Lonely Places, a piece of fiction inspired by a walk in the woods.

Today I took a hike through the woods. There I was, all alone, atop a high ridge in the Sandia Wilderness. All about me were barren pines and hard-scrabble earth. Patches of snow still clung to the ground in places. High above me, a flock of dozens of obsidian black crows flew through the air. A murder. There were signs that someone had been there. But how long ago? A couple rusted cans and a toppled stone fire ring. From a distance it looked like a grave. Then I heard it. A snap of twigs. It was probably a deer. But bears are known to roam the area. I spun around. I searched. But I saw nothing. All that was left was the chill running down my spine. It hadn't been caused by the wind.

The following story is inspired by a walk in the woods similar to the one I had today. I have always found a mystery in nature. Stories of ghosts and lost gold drove me to the wilderness. Searching. Sometimes for something tangible. Sometimes its a feeling. Sometimes its myself. But then there are times out there in wild places, the lonely places, that a feeling can come over you, a feeling that maybe the mystery found you. After all, curiosity killed the cat.

Lonely Places
By L. D. Whitney

I’ve never been sure about what draws me to the lonely places. Do I find some kind of thrill, or maybe an enjoyment, in the dark? Yes. I can’t deny that. But most of all, I’m curious. Like when you take a walk in the woods, all by yourself with no one else around. Do you feel the eyes? The ones watching you from the trees. Most of the time, they probably aren’t there and it’s all just in your head. There is something about being out and alone in nature that makes a person feel like maybe they aren’t alone when they are. But sometimes the feeling is different. Stronger maybe. You look around and all that’s out there is red leaves and dry grass swaying in the breeze. Maybe there’s a river or stream nearby and you here it babbling as the water slides over rocks in the bend. Or maybe its whispers. Some half unheard message floating on a quiet breeze.You hear the locusts off in a thicket, droning on in alien rhythm, like some sort of song. It’s familiar yet strange and distant. An owl hoots but the sun still shines high in the cloudless, sapphire sky. Maybe you’ve gone too far.

The hairs on the back of your neck tingle and stand on end and something moves in the brush just past your sight. Has to be a rabbit, or maybe a squirrel. At least that’s what you tell yourself. All of a sudden you feel sweat on your palms and under your arms but you weren’t sweating just a moment ago. No, you were just standing all alone, taking in the world around you. You look at your watch like the time is getting late, but it’s not. One foot in front of the other and you’re off again, making your way down the winding woodland path. You feel fine again, just for a moment, as you find yourself making progress. Each step takes you closer to where you began, or at least where you’ll end. The flutter of wings breaks the silence and the branches above you are alive. Black shapes burst from their perches, mere silhouettes against the sun. You think for a moment that the wings aren’t like birds’ wings, but leathery and strange. As the figures melt back into the trees, all they leave behind is an echoing call, more like a laugh than a song. Then all that is left are the branches, boney and gnarled. Like great skeleton hands reaching toward the sky. They moan and creak, some ancient agony coursing through their sun bleached bark. 

There’s another sound out there, buried in the pain. Rusty hinges, like on a door not oiled. They squeal with some semblance of life and now that’s all you can hear. Thunder claps, but it’s not thunder, it can’t be. It’s the slam of a door. Now you see it out there, buried in the trees, only given voice by the last breaths of summer as the world gives way to fall. But what’s it doing out here all alone? Alone. Just like you. You think for a second that you probably shouldn’t go in. Old places are dangerous; rotten floor boards, broken glass. But, there is something that is drawing you in. It’s not the house per se, with its open door, knocking, or its two small windows that for just a second look sad. Like eyes asking for pity. Its curiosity, plain and simple, just like I said. You’re curious and you want to look. You’re brave. You came all this way by yourself didn’t you? Cats be damned. There is no hesitation as you step from the safety of the trail and into parts unknown.

Passing through the trunks of great, primeval trees, you press through the bushes and as you go they seem to push back. Only slightly. With a final pull, you’re through and now you find your foot on something strong and firm. A stone, wide and flat, bright green moss growing along its edges. It isn’t the only one either. There are maybe a dozen or so making a little winding path through the fallen leaves and forest rot. Together, they slither through the undergrowth like some monstrous snake born from myth and campfire tales. You walk along the forgotten path and inch closer to the open door, probably not recognizing that it looks something like a mouth, wide and gaping. At least just a little. Out of the corner of your eye you notice the small, shrubby tufts that dot what used to be the yard. You think you see flowers, never mind that it’s far too late in the season to bloom. As you pass you think to yourself that there were three different colored flowers on those shrubs. But that impossible and you force it from your thought. Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, you make it within inches of the door and reach out, grasping the soft, slimy wood and pull yourself past the threshold like you were drowning, a deep gasp fills your frantic lungs with air. You made it, kid. You’re inside.

With a sigh of relief, you nod and accept that you see no danger here. It’s just a small place, some kind of cabin, or maybe a shed. Come to think of it, you couldn’t rightly tell. The inside wasn’t like any house you’d ever seen; just one big room, debris all about the floor. Then again, they used to make things differently back then when surely this house would have been in use. Stepping around the sickly green pools collecting on the floor, you walk around the room. Odd. It seems bigger on the inside that it looked on the outside. You can’t hear the wind anymore, or even the branches scrapping against the old rotting roof. The only thing that catches your ear is a soft gurgle, almost like an upset stomach, but it’s probably just the sound that old houses make. As you walk around, you notice the floor is sticky and soft. All of the wood on the walls and beneath your feet are clammy and slick with mold the color of rotten fruit. And come to think of it, when did people live here? There isn’t any furniture around. No sign that anyone had ever lived here at all. Only scraps of trash and the bones of animals that had crawled in here to die. There’s that owl again. Something moves past the front window, fast and fleeting. You look at your watch again, only this time it is getting late and now you can’t recall how long you’ve been in this place. It’s time to go.

Only you can’t. You try and move your feet but they’re stuck, stuck in that greenish water pooling it your feet, stuck in the pool that wasn’t there just moments before. Outside you here those birds call, faster and a more mocking this time. You pull as hard as you can and your feet begin to move. Something falls from the ceiling and onto your bare arm. You don’t look because you already know what it is. It’s the same stuff that has you stuck to floor, and it burns. Then comes more. It’s on your neck and your hands and it burns all over. Burns like liquid fire on your soft, sweaty skin. You pull your hardest, trying to get free and finally your feet come lose and you stumble, your hands pressing into the soft, wet floor, bones scattering about you. You look up to the door and see it slowly shutting. Your heart is racing, egged on by what you swear is a human skull sitting silently amongst scattered remains. You are tired, you can barely hold on and that sickly stomach sound grows louder with each frantic heartbeat. You just want to sleep, just to close your eyes. Then when you wake up, it’ll all be a dream. Only you know it’s not a dream. Then you feel it, feel them. You aren’t alone anymore. There is someone else here and you feel the cold breath on the back of your neck. You feel their touch, pulling as hard as they can at your aching, burning limbs. “Run.” That’s the last thing you remember. A single word whispered in your ear. And then you run. You run as far and as fast as you can and you

never look back.

Years later, maybe you’re sitting at home or maybe you are out again, alone in the woods. The thought comes racing back to you. It’s blurry. Your head addled with fog, you’re not even sure that it happened the way you think it happened. But it had. The thought of that old house, if that’s what it really was, just sitting out there in the woods, lonely and alone. You feel it come back to you. That feeling from before. Was it still out there? You want to doubt it, but you know better. Had anyone else come along? Was there something you could do? Or maybe should have done? And who was it that whispered that single word into your ear? The one that saved your life. There it is again, your old friend curiosity. Maybe you’ll go back. Just to take a peek.

Cats be damned.

One day, I hope to publish this story, along with others, in a collection. If you like it, keep an eye out.

Girl's just want to climb mountains, and scuba dive, and....

Anyone who knows me, knows I am a sucker for treasure hunts. I also have a love for video games. Combining these two interests naturally led me to Lara Croft, heroine of the Tomb Raider series. In the Old Days of gaming, Lara was the pinnacle of the "sex sells" mentality. She was tall, toned, big breasted and supposedly beautiful (although the polygons never did her justice). The gameplay involved in the globe trotting, puzzle solving adventures, was revolutionary. Just like her character design. The games were good, for the most part, but Old School Lara is definitely a huge smear on representation of women in Gaming. Fast forward to 2013, Lara has now changed hands a few times and has now completed her transformation into a real person. Her story has been rebooted (like so many Hollywood icons), she is now a young woman, wait for it.....designed after an actual woman! Her proportions are right, she has feelings and thoughts and even moves realistically! Best of all, she wears clothes that are climatically appropriate. This may seem like a strange start to a blog post about exploration, but I promise, its relevant.

http://www.howmanly.com/manly-video-games/going-soft-makes-her-stronger/

One of my favorite YouTube stars.

Just the other night, I was having dinner with my Guiding Teachers. One of them is the proud mother (the other a father) of a little girl so of course toys were scattered across the room, one of which was a doll  A doll whose skin color matched that of the daughter's. This got me to thinking about how women are represented to young girls. Having been a camp counselor, I am well aware of the "That's for Boys" mentality that is usually unknowingly pressed on young girls who show even the slightest inkling of outdoorsy stuff. One of my proudest moments was taking a group of teenage girls to the lake to go fishing for the very first time. These girls, most born and raised within the dreaded confines of New York City, only got to be truly outdoors during Summer Camp. I had the privilege of being their very first Nature Director. Seeing their faces when they reeled in their catches was deeply gratifying. Just as gratifying as seeing the littler girls' faces light up when they caught a toad or salamander or pregnant spider (gross (seriously gross)).

Now to bring it all together. I came into archaeology because of the romance and adventure. However real or imaginary. Other archaeologists will bemoan my interest in treasure hunts and lost cities, but you can't deny that that shit is cool. I got the idea that drove me to my first career from fictional characters. Barnabas and Tell Sackett, Alan Quartermain, Dirk Pitt, Rick O'Connell and yes...Indiana Jones. All of them are men. It wouldn't be until I was in my 20's whe Lara and I would finally make a connection. This is a problem. One day, I would love to see an old camper, future student or even a daughter, out there exploring the world. But, much like the doll mentioned above, its up to us to provide the role models, both fictional, like Lara Croft, and real. In an attempt to do my part, I am going to provide a list of as many female Adventurers and Explorers as I can manage. The following list will most assuredly not be comprehensive, but will provide examples both real and imaginary. For every Nathan Drake in the world, there should be a Lara Croft.


Fictional Characters:
Lara Croft- Tomb Raider (2012), Rise of the Tomb Raider (2015)
Evy Carnahan/ O'Connell - The Mummy (1999), The Mummy Returns (2001), Don't watch the 3rd.
Adele Blanc-Sec- The Extraordinary Adventures of Adele Blanc-Sec (2010)
Samus Aran- Metroid Series
Lillith- Borderlands (2009)
Maya- Borderlands 2 (2012)
Gauge- [Also] Borderlands 2 (2012)
Athena- Borderlands the Pre-Sequel (2014)
Echo Sackett- Ride the River by Louis L'amour
Dr. Abigail Chase- National Treasure Series
Annja Creed- Rogue Angel book Series
The Danger Girls- Danger Girl Comic
(I know, some of these are a stretch, but that's because my pickings were slim)

Real People:
Amelia Earhart: First woman to fly solo across the Atlantic
Renata Chlumska- Climbed Mt. Everest and Biked across lower 48 States
Calamity Jane- Professional Scout and Frontierswoman
Nellie Bly- Journalist who traveled around the world in 72 Days
Gerlinde Kaltenbrunner- Climbed all 14 Eight-thousander Mountains without O2 assistance
Barbara Hillary- First African American to travel to the North Pole
Kira Salak- Journalist and Writer who solo kayaked down the Niger River
Ellen MacArthur- Sailed 27,000 miles in 71 days
Eileen Collins- Astronaut, first female Commander of the orbiter
Cecilie Skog- 1st woman to stand on both poles and the highest peaks on every continent
Jessica Watson- Circumnavigated the Globe at age 18

There are actually a ton of woman explorers and adventurers, I will be sure to feature some in the upcoming months.
I realize that I am likely very late to this conversation. In fact, this is the kind of thing that I have tried to avoid for most of my life. Social Justice has not truly been a concern of mine until the last year or so. Admittedly, the plight of Mother Nature is what concerns me the most. True love for nature seems to be dying. At least to me. I'm a pessimist. In order to foster this kind of caring, it is important to get people interested. To do that, it is important that new generations have role models that represent them. Explorers and Adventurers are historically represented as men. Shackleton, Darwin, Cook, Drake, Lawrence, Coronado, Columbus, Magellan, Polo, Fawcett. All men. It wasn't until I started researching this post that I could think of any women in the field aside from Amelia Earhart. Where are the tough, intelligent, head strong women? They are out there. And I hope that a new generation of adventurers, finds inspiration in them.

For anyone that reads this, I hope that you take the time to encourage a young woman in your life to get out there and explore!

Beyond the Mountains of Madness, or a Salute to a lost Adventurer

I know this is late, but I have been thinking about how to approach this topic for awhile now. I want to fore warn you that I did not personally know the individual that will be the subject of this post. I do not know his views, nor his family's. These are purely my musings and are not meant to represent anyone or anything but myself.

On January 24, 2016, only seven days ago (at the time of me writing this), the world lost an Adventurer. His name was Henry Worsley. He was an ex-British Army officer and had made a goal of hiking from one end of Antarctica to the other. A lofty goal, indeed. Unfortunately, only 30 miles from the end of his journey, he had to call in for back up. He was tossing in the flag. Not long later, he would be pronounced dead from total organ failure.

Often, when we think of the word "adventurer", we think of Indian Jones, Lara Croft or Nathan Drake (my personal favorite). However, in the real world, adventurers don't normally find themselves fighting Nazis for the Holy Grail, Escaping a cult on a lost island, or fighting a war criminal for eternal life. Here, in reality, they are men and women who choose to take on daring feats, often enduring extensive journeys by boat, balloon or foot. Sometimes they travel horizontally and sometimes vertically. They travel through mountains, jungles, deserts and the sky. Mr. Worsley chose the desolate land of ice and snow that is Antarctica.

Admittedly, I know little of Antarctica. After all, my imagination runs through the desert more often than not. My first real foray into the continent came from the novella "At the Mountains of Madness" by H. P.  Lovecraft. In the story, a group of explorers from Miskatonic University find themselves lost and pursued through a system of super-ancient corridors and tunnels built by intelligent beings from beyond Space and Time. Aside from the lurking fear (another Lovecraft story), the blistering winds, frigid temperatures and utter desolation plague the misguided heroes. Despite the science fiction, Lovecraft evoked a real sense of awe when describing the southern fringe of the globe. Antarctica has always carried with a it a sense of mystery and wonder. He would not be the only author to suppose what lie beneath the sheets of ice. In all honesty, I can only imagine that a similar since of awe and wonder for the continent is what sent Mr. Worsley there in the first place. I don't feel like that's too much of a stretch.

Mr. Worsley was an admirer of Sir Ernest Shackleton, the most famous of Antarctic explorers. Sir Shackleton, born in 1822 was an accomplished explorer and adventure by any definition. His sailing and overland expeditions were most often focused on Antarctica. On January 5, 1922, Shackleton himself died on an expedition in Antarctica.

Henry Worsley was using this expedition to raise funds for injured soldiers, an admirable cause, but it was not just about the charity for him. Adventure was the main draw. The task was to travel Antarctica, coast to coast, completely unaided. A daunting task to be sure. But one that Worsley tackled head on. He made it 70 days before he called for help. All in all, traveling 913 miles (1,469 KM for the rest of you) before feeling as though he needed to throw in the towel. Even then, he has been quoted with saying, "I will lick my wounds, they will heal over time and I will come to terms with the disappointment." A man seemingly as undaunted as the continent he sough to conquer. After calling for help, he was airlifted on the 23rd of January to a hospital in Chile. There, while undergoing surgery, he would die of total organ failure.

This is undoubtedly a time of grieving and mourning for the family and friends of the 71 year old adventurer. I can't help but be a little sad myself. It seems to me that the sense of wonder with the world and determination that it takes to tackle adventures like this are growing rarer and rarer. With technology, it is easy to think of the world as a smaller place. A place where everything is written down and photographed and put on Wikipedia for the world to see. This is nowhere near the truth, but the message permeates our culture. All that being said, this is a salute to Mr. Worsley. Wherever you are. You dared to dream during the day, as T. E. Lawrence said, and while you did not make your goal, it was in no way a failure. Few can truly say they died doing what they loved.You are inspiration to me, and I am sure to many others as well.

From: http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/multimedia/archive/01050/fc24386a-c454-11e5_1050832b.jpg

http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-35398552

Far too Long...

While I have known this for a long time, recently my feelings have come to a head and its time to get them out. Indeed, its been far too long since I've written in this blog. Since the last time I did this, a lot has gone on in my life. So much so, that my entire outlook on what it means to be an explorer and an adventurer. Beware, this might get a tad preachy, but that is by no means my intent.

The past year I have managed to travel all the way across the country and back. I met some of the most amazing people at a far away place called Chestnut Lake. I also managed to survive a long stint in the midst of our Nation's Capital. For a boy that grew up under the wide open Nebraska sky, not seeing the horizon on a daily basis really drained me. That, and the twice daily bout of motion sickness from my metro ride to the State Department where I worked. I road tripped back across the country to New Mexico with my father, survived an earthquake in Oklahoma and actually found myself saying that Texas did indeed have some pretty country. I have also just started my student teaching and am currently in love with my Junior High students. Well...most of them. No matter how great the rest of them are, there are always going to be shitty teenagers. And now that I am back, I have been trying my best to stay in touch with the people that matter to me. I have rekindled at least one old friendship. My imagination is now running at full blast and I find inspiration every day.

What does this have to do with adventure and exploration? Its all part of life, man! Maybe its finally seeing a beginning of the rest of my life not so far off, or maybe its part of finally coming to terms with who I am. But I am finally coming to realize that the adventure and discovery doesn't just come from treasuring hunting, lost ruins and haunted caverns (although its definitely part of it). It is every where in life. My aunt was right, even my daily routine in 8th Grade Social Studies is an adventure (Thanks Pat!). Suddenly I see a future. It probably won't be what I imagine it to be, no matter how bad I want it. But maybe that will make it better still. In the mean time, I will do what I can to leave my mark for the better in this world. I will love who I love and treat my life as the adventure that it is meant to be. So many times, I have been asked, "why do you get up in the morning?" I usually answer, "why not?" Now, I can truly say that I wake up in the morning because I can't wait to see what happens next. That's the real adventure.

Enough of the mushy, feely stuff. Get out there and explore!

Mein Tile.

    Just the other day, I had gotten a hair cut from a very pretty girl at the hair college and then opted to walk down the the public library and see if they had a couple books I've been wanting to read. I got done with the hair cut at 9:30 and the route I took to the the place where knowledge lives (not the brain house) took me roughly fifteen minutes. I felt a mild sense of adventure as I wandered through alleys the morning light had yet to touch and slunk through restricted access areas of parking garages. When I finally reached the from door of the downtown library I was shocked to see it didn't open till 10! I still had fifteen minutes till open.
     So I just continued on my way knowing a quick walk through downtown would be an easy time killer. It was kind of interesting to see all my favorite bars closed up, knowing full well that these very side walks would be filled with tight jeans, short skirts and drunk partiers in less than 12 hours. I rounded the corner near a new Ramen joint I must try and then found myself on the corner of Centennial Mall and M street. There I was, looking up at our giant, less than vaguely phallic, capital building and all of a sudden I am filled with any overwhelming sense of place.
    I was standing on an insignificant street corner in a less than large capital of an under-populated state in an equally underpopulated region of the United States. My country, fairly large and dense with people, is only one of three on this continent, one of seven total. Only seven on the only planet yet discovered that supports life. We circle a single star, one of a seething roil of countless balls of light that fill the black, abyssal universe. Needless to say, that is a lot to have sink in on a Saturday morning walk.
     Its not that I have never realized it before, I actually think about it quite often. This time was different. It seemed heavier. Thick and tangible. As I continued my jaunt I wondered to myself how many other people recognize this. How many people are fully aware of where we are in the universe? How many people think about this stuff on  regular basis? I am sure more than a handful are just like me, but I'd wager that most have never had the idea cross their mind.
      There is a man, Dr. David Wishart, whom I infinitely respect; he teaches geography at my college and once said something that made me more than a little sad. He relayed to our class that hardly anyone has a sense of place anymore. They go on runs down wooded trails but their ears are plugged with head phones. People walk up and down city streets peering down at their smart phones. The do not hear the wind in the trees, nor do they see the bustle around them. People become absorbed in the tiny bubble that they have created for themselves.
     This can lead to strange consequences like disassociation of where one is, where they came from, why they are there and how they interact and effect the world around them. Why do people do this to themselves? I have no idea. Maybe its safe and sound when you have a false control over what you see and hear. Maybe its an ingrained need to stay connected to others, after all we are social creatures. Perhaps being conscious of the knowledge of exactly where one is in existence is too heavy a burden for some to bear.
     Do me a favor. Next time you are out and about just sit and think about where you are. Close your eyes and listen to your surroundings, take the time and look at the finer details of the world around you and think for a second why that matters to you or you matter to it.

A walk down a forested path, or "how I get lost..."

   Finally I feel like its safe to say that spring is upon us. I am sitting here and as we speak the temperature is gradually reaching into the 70's. Thank the gods. Yesterday it was nice enough for me to venture forth into the wilderness and go on my first real hike of the year.
    I almost always like to stick close to the river, I have always had a fondness for water and fate probably missed the boat by not making me a fish. Right now the water is still frozen solid on the surface but life is already waking beneath the frozen sheet. I came across a young man fishing through a hole in the ice and I sat watched him creepily with my phone camera poised to catch the act of pulling a fish from the river. It never happened. Too bad.
     After climbing some trees and steep embankments I came across the undeniable scent of skunk. I am by no means an expert tracker, but I do share a name with wolverine and decided I would try and follow my nose. I successfully tracked the skunk to its den. On second thought I may have been smelling a skunk victim, but alas I did not find the smelly culprit.
     I did however, stumble across an archaeological site. It appears to be a trash dump littered with bottles and automotive parts. I know it doesn't sound exciting but it is so deal with it. Using the bases of some bottles I was able to place it somewhere within the realm of the mid 1950's. Not anything super old but technically anything over 50 years old counts.
    Afterwards I bushwhacked back to the jeep and rewarded myself with a mint chip cliff bar. Mmmmmm. I suggest to all of you that you get outside and take some time to see what you can find. Don't be afraid to travel off the beaten path and poke around where you might not think you should. Just finding little mysteries in the world or maybe things you've never seen before can make the whole day worth it.

A Grand Ole' Time, or A Few signs You are over the Hill...

     Being from Nebraska, today is a pretty big day. On March 1st one hundred and forty-seven years ago, Nebraska was changed from being part of a territory to an official state. It became the 37th state in the union in 1867. The capital was also officially moved from Omaha to Lancaster, which would later be renamed to Lincoln shortly after President Abraham Lincoln's assassination. When people think of Nebraska they don't think of much. It is something of a curse placed upon states in the mid-west and Great Plains. Sure there is a lot of flat ground, there are a lot of corn fields and there aren't a lot of big cities or anything like that. But Nebraska and the rest of the plains states have a rich history full of exploration and excitement. It is easy to see why people like places like Arizona, or Maine, or California. The scenery there is dramatic and awe inspiring. We don't have that here in the plains, it takes a special kind of appreciation to enjoy what the plains have to offer. For us its not generally the sweeping scenery but the minute details that make up the landscape.
     The plains has a long history of settlement by the various Native tribes such as the Pawnee, Sioux, Omaha, Mandan, Otoe, Winnebego and many others. I am not super qualified to speak on the history of the plains Indians but I do know that their mark has been left all across the face of my home state. The first Europeans to cross were Spaniards that followed Francisco Vasquez de Coronado on his quest for Cibola, the golden city. On his way through the Great Plains he crossed Oklahoma and Kansas searching for Quivira, the golden city. Then would come the French-Canadian explorers and trappers that traversed Nebraska on their was south and west. Later, Lewis and Clark would travel down the Missouri River on their way west. There are a number of state parks and camp sites that are placed on the very spots that the legendary duo stayed at on their expedition.
     Perhaps one of the most dramatic events in American History is the westward expansion on the Oregon Trail. In order to travel the trail and make it to one of its many destinations, one had to be prepared. Unfortunately, many of the settlers would not be. Whether it be from lack of supplies, sickness or some other hardship, many people decided to stay in the Great Plains and make their home. This led to an influx of settlers in Nebraska and other plains states. Another side effect of the Oregon Trail comes in the form of my favorite kinds of stories, treasure legends. You see, when rich people from the East decided to move out west via the trail, they brought all of their most expensive belongings. Soon the would realize it was either their stuff or their lives. Choosing life, they buried their valuables in caches across the plains hoping to return. Most never did, so their antiquities still  remain buried beneath the fields and rolling hills waiting to be uncovered. You can still see ruts in the ground from the Oregon Trail in a few places across Nebraska.
     In modern times, in all honesty, Nebraska doesn't look like much. It has a super low number of public land acres and only a few parks, its only state forest is hand planted. However, if one takes the time (and gas), it is easy to get lost on the meandering dirt roads that lead to far and away homesteads, abandoned cemeteries and Native American camp sites. There are a multitude of organizations that are attempting to restore the people's want to explore the world and find the little things that still remain mostly hidden or forgotten and renewing our since of exploration. So on this day, March 1, 2014, I say Happy Birthday Nebraska. We may not get along all the time, we may never see eye to eye and sometimes I might get bored of your presence...but I still love you because I have seen the beauty that you keep hidden from all but those who choose to look.

Oregon Trail Ruts in Rock Creek, NE

 \
Coronado's Route

 
 Lewis and Clark's Route

Chimney Rock National Monument