A Sense of Place in Nevada by Heather Caputo

Heather and Chris Caputo, 2022

I’d never heard my heart sing before.  I didn’t realize it could even carry a tune. The music started low, unassuming.  As the song expanded, I was enveloped in a profound sense of place that I could not have previously imagined. There was connection, energy. It was at that moment, gazing across a picturesque mountain valley, that I fell in love with the state of Nevada.

That sense of place, of belonging in Nevada, did not come easy for me. For years, I struggled to appreciate the desert environment.  I had a healthy fear of it. The blazing sun that hammered down so relentlessly was a stranger to me, as were the hot, whipping winds, vast dry earth and prickly plant life; being from the lush greens and blues of southwest Florida, Nevada felt like another planet, a hostile one where I was the alien.

But that day in the mountains changed how I felt about the state. It happened there beneath a stunning blue sky surrounded by blessed silence that I never knew existed. The branches of tall, thin pine trees waved a greeting.  My husband stood beside me in silence.  I wondered if he heard the music too but didn’t ask.  What I did ask is for him to leave me there alone for a while to celebrate “my place” in private.  I remained by myself bound to nature for a long time. The environment filled my eyes, ears and soul to the brim and asked for nothing in return.

 We returned to that spot many times over the years.  And then one season a huge wildfire came to claim it. After the fire, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back to face the changes.  I worried my heart would break over the loss I’d find there.  But I owed the mountain strength after all it had given me.  I eventually, hesitantly, returned to my Nevada place.

Spotting the new growth on blackened earth

I found the fire’s angry orange flames had painted the mountain valley black.  The bones of burnt trees stood naked against the elements. The scent of the fire’s consumption hung heavy in the air. But even then, the land eagerly struggled to be born again.  Countless tiny green shoots had pushed through the layer of crispy, blackened groundcover.  The vivid green newborns reached hopefully for brilliant skies and the promise of life. I breathed a great sigh of relief then and my heart was suddenly singing a new song. A song of resilience and promise, and I was grateful to be there and to be a Nevadan.

After fire scorched the mountain