A Slice of Heaven
The Sandhills Marathon
A slice of Heaven,
exactly the way it’s meant to be.
Untouched and unknown,
where it will continue to be.
Where it all began,
and so it ends.
The Sandhills region, with its hills towering up to 400 feet, is the largest sand dune region in the Western Hemisphere, covering over 20,000 square miles. Below the thin layer of topsoil and endless supply of sand sits the Ogallala Aquifer, one of the largest groundwater sources in the world. In 1984 the Sandhills were named a National Natural Landmark, and the WWF estimates that 85% of the ecoregion is intact natural habitat, the largest in the Great Plains, since the ground has never been plowed. In fact, it’s prime cattle-raising country.
Nebraska Sandhills in Hooker County, Nebraska, seen from Nebraska Highway 97 south of the Dismal River (Wiki)
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A large part of the Sandhills is encompassed by Cherry County, the largest county in the state at 3.1 million acres, or larger than the state of Connecticut; almost 5500 people live in the county, with about 3000 in Valentine, and cows out number people five to one in total. The county (red lines) is between the central (to the right) and mountain (to the left) time zones (purple line).
Besides the land itself, the Sandhills are known for Merritt Reservoir (a designated International Dark Sky Park for stargazing), Snake River Falls, Smith Falls, Cowboy Trail Bridge (below), and the Nebraska National Forest. It also has some of the best golf in the world (more on this later).
Cowboy Trail Bridge over the Niobrara River, just east of Valentine on Highway 83
Once you get west of Thedford on Highway 2, and before you get to Mullen, you start on what is one of my favorite drives in the entire world. The Sandhills start to get dramatic and panoramic, train tracks run parallel to the highway, and the Middle Loup follows you on your adventure. You arrive at the dinky town of Mullen and turn right to head north on Highway 97, and the volume gets turned up to 11. A rollercoaster of going up, over, and through dunes and past prairie lakes. Windmills being the only thing that disturbs the vista, bringing water up from the ground to dump into tanks for the cattle to drink. It’s a heavy metal symphony of peace, quiet, and solitude.
/
The Sandhills have always been spiritual for me. Starting around junior high, my grandparents took Caden and I camping and four wheeling every summer at the aforementioned Nebraska National Forest, a couple miles west of Halsey. Even with my young naivete I recognized it as an escape from everyday life; a chance to do nothing but relax and revel in the landscape. The sand trails weaving in and out of the forest, past pines and seas of Poison Ivy, all the way down to the Dismal River. The smell of the trees. The hot, sticky summer air. I can still feel it all. Fires, most recently in October 2022, have destroyed large parts of the forest, and now the 4-H camp with its historic buildings. Even my favorite place, ever, to watch a sunset—Scott Lookout Tower, with views in every direction as far as the eye can see. I have not been since summer 2022, though that will not be the case forever. It cannot be.
From here, the forest runs about 5 miles east (where we start), about 10 miles south (middle), and about 15 miles west
Early in 2021, I was on the road to finishing my second junior year of college. I was working part-time, hated my job, and knew I needed a change. I had always heard about The Prairie Club in golf circles as being one of the state’s best, so I hopped on their website to see what was up. I applied and did a phone interview, an important part of which was being informed that the nearest town (Valentine, 20 miles away) boasted (only had) not one, not two, but three grocery stores. I said it didn’t matter. And it didn’t. I needed a change. I told my parents, they were understandably confused and had a lot of logistical questions.
April came around and I started to question what the hell I was doing, uprooting myself the summer before my second senior year of college, taking myself away from my friends for three months. Deep down I knew it was the correct decision. And so I did. Finished up classes in early May and left some stuff in storage and Wichita, filled my car to the brim (I cannot oversell how full my car was) and departed. I got lunch with my parents in York, a little under halfway through the eight hour drive north. Take the Interstate to Grand Island, then Highway 2, the Sandhills Journey Scenic Byway, until Thedford. GPS told me to take Highway 83 north from Thedford, and then use a road to cut across from 83 to 97. Turned left off 83 and passed by some tiny town called Brownlee and meandered through the valley on a one-lane wide piece of black top. It was one of the most scenic parts of my drive that day.
I left the surrounding area for exactly two things that summer: the first being Caden’s grad party at the end of May, to which I have to document the fit some people are still calling into question. I still remember the drive back to Lincoln, being anxious to see my Uncle Mark and play golf with him.
Honestly, I’ve done worse
And the second being a trip to the world-famous Omaha Zoo that my friends planned in July.
John, Jacob, and I went out in Lincoln that night since John had been freshly minted at 21.
As you can see, I cut all my hair off shortly after the grad party
That summer I lived in a trailer by myself behind the maintenance building
See, not clickbait. No internet, no cell service, just a satellite TV I might have turned on twice
and worked from 6:30 until 2:30 pm, then practiced and played golf until dark. Wash, rinse, repeat. It was the best. Met and worked with some great people. There were, of course, the bozos playing as an eight some, whom I watched all tee off, told them they needed to be in two groups, to which they informed me they “weren’t all playing together,” as if I was blind, stupid, or perhaps both. The joys of public golf. From money games to shitty IPAs at Bolo Beer in Valentine, I got really good at golf and had a fun time doing it. And I got a lot of good photos:
#13 Pines course in the evening golden hour
#1 Dunes course
Dunes course practice putting green
Practice range from the top looking down towards the clubhouse (it’s 750 yards long)
My dad hitting out of an eight-foot wide bunker, in the middle of a 100-yard wide fairway
The Snake River Canyon looking back to the clubhouse from behind #16 green on Pines course
#4 Dunes course — my favorite hole on property
#8 green Dunes course with #9 fairway and halfway house behind
#18 Dunes course
#10 Pines course
#11 Pines course
#17 Pines course
#16 Pines course tee shot
#16 Pines course approach shot
#7 Pines course
#1 green Dunes course
And now, a sunset progression from #16, #17, and #18 on the Pines course:
End of progression
Storm rolling in behind the halfway house on the Dunes course
Same storm behind the 15th hole
The same storm arriving with the sunset
Family of Pronghorn Antelope on the Dunes course, native to the region
Big sky looking back to the first green on the Pines course
Most nights I would walk up from the trailer to the second tee box, one of the highest points on property, and watch the sunset,
or the weather roll in,
or both.
Those nights it felt like I had the whole property to myself, a treasure I did not take for granted.
At the end of the summer, I crammed all my sightseeing into one day since I could not be bothered to do anything other than golf. The first stop was Snake River Falls (not Istanbul—common misconception), just south of the club; the largest waterfall by volume in the state.
Next up was Cowboy Trail Bridge, and I walked across all of its quarter-mile length.
And finally Smith Falls, the largest waterfall in the state by vertical drop.
I had done and seen it all, and even hit Halsey with my grandparents for a few days on my way back.
With the impending onslaught of adulthood, only one question remained: Would I ever be back?
/
Finally flash forward we do to the present day. “The Rut” by Turnpike Troubadours serenading the speakers as I drive west and scan the horizon, drunk on its beauty. “I’ve come back to the mountains and they’re all still standin’ there,” they remind me; of my impermanence, of the Hills’ permanence. I turn north and “The Bird Hunters,” again by Turnpike is now playing, the unmistakable fiddle intro rattles around the cabin. Two of my favorites, I always queue back-to-back, not sure why just always have, the latter being in my opinion their best work. Second verse they ask, no tell “How good does it feel? You belong in these hills / It’s best that you let it all end,” and I reflect on the gift that is this moment, this place and resign my troubles to the wind. Now “Show Me How to Live” by Audioslave and I am reminded of the other songs I heard for the first time that summer, so I press play on nostalgia. “Freaks” by Surf Curse, “Sideways” and “First Time” by ILLENIUM, “Seeing Green” by Queen Nicki with Dr*ke and Lil Wayne, “Dinero” by Trinidad Cardona, “As the World Caves In” both the original by Matt Maltese and the cover by Sarah Cothran, “Shakira!” by 1nonly, “Teenage Dream 2” by Kidd G with Lil Uzi Vert, “Real Life Sux” by Justus Bennetts, “Heavenly Side” by ILLENIUM with Matt Maeson. Memories move through my head like the passing landscape at 65 miles per hour. The extra few minutes 97 dictates are worth it—I don’t know if it will be dark when I drive back to my motel. I don’t know how many more times I’ll be able to do this.
I arrive at Young’s Western Wear in Valentine to pick up my packet and peruse the selections. There’s lots of stuff I’d like to buy though none I deem worthy of forking over for. Back South down 97 I go to The Prairie Club. Couldn’t make a trip up to this neck of the woods without a visit. It’s been four years since I was here and it seems nothing has changed. That’s a reflection of how things are, how people are ‘round these parts. They know that if it ain’t broke.
I venture into the golf shop and catch up with my old bosses, reuse the expired inside jokes we used to cope during the season. Never mind they still hit. If there’s one place worse for me to be with a credit card than a Western store it’s a golf shop. I make it out alright (I think). Look good, feel good, play good they say. There’s no rush at this time in the evening. Most folks have played their morning 18, eaten lunch, and are now on their way to finishing the afternoon 18 and heading up to dinner. I head out to the range to limber up after spending all day in the car. The body feels like a 2x4. Fall into my old routine I do: warm up at the bottom of the range, drive the 700 yards up to the top to chip and putt. Meander over to the first tee. I got lucky with an evening round on my favorite of the two on-property courses: the Dunes Course.
Standing on the first tee I am shocked by the scale of it all, same as I was four short years ago. I whale away and the round has commenced. After I tee off on the second I take a quick detour past the maintenance barn and down to the trailer. Still there. Still double-wide. Sit and reflect for a few minutes. I smile as I turn to drive back, though I don’t look back. Satisfied I am with how I left it, with how I am now. Hit the music and start the party. The first act is up-tempo and one of hope. First up is a slew of more Turnpike: “The Winding Stair Mountain Blues” as I am reminded ‘All that trouble you’ve been looking for is easy in the finding / Well the devil’s into fine detail.’ Followed immediately by “7 & 7” and “Kansas City Southern.” Charles Wesley Godwin takes the reins with “Cue Country Roads,” “Two Weeks Gone,” and “Hardwood Floors” among others. Zach Bryan, The Red Clay Strays, Flatland Calvary, Zach Top, Tyler Childers, Jon Pardi, Riley Green, Luke Combs, Midland, and Wyatt Flores all taken by the wind. No matter, I’m the only person within a square mile. A representation of how I’ve grown since that summer long ago, a lot of those people I didn’t know existed or wasn’t interested in listening to. Now they’re my go-to.
I make the turn to start the back and breeze by the Dunes Saloon, the only other man-made thing I’ve seen since I begun my pilgrimage on the first. The 10th welcomes me straight into the teeth of the wind. In the back of my head I know 10-12 are the best scoring opportunities I have on this side before I have to strap in and hang on for the finish coming down the stretch. I watch this thought pass like a tumbleweed in the prairie wind. Today is not about score, it is about the whole-body experience: the sound of native grass rolling in the gusts like the ocean, the smell of prairie wildflowers, the expanse of the prairie enveloping me, the firm feel of the sand in a blowout bunker, and the taste of a cold beer and cheeseburger. The drive from 12 green to 13 starts the trek back west to the clubhouse, reminding me of the finiteness of this experience. I vow to soak in everything I can the rest of the way. On 16 tee, the high point of the property, there is nothing, or no one, as far as the eye can see in every direction. There is nothing else to do, nowhere else to be other than right here, right now. I linger because I can. Perhaps because I should. Perhaps because I don’t want to leave this moment, this place, this day like I did all those years ago. Back down to the cart I go, but not until I have found peace in this solitude I’ve been given. From 17 green to 18 tee I am entered into hospice, my fate all but sealed with the clubhouse in full view now; that brown building sitting up on the hill and sticking out like it’s supposed to be there. As I put the flag back in the hole for the final time I remove my hat and take a deep breath stealing seconds while I still can. I thank whoever is listening for that great summer, and especially for being able to channel a small part of it just for today.
Up to that clubhouse I go to recharge my batteries. A cheeseburger and fries just as tasty as I remember. This is beef country, after all. And a cold domestic for the carbs, obviously. I walk out to the back patio and sit in a chair like I did so many times before to watch the sun start to dip below the pines on the opposite side of the Snake River Canyon. The low-angled light baking everything in that soft, golden glow. Out the front door I walk a different man, yet still the same.
Farther South back down 97 I drive again to set up camp for the night. And when I say camp I mean motel. The aforementioned Halsey is where I’m setting up shop, about the same distance from the starting line as Valentine. Soundtrack is somber but reflective. “The Funeral,” “Tishomingo,” “Creeker,” “Diamonds and Gasoline,” “28,” “Pink Skies,” “The View Between Villages — Extended Version,” “Corinthians (Proctor’s).” Colter Wall croons as I pull into town on “Transcendent Ramblin’ Railroad Blues” and for a minute I believe he’s talking about me.
/
Running 26.2 miles is silly. There’s no reason to do it, really, other than to see if you can. And I don’t think that holds up in court. The Sandhills Marathon (website with history) is a true boot-straps operation, coming from one man who drove the road, told his friend about it, and they agreed it needed a marathon. So they started one. No fuss. No frills. No packed starting corrals. Just a small group of people, cattle, the occasional rattlesnake sunning itself on the road, and wide open spaces. There are no medals for your efforts; no, you get either an engraved spur for completing the full, or a horseshoe for completing the half. Not some half-ass, city slicker bullshit—the real deal, provided by Young’s Western Wear up in Valentine. The course isn’t USATF certified; there is no Boston Qualifying; there is no icing on the cake. It’s just a run for the sake of a run. Pure as the sand driven hills the ocean left behind all those millions of years ago.
/
The alarm goes off, well, alarmingly early. The clock says 3:00 a.m. “Dude, what the fuck” is (probably) the first thing that goes through my head. The next being whether I’ve even woke up this early to get to the airport. I decide not. Next all the lights come on to help try to wake me up. Doesn’t really matter, all I have to do is hurry up and wait. Sip electrolytes. Sip caffeine. Try to distract myself with a YouTube video or podcast only to inevitably think about the race. Sip electrolytes. Sip caffeine. Try to distract myself with a YouTube video or podcast only to inevitably think about the race. Sip electrolytes. Sip caffeine. Try to distract myself with a YouTube video or podcast only to inevitably think about the race. After a couple hours I check the clock on the wall and it reads 4:15. Deep sigh. Expletive. Still too early to eat. Still too early to get dressed. Sip electrolytes. Sip caffeine. Try to distract myself with a YouTube video or podcast only to inevitably think about the race. At some point I rejoin the land of the living and gather my supplies. Fill the bladder with water; add salt; put it in my running vest; feed the drinking tube up to the shoulder. Pack my running fuel into the vest. Swedish Fish: five every 20 minutes for as long as we run. No gels today we’re going for a more lighthearted approach this go-round. Anxiety spikes as time is running out before I need to leave and I still need to eat. I was so busy doing nothing I almost bungled my time management. Truck is loaded up with everything I’ll need and I venture out into the dark abyss of the early morning.
Bon Iver wafts through the speakers as I barrel down the road; nothing but me, the painted lines, and For Emma, Forever Ago. The acoustic guitar, horns, and harmonies carry me North on 83 as I time travel back to the time in my life I heard this album for the first time, and played it on repeat. Few things have that power like music. A much simpler time that was. Not better, but simpler. I can say sitting where I am now that I am happy with that time. It was an important piece in the process of becoming who I am now. There’s no need to worry about queuing anything else, the drive time coincides perfectly with the album runtime. Up and down I go over the Sandhills, passing only the ranchers I have no business being up with. Despite the dark I still give a two-finger wave off the top of my steering wheel: index and middle. Nebraska Nice ©. The wonders of modern GPS are the only ones to save me from missing the left turn off the highway as the early morning light waxes the horizon in the East. I check the screen: Brownlee Road.
Five agonizing miles of single-lane blacktop later I pull into town. Not all that fun to do in the dark it turns out. Add in some fog and it’s all you could want. Bustling Brownlee boasts a population of eight (8). We might hit triple digits with the race in town today. I made sure I got here plenty early so I could wait some more. Can’t make that up. As we inch towards the 6 a.m. start time the sky starts to turn from black to grey. Long sightlines make for good sunrises and sunsets my past experience tells me. And I can’t wait for today’s.
I pull into the parking lot, driving over the start/finish line, which is nothing more than a spray-painted yellow line in the gravel. Fog hangs in the early-morning air. The temperature is a cool 50 degrees Fahrenheit, a perfect start to the day. The crowd is sparse, there are only about 40 sickos signed up for 26.2 miles of punishment. Perverts if you ask me.
The race director calls everyone to the line about five minutes till 6, reminding folks to run on the left side of the road and watch for rattlesnakes sunning themselves at this hour. All we get for a start is a “Runners, take your marks. Go” since they can’t shoot a gun in town. And with a small rush we are off. Only 13.1 miles out and 13.1 miles back.
We head out, trying to find a rhythm as the cold shakes off our bones. It’s been awhile since I was chilly on an outside run and I am thankful. In June, no less.
6:11 am. Not only did the dude in the cowboy hat kick my ass (carrying no carbs) he’s running a marathon a weekend this year. Levels.
As the sun inches up, the fog begins to burn off. The landscape is basked in Mega Light ©. The prairie grass glows a golden hue.
6:32 am
In every direction I look, there is nothing but hills and the prairie.
6:44 am
6:48 am
6:52 am
Sightlines like these are great for viewing, though not so much running because the horizon seems to stay the same no matter how far you’ve come, a testament to the scale that surrounds you. At some point we meander over to Swan Lake and I stop to snap a couple photos:
7:22 am
After all, we had just come up the biggest hill (so far) and I needed a quick breather. We were here for the experience, not the number on the clock. After all, our bibs weren’t even chipped.
7:29 am
Up, over, around, and through we go. The miles are starting to get hard the closer we get to the turnaround. The views are still at a crescendo.
7:48 am. Those black dots at the beginning are cows.
I look down at my watch and it tells me that I’m close to halfway, though I think it’s lying. I can’t see anything but open road.
7:52 am
Things really start to get lonely on the way back, both in a physical and mental sense. My legs are donezo. It feels like I’m wearing cinder blocks for shoes. I look down at my watch: only 11 miles to go! Fuck me this is going to suck. Over the next 7 the most I run continuously is half a mile. Run. Walk. Run. Walk. Run Walk. Repeat. This affords me plenty of time to ponder the deep questions of life, like, “Why the hell am I doing this? I was a sprinter. I was good at it! What was I thinking???” Forward we continue, no matter how fast. Or how slow. The slower the average pace, the longer I’ll be out here. The mental burden keeps being added to. Walking is a pain in the ass. Running is worse. I look up, no idea where I’m at, no frame of reference for when I can expect the finish. That doesn’t help. Nothing really does, other than the fact the finish line gets closer every minute. I can’t even run fast enough to get my heartrate out of Zone 2.
I hit mile 23 and say to myself, “Only 5k to go.” There is no exclamation or joy; energy will not be wasted on frivolity. Closer the miles tick. I make one last stop at the cooler around 2 miles to go and buckle up. Every step is a choice at this point. It hurts to walk as much as to run so we might as well go faster. Nothing would make me happier than to take a walk break, but I don’t to spite myself. Nothing would make me happier than to lay down on the ground, but that is waiting for me after the finish line. Running up the last straight and Brownlee feels like the longest 8-person town in existence. I turn right and step over the yellow paint. It’s over, I’ve done it.
I receive my reward and go lay up against a pile of rocks. Softest rocks I’ve ever felt.
I am thankful to be done, thankful that I endured the suffering. Though my legs may disagree. A sliver of thought enters my head and I contemplate returning next year for the half and a horseshoe. But that’s a thought for another day. For now, I am going to lay here with my hat over my face and enjoy this pain. I earned it.
/
As I turned left off 83 to head East on 2 the only question that remained was when I would be back, not if.
And so it ends,
where it all began,
where it will continue to be.
Untouched and unknown,
exactly the way it’s meant to be.
A slice of Heaven.