Water escaped.
Topsoil left.
Roots remained shallow because the hardpan below them resisted penetration.
The field did not simply fail to produce.
It was losing the ability to recover.
During the winter of 1980, Opal wrote a letter to the agricultural extension office in Broken Bow.
She expected perhaps one pamphlet.
Maybe a page describing cover crops.
Instead, a soil conservationist named Harlon Voss sent an envelope thick enough that the mail carrier folded it around the rest of the family’s post.
Inside were bulletins.
Windbreak design.
Erosion control.
Native grasses.
Soil structure.
Shelterbelt history.
One section described the Great Plains Shelterbelt Program, the massive tree-planting effort begun during the 1930s to reduce wind erosion across the central plains.
Opal read everything.
Then she found the page that changed her plans.
Bur oak.
Quercus macrocarpa.
Native to parts of the central United States.
Drought tolerant.
Long lived.
Deep rooted.
Able, under suitable conditions, to drive roots through soil layers that stopped many shallower species.
Opal read the section so often the page loosened from the staple.
Her idea became less strange every time she read it.
If the Flat could not hold water because the surface was sealed and roots could not penetrate the hardpan, then perhaps the answer was not another annual crop.
Perhaps the field needed something willing to spend years doing work underground.
Trees.
Not for lumber.
Not primarily for shade.
For roots.
For structure.
For resistance to water moving downhill.
For leaf litter.
For wind.
For time.
She began drawing.
Straight rows made less sense to her than contour rows.
If water moved downslope, the planting should interrupt that movement.
Instead of allowing runoff to accelerate, each row could slow it.
Spread it.
Give it another chance to sink.
Between the trees, she wanted native prairie grasses.
Switchgrass.
Little bluestem.
Plants that had grown across the region before repeated plowing reduced their presence.
She took the plan to Dale in January.
He listened.
That mattered.
He did not laugh.
He stood at the kitchen counter while Opal explained rainfall numbers, infiltration, hardpan, shelterbelts, and contour planting.
His coffee cooled in his hand.
When she finished, Dale looked toward the window.
The Flat was pale beneath winter light.
Finally he said:
“That ground’s not worth the seed you’d waste on it.”
Opal felt disappointment rise.
She swallowed it.
Ruth had taught her something else.
Arguing with someone who had already decided rarely made their ears work better.
So Opal changed the question.
“You’re not cropping it this year.”
“No.”
“Probably not next year.”
Dale frowned.
“Probably not.”
“Then can I have it?”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“The Flat.”
“You can’t have land.”
“I mean use it.”
“For this?”
“Yes.”
Dale stared at the drawings.
“You’ll spend money.”
“My money.”
“On trees.”
“Yes.”
“Four thousand?”
“Approximately.”
“Approximately?”
“Depends what the nursery can supply.”
Dale sighed.
“Opal.”
She waited.
“You know I’m not stopping you because I think girls can’t farm.”
“I know.”
“You know that?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
Then he pointed toward the field.
“I’m stopping you because that ground eats money.”
She looked at him.
“So let me feed it mine.”
Dale almost smiled.
Almost.