Nebraskaland

I knew the prairie existed, vaguely, in the back of my mind, had heard mention of the wonder of the Sandhills and the thrilling cacophony of birds on the Platte River during spring migration. But in the beginning I hardly gave such places credence. It pains me to admit I lived in Nebraska for nearly a year before I ever really ventured out to explore it. Born, raised in and still enchanted by the Sonoran Desert of southern Arizona, I'd spent my mid-twenties seduced by the golden aspen and the tumbling diorama layers of western Colorado's mountains before moving, somewhat reluctantly, to Lincoln. Arriving to the plains in late January, I immediately felt sure nothing in this flat, desolate landscape could compare to the heart-soaring glory of ascending a 12,000 foot peak, still snow-covered in mid-June, nor the sweet, aromatic air and unexpectedly verdant views of the desert following a summer monsoon. O During those first few months, on the phone with other western friends, I secretly scoffed at the "subtle beauty" of the plains that Nebraskans talked about. Sure, we'd say, that's just a nice way of admitting nothing here inspires like the red rock, craggy peaks, powder bowls and wild coastlines of other places we idolized. I dreamt of driving west all the time, while hardly leaving the confines of Lincoln and Interstate 80. Early in my time here, I wrote about my unsettling sense of loss living away from the mountains: "A native Nebraskan told me he couldn't bear to live among them; they make him claustrophobic. I nodded agreeably, but couldn't disagree more. Here, without them, I feel there's nothing grounding me, standing watch over me, no place to moor my mind and body. I worry the next whirlwind could blow me away." When I finally found people who understood how I felt about these lands, I was ashamed of my myopic mindset. And even when I finally did make it out among the blue grama and Indian grass at a preserve just south of Lincoln, it took time to appreciate. I quickly delighted in Nebraska's big skies, finger-painted with the sweeping, sculpted cloud sunsets like those in Arizona, but other features took time to reveal themselves. I knew not to expect any big topography, but initially still looked for familiar things, such as canyons and valleys. And I found them, carved into rambling loess hills in Nebraska's southwestern corner. The land divulged other familiar things, too; spindly yucca plants along country roadsides, cactus tucked under patches of big bluestem in the Sandhills and the cooing melodies of the mourning dove. Soon enough, and with due credit to those patient enough to guide me, I began to see the heartland differently. Even more surprising was to experience this transition in winter, a season I often dread. In a dry and particularly cold year, I wandered curiously, admiring patches of dried milkweed pods nearly perfectly preserved on desiccated vines. I saw the sun set and moon rise over the same wide, icy Platte River. Walking among some of the last remaining virgin prairie in the southeastern part of the state, I found my eye drawn to the ground, searching for minor notes in the symphonic play of subtle – yes, subtle – auburn, butter, indigo, cream and ash-colored grasses sashaying in the unceasing prairie winds. Mountains consume the frame. They dominate the horizon and pull your eye up, up, away from the ground. Like other striking scenery, they demand little from the observer; they're easy to admire. Here on the plains, I've learned to readjust my focus, zooming in to notice the details, the quilted light on the clouds, the delicate blossom of the Chinese lantern, the thorns on the locust trees. So much so that when I returned to my desert home for the holidays, I found myself startled at the overwhelming nature around me – a sensory overload of details here, there, everywhere. I know Nebraskans, and many Great Plains residents, tire of this trope. Of the sense of surprised wonder, the loudly-stated realization of outsiders upon discovering flyover country isn't actually empty. And I expect that they know and love this land in a way I never will, because it's not my home. O A part of me will never stop missing the shimmering dance of aspen leaves on an alpine lake, or the way purple shadows walk across the lap of desert mountains. But I'm gaining a deep appreciation for this new place I've landed, and how the people here connect with their homeland. And I'm grateful to be granted space among this big, wide-open country to learn and live for a while. ■ Learning the Subtleties of the Prairie Moving to Nebraska cultivates an appreciation of the Great Plains. By Ariana Brocious PHOTO BY MIKE FORSBERG 54 NEBRASKAland • JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2015

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