My father's small yellow airplane lifted off easily from the dirt landing strip he had made at the edge of our farm. I was 10. It was a beautiful blue day as the sun reflected off the lower portions of the wings. We gained a thousand feet or so of altitude and headed west toward the rolling Sand Hills. The dry grass covered hills rolled one in front of the other in this brown version of a sea. He dropped the plane down close and we began to follow the contour of hills like a rollercoaster. Cresting one hill a large herd of pronghorn antelope appeared. We flew next to them, the plane and the herd flowing up and down over the hills in unison. I was captivated as I pressed my nose against the plexiglas window. I imagined myself running next to them, hearing their hooves and grunts as they flew over the hills.

Nebraska