woke up to a cool morning, 52 degrees, which is unusual for the first of August in northern Wyoming. As we sat on the porch with our cups of coffee, the sun rose over the red cliffs and shone out across the meadow where the buffalo were grazing. It’s always a quiet moment for us. The sight of grazing animals seems to touch something deep in the human soul that generates a sense of peace. Maybe it’s just the presence of the Wild so close. Maybe it’s because everything is connected to everything else and, for just a few moments, the boundary between animal and human ceases to exist, and we share the land and air as One.

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Greetings All!

It’s been a busy summer.  Last autumn, when we realized that THE DAWN COUNTRY--published in March of 2011--would be our 50th published novel, we decided to grant ourselves a special holiday. Not every author publishes fifty novels, let alone books requiring the complexity and research that ours do.  Our reward was a cruise that encompassed most of the classic archaeological sites in the Mediterranean. We toured sites beginning with the Cycladian/Minoan civilizations, the Etruscans, Ionian Greek, classical Greek, and the Hellenistic and Roman ruins at Ephesus. 

We walked the streets of ancient Carthage and toured the museum in Tunis, which houses the most extensive collection of Roman mosaics in the world.  It was spectacular.  Being there after the revolution was marvelous and we wish the Tunisian people all the success in building their new democracy. If they pull it off, they will become a beacon for the entire world.

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March Newsletter, 2012

We are delighted to announce!


MARCH 6, 2012

     Had you asked me the morning before the battle of Mabila, I would have told you I was prepared for the horror, the desperation, and the ensuing pain. I would have told you that the chance to kill the Adelantado, Hernando de Soto was worth the coming blood and misery. After all, we were fighting to save our world.”

     “Elder?” The Hopaye’s face swims into her vision, as if through clear water. “Let us help you up.  You’ve had too much sun. We need to move you into the shade...get you something to drink.”

     Hands reach out. She feels her bony body raised; the dank odor of sweaty people who press too close replaces the stench of Mabila.

     Absently, she says, “Black Shell?  Oh, Black Shell, the question still lingers: How many lives is a world worth?”

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