(5 minutes read time)

After leaving Kansas, I stopped in Valentine, Nebraska, then continued north on Heartland Highway,83, into the Sandhills.

Some people separate the words, sand, and hills. I’m told by locals, the name is the two attributes put together. Gives the place a proper name: Sandhills.

So, to be correct, I’m looking at the sand hills of the Sandhills. Of course, nobody knows if you have it correct or not until you write it down.

I do know, when a guidebook called Highway 83 the “Road To Nowhere,” this area probably had something to do with it.

Oddly, I don’t see much sand as I drive. The rolling dunes are grass-stabilized, covered with mixed vegetation that has adapted to grow in sand. In addition to the grass, over 720 variations of plants can be found here.

Should be great for farming, but it’s not. Too big of a challenge in this soil. Settlers found that out in the in the late 1800’s.

Farming was attempted again in the early 1900’s when the Kinkaid Act offered 640 acres to homesteaders. This program also led to the formation of Nebraska’s largest African American settlement, DeWitty.

Around 1930 the homesteaders, called Kinkaider’s, gave up and moved on.

Although farming was difficult, the land is suitable for grazing, with a population of over a half-million cattle. Coyotes, badgers, mule and white-tail deer love it too, along with wild turkeys, meadowlarks, bats and skunks. And so do dragonflies, mosquitos, flies, and grasshoppers. ARGO and I encountered all of them as they met their fate in unceremonious splats on ARGO’s grill and windshield.

Splat, splat, splat, and spat.

Driving through the Sandhills, there are lonely stretches where you can look to your left or right, and see nothing but hills. I think I can make out the curvature of the earth in the distance. Seems evident as I squint. But, as I say, only hills in between me and the curve.

It’s understandable why this area could rightfully be called the middle of nowhere. Even so, there is a beauty to the place that is peaceful and calmming. That is if you have proper transportation standing by to make your way out of it. I wouldn’t want to walk out of it. And I wouldn’t want to run out of gas here (taking a second glance at my fuel gauge).

There’s not much of a shoulder to the road, but there are random turn-offs that ranchers use to check their cattle. I pick one of these turnoffs, park, and climb out of ARGO to take a closer look around.

Feels good to stretch my legs. It’s quite. Only an occasional vehicle passing by on 83. The thought strikes me it’s an excellent place to fly Air-ARGO, take a look around from above.

The land is strange to me but beautiful. It's even more strangely beautiful from above. The eyes of the drone see it all.

The landscape is rolling Irish green and amber. I’m surprised that in August, with no irrigation, much of the growth is a hydrated green. I find out later, these dunes are sitting on top of the Ogallala Aquifer. Water is down below and shows up in low areas to make small lakes.

Cattle nonchalantly stand around. Eating, resting, eating. They must think they are in the biggest-green-grass-candy store in the world. They graze continuously and contently. A hundred or more cows congregate near a large round water tank. Each chewing their cud.

Cows are nearly always chewing their cud. At least eight hours a day. That’s because they have to chew their food twice to digest it. Takes about 8 hours a day and forty-thousand jaw closings.

A sip of cool water between all that grass eating must taste really good to the beautiful bovine. Apparently, the cows aren’t too picky. They don’t seem to mind that the water is covered with some sort of slimy moss floating on top. But, it probably acts as a barrier between the sun and the water, keeping it a little cooler.

I take Air-ARGO down for a closer look at the tank from above, then fly it over the land into the distance, higher and higher.

As I stand looking into the drone control viewfinder, a lone truck pulls off 83 onto the the dirt road towards me.

Startled for a second, my focus shifts from the viewfinder to the flatbed red pickup truck. At the wheel is a lone driver, an older man, wearing a cowboy hat, partially shading a leathery-faced dour expression.

He eases the truck up near me. I wave to signal I’m a friendly-type, hoping, of course, that he’s a friendly-type too. Don’t want to get shot out here for trespassing, or for any reason. It does cross my mind.

He stops short and rolls his passenger side window down as he leans in my direction.

“Checking on what you’re doing,” he says without a smile.

“Making my way up 83,” I say with a smile. “Stopped to fly my drone over the land and take some pictures.” I point to the sky, but the drone is so high up it can’t be seen or heard.

“A drone?”

“Yes sir,” I say with another smile. I add a confident nod like I know what I'm doing. I don't know of course.

I’m relieved when he returns a partial smile back. More of a puzzled, unexpected amused look, rather than a smile. But it’s something. A crack in the leather.

“Flyin' a drone up there?” He nods. His head tilts to the side, as his body language says, well, that’s a new one.

“Yes sir,” I say, as I look up toward the sky hoping I can see my drone to point to it and show him. “I hope it’s okay to do this. Just thought this would be a good place to use it.”

He pauses, thinks about it.

“Oh sure,” he says, leaning forward with his arm resting on the steering wheel. “It’s okay by me, no problem.”

“Thanks, I’m just flying it for a few minutes, then heading on north.”

“Where ya from?”

“Texas!”

He, of course, knew that, because I saw him glance at my license plates, but he was confirming it. He seemed to loosen up when I said, “Texas!”

“We rounded up these head here,” he offered, pointing with pride, toward the cattle near the water tank, “to load up tomorrow.”

“Some beautiful cows,” I complimented. It was evident we were making a Texas - Nebraska connection. If I'd been from New York, it would be different.

“Yep, we’re proud of ‘em," he bragged. "I was driving by and wanted to check ... see what you were doing. You take care now.”

“You too,” I said, waving a friendly bye-bye, feeling relief that I wasn’t in trouble with my drone flying. “Thanks again and nice talking to you.”

He acknowledged me back let his foot off the brake, adjusted his hat, then eased his truck slowly back to 83 and continued on in the direction he was going.

I frantically turned my attention to the controller to locate Air-ARGO up in the sky. The altimeter indicated it was 200 feet high on the opposite side of 83 with the camera pointed in my direction. As I brought it closer and lowered the altitude, I felt better when I could hear the buzz of the propellers.

I flew it a little longer till the battery warning started beeping at me, sounding the alarm. I manipulated the joy-sticks to bring little Air-ARGO home. Landed her, within a few inches, right where she had taken off.

Still amazes me every time I fly her, as she goes away and comes back home. An admiral and an honorable trait. One missing in many relationships today.

Today I got a birds-eye view of the dreams found and dreams lost in the Nebraska Sandhills. Met a local rancher. And drove away with a ton of deceased insects on ARGO's windshield.

So, it’s on down the road I go, without expectations or reservations, discovering America one story at a time. Still headed north on 83, the path I’ve dubbed, America’s Heartland Highway. Subscribe for email alerts when I post and come along with me at JohnButlersBuzz.com