I Just Tried to Ford the Platte and All My Oxen Died
It’s a horrible thing to wake up and realize you’re in Nebraska.
Such was the case this morning, as I found myself in the AmericInn Lodge in Sidney, a small town 60 miles from the Wyoming-Nebraska border. Behind me, the flat nothingness of Nebraska stretched eastward for 400 miles. I had driven through it the prior evening, much to my dismay. Endless brown farmland under grey skies was home to little more than the occasional cow. There was no one even working in the fields to disrupt the blandness of the landscape. After the prior days’ journeys through Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa, Nebraska was a static purgatory, bereft of even corn or grain to distract drivers from miles of linear Interstate.
It was especially disheartening after Iowa. Oh, Iowa! There were rolling green hills under beautiful blue skies, well-tended farms, a few windmills. The most genuinely happy wait staff I had ever encountered greeted me at a crowded Cracker Barrel. I have as much love for Iowa as I have distaste for Nebraska.
Though, I did bring this upon myself; I requested to drive through Nebraska’s panhandle, avoiding Colorado for 100 miles more than necessary so that I could see a tiny corner of Wyoming on my way to Fort Collins. It’s not too bad, after all, as the latter third of Nebraska is actually rather lovely. The portion of the state in Mountain Time feels like a gift of pity from Colorado and Wyoming, a peace offering of interesting scenery to ease the guilt felt by two lovely states for bordering one so mundane. The ground occasionally juts up into raised buttes, accented by a few shrubby trees and foreign, sponge-like rocks.
This transition to The West is gradual, but noticeable. The highway follows the same path the Pony Express took a century and a half ago. I can picture cowboys and train robberies as we pass through wild Wyoming. Soon, a sign ushers us into “colorful Colorado,” and then, the Rockies start to loom out from over the horizon. They are beautiful.
All thoughts of Nebraska fade in my memory as Fort Collins welcomes me with open arms. For now, I’m home. In three months though, on my return trip, I think I’ll try my luck driving through Kansas.
