I made my way out to the lake this morning _ the new one that opened last summer less than a half-mile walk from my house. It had been at least three weeks since my last trip to the water, back when the temperature broke 60 in Omaha for the first time in almost six months. Six months. The entire month of February never got above freezing. No place in the contiguous United States should be so cursed.
The lake was still frozen and gray on that first outing, despite the brief spring temp, and the landscape around it brown and lifeless. Whatever. My neighbors and I had tired of huddling in our homes for months on end, and it seemed we all had the same notion to head outside and catch even the briefest warm-up in what has easily been the most miserable winter of my more than 20 years in Nebraska.
But if that venture represented hope, today’s outing was an affirmation. It was the third consecutive day the temperature had eclipsed 70 degrees, and despite a forecasted snowstorm later in the week, people were throwing caution to the wind. They weren’t just out in T-shirts and flip flops. They had set up badminton nets and hauled out lawn chairs and patio umbrellas. Fire pits and smokers were dragged from the black depths of the garage, and friends and family were invited over for barbecue. Yards were being fertilized and cleaned of winter debris.
I mean, no one had broken out the gardening gloves or anything. We’re optimistic, not crazy. But all in all, the outdoor buzz was the surest sign that winter might finally be packing up for the year.
The hike around the lake only bolstered that conclusion. The iced-over surface had melted, and the lake in the late afternoon sun gleamed like a sapphire. The surrounding fields were tinged with spring green; the trees had sprouted buds.
As a Mississippi Delta transplant to the big open plains of Nebraska, I was surprised at how familiar my new home seemed when I first arrived. I had expected the culture shock to be loud and conspicuous, but there were more similarities than differences. The Delta is largely a flat, cultivated plain. So is much of Nebraska. The people in both places are friendly and engaging. People in my home state talk funny. People in Nebraska say things like “worsh” the dishes, and “Don” and “Dawn” sound exactly _ and confusingly _ the same, so don’t kid yourselves that Nebraskans have no accent.
But there were differences. I made the move in late July, and found Nebraska summers to be most pleasant. At least, compared to midsummer in Mississippi, where the heat and humidity and insects the size of your head could easily give the Amazon rainforest a run for its money. In Nebraska, you can take a long walk after dinner in the thick of summer and enjoy the relatively cool night air and sight of fireflies (or “lightning bugs” in Mississippi-speak) along a manicured trail without catching even a faint buzz of a mosquito.
As pleasant as I found the climate, I found the water on the Plains _ or lack, thereof _ disappointing. In Mississippi, I was used to spending warm days on the lake _ mostly Lake Whittington, a small oxbow of 2,300 surface acres created by the shifting course of the Mississippi River. Thanks to friends with cabins and my own family’s large pontoon boat, I spent whole summers of my childhood on that lake. A short drive away was the larger man-made Grenada Lake, which is about the size of Nebraska’s largest reservoir, Lake McConaughy in western Nebraska. Lake McConaugh is at least a five-hour drive from Omaha. A drive that far in Mississippi could get me to the Gulf Coast and some real water. There’s no driving to any coast within a day of Omaha.
While I went into the move fully aware there would be no day trips to the beach, I was unprepared for Omaha’s dearth of any real lakes. A few weeks in, when new friends invited me to “the lake,” my joy turned to confusion as I found myself not at a lake, but a patch of water that would barely qualify as a pond. There would be no speed boating or water skiing. No wake boarding or tubing. No three-decker party barge.
I soon learned that “lake” in the plains of eastern Nebraska usually means an excavated sand pit filled with water that has a no-wake rule and can accommodate little more than a paddle boat. Builders scramble to crowd as many homes around the water’s edge as they can, and the disparity in the size of the homes to the puny outline of the water sometimes borders on ridiculous, becoming a kind of clown car of waterfront real estate.
The action on these ponds happens on the shore, where about 15 feet of sand plays host to bonfires, grills, some Adirondack chairs and maybe a volleyball net. “Lake” is simply a colloquialism, much the same way Nebraskans casually toss out that a boss or spouse “yelled” at them over a minor offense. Early on, I’d reply with an incredulous, “They yelled at you?” It took me years to figure out that no one was actually yelling. “Yelling,” in fact, is synonymous with “admonishing” in Nebraska. Like “lake” is synonymous with “any body of water larger than a kiddie pool.”
It’s funny how one’s perspective can change. What’s so foreign in the beginning of a journey becomes routine, given enough years. Weird + time = normal.
I used to laugh at the locals who complained about how hot and humid the Nebraska summers are. Now, I gripe right along with them whenever the mercury climbs above 80. I would roll my eyes at the idea of taking out an obscene mortgage to live in a house that would easily list for $100,000 less anywhere else, but for the puddle of water behind it. Now, I find myself calculating whether I could afford the cost of building a house on the lake abutting my neighborhood.
I’ve fallen in love with that lake. And, yes, I call it “the lake,” just like everyone else. No, there won’t be any skiing or party barges. But I’ve found a new passion for kayaking around its 220 acres. I find myself identifying the various flora around it: thistle, milkweed, morning glory, foxtail, black-eyed Susans and compass plant, goldenrod, wild parsnip, various prairie grasses. I’m probably wrong about half of them, but it’s fun to try.
There’s also a five-mile hiking and biking trail around its rock-lined shores where I inevitably run into neighbors enjoying their own outings, strangers doing some pretty strange things and all manner of wildlife making a home of this newly-minted sluice.
I hope to spend many more days enjoying this water on the Plains and the trail that meanders around it, and documenting some of the experiences and thoughts I have there along the way. Thus, the title of this site. I hope you enjoy it with me.
Plain Water and Trail Mix 