Sand Hills

         A few miles out of North Platte, the Sand Hills rise from the plains like a great stormy, green sea. The waves are steep, the troughs deep, and the wind often blows fiercely. You drive on the straight, hilly road for miles, without seeing a car or a cow, only endless barbwire fences and occasional windmills.  Andy spots a cowboy boot stuck upside down on a fence post alongside the road; then a little farther on another, and another. Ann wants to know why the boots are there. All I know, in my years of driving the Sand Hills, where I lived several years as a boy after WWII, is that you are most likely to see the boots on the posts in the loneliest stretches of the prairie. From the backseat, Andy offers his explanation: When a cowboy’s father dies, he puts one of his favorite boots on a post to say goodbye. “You can’t know that,” Ann replies caustically. Julya and I trade glances.

Can you spot the cows in the photo?

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