Strolling along the mown path that cuts through 525 acres of restored native grasses and wildflowers at Glacier Creek Preserve in northwest Omaha near 144th and State streets, I hear bees buzzing the asters, or is that a motorcycle engine revving on the nearby highway? I hear cows lowing in a pasture, or is that a plane taking off at the small nearby airport?

Like the paths crisscrossing the prairie hills, scientific research, education and art converge at Glacier Creek Preserve, led by Barbi Hayes, biologist, environmental scientist and benefactor, and Tom Bragg, preserve director and pyro-ecologist professor at the University of Nebraska at Omaha.

Surrounded by cornfields, roads and subdivisions at the northwestern edge of Omaha, Hayes, Bragg and partners have been painstakingly restoring Nebraska’s prairie heritage on this land that includes 140 acres of the Allwine Prairie Tract, a restored tallgrass prairie established in 1970, the Papio Tract, the Barbi Hayes Overlook and the Bouteloua Tract. Open to the public, visitors can learn about prairie restoration and ecosystems, conduct scientific research, make art or simply bathe in nature. 

As I walk, I imagine the diversity of the pre-settled, pre-cultivated prairie: head high big blue stem that you push aside or walk under, thickets of milkweed, grey-headed coneflowers (they’re yellow), lead plant with its reaching taproot, bouteloua (the best name that rolls off the tongue), a rattlesnake master and more.

Even though Nebraska is a mostly agricultural state and considering that I grew up in small towns in Kansas and northeast Nebraska, it’s dawning on me that I appreciate nature, but in an abstract sort of way. I know nothing of native plant species. This visit to Glacier Creek Preserve deeply underscores that point.

My careful steps reflect the “leave no trace” principles that I read about and that have gained momentum among serious trekkers. But here, at Glacier Creek, walking off the path is allowed, but with the likelihood that ticks will latch on for a ride. Just don’t trample the diminutive, elusive Prairie Orchid.

I timidly step off the path and into the prairie itself, crunch through roots and vegetation, and make my way down to the muddy stream undulating through the preserve. Parting the tall grasses and milkweed, I plod over paths worn by snakes, small animals, and scientists. I turn my face to the setting sun, close my eyes and feel the enormity of the prairie – a rich canvas painting of dusky greens and orangey-purplish pinks meeting at the horizon.

I don’t lie down in the grass, as Louise Erdrich urges in Big Grass, but even to walk through it, arms outstretched and fingers touching the reedy stems, allows appreciation and reverence.

Back on the path, I resume sauntering. The prairie pulls emotion from me, but why? Why do I tear up in sadness, in relief, in amazement at nature and its qualities of renewal and restoration?

Is it that walking in nature frees my mind from the worries and weight at home? Or that I’m allowing myself to experience a pure, enjoyable moment? Or is it a sense of infinite loss of myself, of the prairie, of our home, this planet?

It’s as if this prairie, the wild nature on this patch of land, has cracked me open like a seed preparing to take root.