It's Not Flat

When folks find out I am from Nebraska, the first thing they usually say, well after some comment about football, is "it's pretty flat and boring out there, isn't it?"

It's neither. Nebraska is transitional between boring Iowa and supposedly exciting Colorado. (The California know-it-alls have taken over Colorado and ruined the state.) I won't include Wyoming in on this because Wyoming is truely eye candy.

But there has to be a little building to go from 1,000 feet above sea level to those 12,000 foot snowcaps out west. Hense, the natural beauty of Nebraska.

You don't need to drive more than about 20 miles into Nebraska before you get a taste of something neat. You'll have to cross the Platte River to get anywhere on Interstate 80. You'll see lots of sandbars from this famous river that cuts right through the middle of Nebraska. Sometimes, it's a mile wide and an inch deep and out by Gothenburg, you will have to search to find it because the water has been diverted for irrigation purposes. Further West, the Platte becomes Mr. Rugged again. Keep in mind, the Platte is not just a river. It's America's pathway--the Oregon and Mormon Trails wandered along with the Platte. To the Northwest is the Nebraska Sandhills and if you liked the rugged beauty you saw in Dances With Wolves, the Sandhills are for you. The Sandhills are often called the Great American Desert because that is what it was a few hundred years before football came to Nebraska.

Take Highway 26 out of Ogallala and you will see the mountains starting to form. You'll soon come across great bluffs and wonderful vistas. You will follow the North Platte as it points you toward Chimney Rock and Wyoming. The Union Pacific Railroad line will keep you company as you drive along and go up and down the great hills of Western Nebraska--a great challenge for anyone with a road bike who wants a nice challenging ride through history.

Nebraska is more that football. It's beautiful. Take a good look at that vista pic and judge for yourself. I took it from outside of my car and not a plane because it popped up out of nowhere and wowed me. Nebraska just might wow you, too!

Markers

I have lived in Nebraska most of my life. During that time, I have had a number of license plates which displayed Chimney Rock. I have also heard the arguments that using this old symbol doesn't really reflect the Nebraska of today.

They're wrong.

It was downright foggy yesterday morning when I started my drive home from Scottsbluff. (I have never been there either and came away with new feelings about that rugged beauty of the area.) There were two choices I could make for my drive home. I could make a beeline for Kimball and pick up Interstate 80 an aim at Omaha or I could take a two lane highway through the middle of what some would call, nowhere.

I chose nowhere. What the heck, this was my two day vacation and it was only about 100 miles of nowhere before I was back on I-80 to somewhere via Ogallala. (That's a town named after the Sioux Indian tribe that did Custer in.)

About 30 or so miles down the road to nowhere is Bridgeport, Nebraska; the home of Chimney Rock. Now mind you, we are going the opposite direction of the pioneers who got pretty excited when they saw this first big sign on the highway to Oregon. They had probably heard the stories about folks who made contact with the Sioux and other tribes. They had probably heard the rattle of the king of Nebraska snakes. They had probably admired the meandering Platte River which lead them to this great marker. And now I was drawn to it, too. Backwards of course, but for friends that know me, that is somehow fitting.

But it was foggy. I mean really foggy. As anyone who has studied fog knows, the green shades are more brilliant than the brown shades. That means the view to my left of the North Platte River was spectacular. Cat tails are at their full growth. The grasses of summer barely moved in the morning fog. The river moved along in silence as it made its way around sandbars and little islands of green. The bugs seemed to be sleeping in. In the distance, the bluffs started to appear again. They looked like drawings in light brown pen and ink on light brown parchment. There was just a hint of something there.

But where was Chimney Rock?

I got more help that the pioneers did. There was no handy sign next to the Oregon Trail that said...Chimney Rock Visitor's Center, 2 miles ahead. I made the turn onto the country road. I could see a bluff. Then there was an opening. Then there was a mound. A mound? Could that be it? Could that great spire be up there above that mound in the morning fog? A building and a gate appeared. It was the visitor's center and it was closed until 9:00am. The mound was directly behind the center so this must be Chimney Rock. I climbed over the gate and walked in. There was a sign telling me to stay on the sidewalk because rattlesnakes were common in this area. Fair deal.

Normally, you would think there would be some other tourists like me waiting to get in but I was all alone. There was not a sound as God prepared to lift the gray curtain on the coming day. Not even a moo from the distant cows. Not even a rattle. Thank you, Lord.

I walked around with one eye trained on the mound and one eye trained on the ground for any movement at all. Finally, God's paint brush went to work. Through the mist of that Western Nebraska sky, the spire started to appear. I wondered how a pioneer boy, walking along the river about a mile away must have thought when he realized that mound was not a mound at all. It was Chimney Rock and they were indeed on the right path to Oregon. No doubt they had seen some hard times coming across Nebraska. Axle deep mud. Grumpy Indians. Grumpy snakes. Grumpy wagons and grumpy oxen that pulled them. Grumpy weather. But finally, a place of hope. A sign of hope. A marker of hope.

I could have waited until the fog burned off and got a typical postcard picture of Chimney Rock but I really liked this one. I found it in the fog. That's how a lot of my life has seemed to have gone. I have found it in the fog.

But now I have also found another marker. And at least today, in this silence of a foggy Nebraska morning, I feel at peace inside. So far in my 62 years, the journey has been a good one.