Homestead National Park
I woke up well rested and relaxed in the Walmart parking lot on the fringe of Beatrice. I popped into Walmart to pickup a few things. My destination for the day was Homestead National Historical Park, about 15 minutes away. On the drive I passed the Koch nitrogen fertilizer plant just outside the town of Beatrice.
The park was already open when I arrived at 8:30. There were only a handful of vehicles in the lot, and all five of the RV spaces were empty. I parked with the side door facing the lawn, looking out toward a weathered old log structure in the distance. It was a peaceful spot with birds singing in the background. I made breakfast and worked at my desk for about three hours, occasionally hearing a car door slam shut somewhere nearby.
Before noon I walked over to the visitor center. Along the exterior wall was a display of metal cutouts representing each state that participated in the Homestead Act(s). Each had a square cut out of the middle, sized to represent the amount of land distributed under the program in that state.
History of the Homestead Act
I was welcomed by a young full-time employee of the park service who has been at this site for two years. He gave me a lot of context for the park. The location is most likely, although not 100% certain, the site of the first registered homestead. Daniel Freeman filed his claim here in 1863, the very first year the Homestead Act went into effect.
The Act itself lasted far longer than I imagined—over 120 years, until it was repealed in 1976 and extended until 1986 in Alaska. Families were still carving out new lives on unsettled land in my own lifetime. This one piece of legislation reshaped the country, drawing millions westward, expanding the railroads, displacing Native peoples, and introducing farming to the Great Plains. It was a law of both opportunity and loss.
Who Came to Homestead
Inside the visitor center, the exhibits gave a broader sense of who actually came to homestead. A panel on diversity stood out to me. Recently freed Black Americans saw it as one of the first opportunities to own land and establish their independence. Immigrants poured in from Europe—Swedes, Germans, Czechs, Russians, Norwegians—and brought their building styles, seeds, and farming traditions. Some formed ethnic communities, while others spread out in search of farmland.
Women also had an unusual chance for independence. Single women and widows could claim land under the same rules as men, something rare in the 19th century. That gave women the chance to raise children on land they themselves owned. Altogether, the Homestead Act sparked one of the most diverse migrations in American history.
I also watched a short film about the last official homesteader, Ken Deardorff, in Alaska. He flew in by plane to stake his claim in the 1970s—proof of just how long the Act lingered and how remote some of the land was. He staked a claim on 80 remote acres along the Stony River near McGrath, Alaska, in 1974 and received his land patent in 1988. The main orientation film tied all of this together, explaining the challenges people faced and how the exhibits connected back to Freeman’s land.
Challenges and Failures
Transportation played a huge role in shaping homesteads. At first, settlers built with whatever was on hand—sod, rough logs, or scraps. Later, as railroads expanded, families could order supplies and ship them west. But much of the promotion was snake-oil salesmanship. Companies and railroads promised roads, services, and fertile soil that often didn’t exist.
Families came west believing the land would be easy to farm, only to face drought, brutal winters, grasshopper plagues, crop disease, and isolation. Add in accidents, illness, and local conflicts, and many homesteads failed despite the effort invested.
The survey system fascinated me. To keep the process orderly, the government mapped the land into 160-acre parcels. Claimants had to live on the land for five years, build improvements, and prove it with two witnesses. Only then would the government issue a patent deed. It was strict and bureaucratic, but it gave families a pathway to true ownership.
Walking the Prairie
After finishing the exhibits, I walked outside to the replica cabin built near the visitor center. It gave me a sense of how small and simple those first homes were. From there, I followed the trail through the restored tallgrass prairie that once belonged to Daniel Freeman.
Along the way I noticed strange, wrinkled green fruit lying on the ground—osage oranges. A ranger explained that Freeman planted these trees because their thorny branches made a living fence before barbed wire existed. None of the trees in this area were natural; every one was planted by homesteaders to carve out windbreaks and boundaries on the open prairie.
Osage Orange
Butterflies were everywhere. At one point I photographed a single thistle with six butterflies feeding on its purple blooms. Interpretive plaques explained the prairie plants, the Freeman family’s history, and the wagon road that once crossed the land. I also passed the graves of Daniel and his wife, Agnes Suiter Freeman, simple stones marking the place where they lived and died.
Toward the end of the trail stood a Centennial marker from 1963, along with a time capsule to be opened in 2063 for the Act’s bicentennial. Standing there, I thought about future visitors who will gather at the same spot, reflecting on how this single law shaped both the land and the lives of millions.
