NEBRASKAland Magazine is dedicated to outstanding photography and informative writing with an engaging mix of articles and photos highlighting Nebraska’s outdoor activities, parklands, wildlife, history and people.
Issue link: http://mag.outdoornebraska.gov/i/831879
70 NEBRASKAland • JUNE 2017 W hen I bought this sandpile on the north bank of the Middle Loup River 40 years ago, there was every chance that one good windstorm would blow the whole thing – sand, cactus and all – into South Dakota. Of course, genius that I am, I bought the place under three feet of snow, and the reality that I was in fact now the owner of Nebraska's Sahara only slowly came to light as spring came on. Almost in panic, I went to various conservation organizations and begged for help, which they most generously gave. We soon had the ground planted to a rich variety of native grasses, plants, bushes and trees, and almost a mile of thick treed windbreaks surrounded the most fragile of the ground. There was conversation in town because for all the activity and noise I made about planting tens of thousands of trees on these 50 acres; for many years, there wasn't much to see since what few saplings survived took years to rise above the faster growing grasses, chokecherries, plums, lead plant and honeysuckle. And now that we are surrounded by a dense wall of soaring ash, long- needle pines and junipers, comes the inevitable disappointment of the hopeful conservationist: the elm are all gone, the ash are threatened, and the pine are dying all around us. But the tree known here as red-cedar (Juniperus virginiana)? Why, they're doing fine! Except everyone is cutting them down, gouging them out, piling them up and burning them. All at once, these trees I worked so hard to plant and water have become pariahs, as hated as musk thistles. I point out that these now-despised evergreens are the source of gin and fine martinis – if you don't believe me, taste one of those little blue-green berries! But that good news will certainly fall on a deaf ear for Nebraskans, whose tastes tend toward light beer, blended whiskies, and blue- green drinks that wear umbrellas. My fondness for these prickly arboreals stems from another feature of the tree that might convince some of you who are so intent on cleansing the Plains of one of my favorites. Let me tell you a story: A friend and I were once floating the Platte between Grand Island and Central City, one of my favorite stretches of water in Nebraska. The river was high and the days were gorgeous. We feasted on wild asparagus and gigantic morel mushrooms we plucked from the bank as we drifted by, only rarely dipping an oar in the quiet water. Then Nebraska did what Nebraska does for such idylls: the sky went suddenly dark, there were growls and grumbles, and the rain began to fall in torrents. We had no time to set a tent, so we tied up the boat and dived onto one of the thousands of small islands that pass for "river" along that stretch. We were lucky. Right at our mooring was a gigantic red-cedar – a real giant. And I suspect there are many of these venerable old-timers on the Platte islands where they have escaped fire and woodcutters for generations, perhaps even more than a century. Its overhanging lower branches covered a circle maybe 30 feet across in which nothing else was growing and the duff under it was soft as a pillow. We hunkered down against the huge trunk and broke out some sandwiches while the storm raged around us. I told my buddy we were safe because both homesteaders and Indians, such as the Omahas and Pawnees, believed cedars were good protection against lightning. That's why we can often spot old homesteads where all the buildings are gone but two big cedar trees still frame where the front door of the long-gone house opened. Whatever the folklore, one thing was clear about this enormous tree that was sheltering us: The wide, sloping, dense branches and needles formed an almost impenetrable shelter. To our amazement while the rain poured outside our cedar "tent," we remained dry and out of the wind in its cover. The shelter was in fact so comfortable and the experience so remarkable, we called the day good and spent the night sleeping right there, in a dry and pleasant shelter provided by Mother Nature. And that's why I have a fondness for cedars to this very day. Occasionally when Nebraska cuts loose, as it did just last week, with raging winds and pounding hail, peeling the paint off our house and breaking windows, I wonder about our neighbors – the crow family of which I am so fond; a pair of kestrels rescued, nursed to health by Raptor Recovery and released to freedom a couple weeks ago; the resident mourning doves; turkeys; deer; coyotes; the red fox behind Linda's studio; the great horned owl we watched taking a pounding from my crows a few days ago. How do they fare in these storms when even we, in a strong, firm house, wonder about our safety? Then we remember: They probably saw it coming long before we did and made ready; they've been through this before and know quite well where to go and what to do; and perhaps most important of all, they have thousands of big, old cedars to hide in and under. My guess and my comfort is that they are doing just fine. And sure enough, the next morning when the sun is out, the winds calm down, and the hail melts away, there they all are, no worse for the wear, and as far as we can see, going on about their business as if they hadn't even noticed yesterday's fury. Like my boating partner and me, they, too, sought shelter under one of our big old cedar trees, now despised by so many. ■ Roger Welsch is an author, humorist and folklorist. He has written for NEBRASKAland Magazine since 1977. O Tannenbaum! O Tannenbaum! By Roger Welsch Even the despised red-cedar has a place in nature.