The North Platte. Early highway into the west. Passing it a moment ago and the constant rolling hills between the mountains that we have followed for days forces the immense size of this country upon your awareness. Leaving Billings headed south we passed through the Bighorn area of gentle grass covered hills. Further to the west, between us and the Yellowstone, were the Bighorn Mountains and still the grasses, days of grasses, months of grasses, as far as one could see. Occasional pines on southern dry slopes reveal little but the cottonwoods in the ravines speak of the near certainty of water.
It’s a dry country but the grasses, cattle and farms do well.
There is a disarming beauty to the landscape. The yellow-green prairie grasses are under a constant cloud covered sky. They are tranquil and inviting. But without some means to cover this ground, survival is doubtful. There is a dry independence to this place. From the hard scrabble little towns that used to have gas stations to the large cattle ranches there is a toughness and confidence here. There has to be. What is here is here, nothing more- the indifference of nature, the land and a confident people cut from the same cloth as the men who opened it.
This country leaves its hand on you.
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