My original spring plan was simple: Be at my daughter’s house for her birthday on April 7th, be there for my own birthday on April 12th, and then take off for a couple of quiet weeks before returning to leave my trailer and truck with her while I headed north for my summer trip.
But plans are just suggestions when you’re retired — and the weather had other ideas.
A series of storms slowed me down, and thanks to my daughter’s flexibility (and her warm house), I shifted my arrival in Nebraska to the weekend of my birthday, with plans to stay through Easter.
Shortly before I got there, my granddaughter reached out and asked if I would be in town for her FFA banquet, where she would be honored for her state recognition and inducted as an officer for her senior year. I didn’t have to change my schedule to make it — but you know I would have if I needed to.
Then her younger sister saw me and asked if I’d be there for her Family Night event on April 24th, where she was working as a class officer. That wasn’t in the plan… but one of the best things about being retired is that you are absolutely in control of your schedule. So I stayed. And then came the end‑of‑year music events.
Suddenly, the “couple of weeks” I wasn’t going to be in Alliance between my arrival and my departure for the Northwest shrank down to just a few short days — but they were full of grandkid moments, sheep‑shearing photos, and the kind of everyday memories that matter more than any travel plan.
Western Nebraska is an arid, high‑desert region, and moisture is always in short supply. The extra week I stayed was cold, rainy, damp, and miserable — the kind of weather that makes you grateful for warm coffee, wool socks, and a working furnace.
I had planned to leave on Friday, but there were things we needed to do to the NoBo before I took it north. Flexibility being the watchword of this trip, I pivoted. Instead of towing the trailer, I decided to take a quick solo trip — just me and the truck — up to Valentine, Nebraska, where I’d already arranged a hotel.
I didn’t know it yet, but that little detour was about to turn into one of the most memorable chapters of my spring
Why Valentine, Nebraska?
Because Valentine and I had unfinished business.
Nineteen years earlier, when my son Jeremy came home from Iraq, he came to visit me. We asked the locals what we should go see, and they told us, “Go to Smith Falls. Just take Route 2 and hang a left — you can’t miss it.”
Famous last words.
Jeremy and I took off in the rental convertible — top down, spirits high — and headed out on Route 2. We turned where we thought we were supposed to turn, and instead of Smith Falls, we found:
- endless sunflowers in brilliant bloom
- rolling Sandhills glowing in the afternoon light
- a lake we weren’t looking for
- and absolutely no waterfall
We cruised along without a care in the world. No traffic. No speed limits we felt compelled to obey. Just the two of us, the wind, and the wide‑open Nebraska sky.
Eventually we popped out on Highway 20, realized where we were, and turned back toward Alliance. The top was still down when it started to rain — and you could tell neither of us were sophisticated convertible owners. We thought the windshield would protect us.
It did not.
What we didn’t know was that the convertible well had been collecting water the whole time. As we slowed down, that water came forward… and drenched us. We laughed until our sides hurt. And we never did find Smith Falls.
We’ve joked about that trip for nearly two decades.
This year, I planned to visit Valentine during the quiet week between my daughter’s visit and my Northwest trip. Back in Benson, Arizona, I had met an older gentleman in the hot tub — and that’s saying something, because I’m no spring chicken myself. He mentioned he performed at a cowboy poetry and music festival in Valentine. I asked when it was.
“The 24th and 25th of April,” he said.
Well, wouldn’t you know — that was exactly the weekend I planned to be there.
I left Natasha’s on Friday and headed north through Chadron, then across Highway 20 — a route I hadn’t traveled since that 2006 convertible adventure. I reached Valentine in time for dinner before the show.
I ate at The Bunkhouse, which felt like the perfect place for a cowboy festival. The menu made the choice easy: chicken‑fried steak. How could I not?
That night I listened to:
- David Paul Boyd
- Beard Brooke Turner
- Lindy Simons
They sang songs and recited cowboy poetry to a small but enthusiastic crowd. Valentine is, after all, in the middle of nowhere — but that’s part of its charm.
The next morning, I went looking for my hot‑tub friend. I didn’t know his name, but I figured I’d recognize him — or someone would point me in the right direction.
Sure enough, he was performing at 11:00.
I walked up and said, “Hello — I didn’t know your name, so I wasn’t sure how to find you. We met in the hot tub in Benson.”
He looked at me and said, loud enough for the whole row to hear:
“Oh! I didn’t recognize you with clothes on.”
The folks around us got a good laugh out of that. Later, when he explained the joke, people nodded — realizing he’d only ever seen me in a swimsuit.
I stayed for another performance, including the headliner, David Stamey, whose music fit the region perfectly. I listened to his songs most of the next day as I drove. And I continue to enjoy his Western Music as I travel the west.
Before I left, I promised Paul I’d see him again next winter in the Benson hot tub.
Exploring Valentine — and a Surprise Wildlife Refuge
Sunday dawned warmer and partly sunny after a cold, rainy week. I wanted to time my Smith Falls visit for the warmest part of the day, so I spent the morning exploring Valentine.
The downtown was charming — mostly full storefronts, preserved architecture, and blessedly no off‑street parking lots carved into the fronts of buildings. It was Sunday, so most shops were closed, but the town still had a friendly, lived‑in feel.
Then I spotted something unexpected: a National Park Service sign.
There’s no national park in this part of Nebraska, so I had to investigate. It turned out to be the Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge, managed by the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service in partnership with the NPS.
Of course, I had to go in.
Right after crossing a creek at the entrance, I found myself staring at four or five large buffalo. And let me tell you — “Don’t pet furry cows” is a rule I have no trouble following. I stayed in my vehicle, got a couple of good shots, and one of them gave me the kind of side‑eye that said, Move along, lady. They seemed to not be afraid of me at all. It was ok, because I was clearly concerned what they could do to my new truck if I irritated them.
What I did find was that familiar Sandhills feeling — the sense of being absolutely alone in a vast, open world. If you let it, that solitude becomes a kind of peace.
Smith Falls — The Waterfall We Never Found
After exploring the refuge, it was finally time to settle the score with a place that had eluded me for nearly two decades: Smith Falls.
This was the waterfall Jeremy and I had tried — and hilariously failed — to find 19 years earlier. Back then, we had followed vague directions (“Go out Route 2 and hang a left”) and ended up with sunflowers, Sandhills, a lake we weren’t looking for, and a convertible full of rainwater. We never found the falls.
But this time, I had a map.
And a mission.
Smith Falls State Park sits just east of Valentine, along the Niobrara National Scenic River, one of the most biologically diverse waterways in the Great Plains. The falls themselves are fed by a spring that emerges from the porous sandstone cliffs — which is why the water flows steadily year‑round, even in dry seasons.
The walk to the falls was short — maybe a quarter mile — and then suddenly, there it was: Smith Falls.
Nebraska’s tallest waterfall at 63 feet, spilling in a delicate white ribbon over a moss‑covered cliff. The sound was gentle, almost musical, and the air around it felt cooler, like the waterfall carried its own little pocket of spring.
I stood there for a long time, letting the moment settle in.
Nineteen years late, but right on time.
I thought about Jeremy — the convertible, the sunflowers, the rain, the laughter — and how life has a way of circling back to the places we weren’t quite ready for the first time.
This time, I found Smith Falls.
And it was worth the wait.
The Storm That Chased Me Home
I left Smith Falls feeling accomplished — and honestly, a little proud of myself. I’d seen unexpected bison, found a beautiful waterfall, and finally closed the loop on a nearly 20‑year dream.
But the day wasn’t done with me yet.
As I headed south toward Highway 2, I noticed storm clouds forming on the horizon. At first, I was just grateful I’d finished my sightseeing before the weather rolled in. But the farther I drove, the more those clouds started to look… wrong. Darker. Lower. Moving in ways that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
My daughter started calling, checking on where I was and what direction I was heading. At the same time, I noticed something else: the traffic pattern was changing. Cars were slowing. A few were pulling off. And then I saw the sign that the day was about to get interesting.
A couple of them turned right in front of me — heading down a road I had just been considering taking. And let me tell you, if you ever want a quick reality check, watch a storm chaser make a beeline toward the direction you were thinking of going.
That settled it. I stayed straight. A few miles later, I found out why everyone was so on edge.
There, along the tracks, was a Burlington Northern Santa Fe train on its side — cars tipped over like a child had knocked over a toy set. Whatever had hit it wasn’t gentle. Some kind of whirling dervish of a tornado had come through with enough force to shove railcars off the tracks like they were nothing.
The clouds above me looked like they were thinking about forming more.
With open road ahead and no trailer behind me, I did the only sensible thing: I picked up speed and headed west, putting as much distance as I could between me and whatever the Sandhills were cooking up next.
