Crescent Lake National Wildlife Refuge

I stayed at another iOverlander spot near Lakeside, NE, and slept surprisingly well. Trains rumbled in the distance through the night, every couple of hours. Instead of being annoying, the low sound was almost soothing. I never heard a single car, even though I was parked near a paved road. The pull-off looked like a staging area for road work at some point, with a big mound of dirt beside me now covered in grass and weeds.

The next morning, I had breakfast, caught up on a little correspondence, and packaged up some books for my granddaughter. Since it was Saturday, I drove the mile into Lakeside to mail them. The town itself is tiny—maybe twenty buildings in total—and I was surprised it even had a post office. Unfortunately, it was closed. No hours posted, just a locked door. Later I learned they were open from 7–10 a.m. on Saturdays. I had missed it by a few minutes.

Crescent Lake National Wildlife Refuge was about 28 miles away, and I decided to give it a try. My last stop at a National Wildlife Refuge hadn’t gone so well, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. A few miles in, I turned onto a dirt road—common in Nebraska—and the washboard surface was brutal. I crawled along at 10 mph, the entire van rattling like it was about to shake apart. It didn’t look like anyone had ever graded that road. Eventually, the dirt gave way to a narrow stretch of pavement, just wide enough for a single car.

By 11 a.m., I’d had enough and pulled over to make coffee, partly to calm my nerves from the endless bouncing around. Five miles out, the road turned rough again. A mile from the refuge, I passed a guy walking. He waved, I waved back, and when I finally rolled into the parking area, I let out a long sigh of relief. As I was grabbing my hiking shoes, the walker caught up. His name was Chris, and he said he’d worked at the refuge for 19 years. He didn’t look old enough for that, unless he started when he was ten. After a quick chat, he wished me well and headed off.

The visitor center, of course, was closed—it was the weekend, after all. I couldn’t help but wonder how many people actually make the trek out here during the week. Crescent Lake is considered one of the most remote refuges in the lower 48, and it definitely feels that way. Established in 1931, it protects over 45,000 acres of Sandhills prairie, dunes, wetlands, and shallow lakes. More than 270 bird species have been recorded here, along with pronghorn, coyotes, and prairie grouse. It’s wild country, and you have to come prepared because there’s not much else around.

I found a short trail looping from the visitor center out to the lake. Birds were everywhere, but they kept their distance, as they should in a true refuge. Strong binoculars would have been the tool of choice here. My 200mm lens wasn’t going to cut it for close-ups, so I focused on the landscape and vegetation instead. Standing there, it felt like stepping back in time—like what people must have seen when they crossed the plains before highways and towns carved it all up.

Crescent Lake National Wildlife Refuge is managed with a mix of plans aimed at protecting its grasslands, wetlands, and wildlife. Fire, grazing, and water control projects are all part of keeping the prairie pothole ecosystem healthy for migratory birds and native plants. Driving in, I passed stretches of charred fields that, as Chris explained, were the result of a recent lightning strike—an unplanned fire that still fit the natural cycle of the prairie (also saving the Refuge the cost of controlled burn offs). Walking the trails, I noticed how different patches of the refuge shift in feel—open grass giving way to cattails, then stands of shrubs. At one point, the air carried the sweet, earthy smell of what I thought was heather, a reminder of how even a scent can tie you to a place.

One thing on the trail that brought back fond memories of my youth was the milkweed plant. I used to wander the fields near our home, snapping a stem just to see that white sticky latex ooze out. The pods were always buzzing with insects—though most wanted nothing to do with the latex itself. Monarchs and milkweed bugs didn’t mind, and sometimes the whole field seemed to flutter with orange wings. Back then, I was convinced Elmer’s glue came from milkweed. I’d test the theory by sticking things together with the sap, which of course never really worked. Funny thing is, Elmer’s glue did start out milk-based—just from cow’s milk, not milkweed.

I decided to cut bait and head toward tomorrow’s destination. Once I got back onto pavement, I had about a three-hour drive ahead of me. Chris had suggested I return the way I came since the roads were better, but about a mile from the visitor center there was a fork. Google Maps wanted me to take the other way. Against my better judgment, I followed it—and two and a half hours later I really regretted that choice. I couldn’t fathom a road worse than the one I came in on, but this one proved me wrong. Sections had once been paved, but the asphalt was now broken into pieces with wide gaps between. In places, tire tracks cut through the grass alongside the road where other drivers had given up on the “pavement.”

At one point I came to a fence line with a cattle guard. In front of me stood six bulls. Two of them were butting heads, while the other four just stared at me like they were saying, “Can’t you wait until these two guys are finished?” The whole scene felt like something straight out of a Gary Larson cartoon. I nudged the van forward and they didn’t budge. Finally, I rolled down the window, yelled, and they started moving—except for the two locked in combat, who just kept at it while I drove past.

The highlight of that miserable stretch was spotting a rairie grouse dart across the road in front of me. Otherwise, it was a slow grind until I finally reached Route 2 and pointed the van toward Valentine, NE, where I had a bike ride planned for the next day.

I found a place to stop for the night within the Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge. iOverlander had it marked as a canoe launch, but Google was trying to send me off-road into the prairie. I ignored the directions and continued a bit farther until I reached the top of a hill with a plaque describing the view. There was a small pull-off and it seemed as good a spot as any, so I parked there. I was definitely inside the refuge, but not entirely sure where. Either way, it worked.