Towards a Flint Hills story

Hints of reddish hues begin to show up in the prairie in October as the grass matures. The grass is a resource we should not neglect.

The Flint Hills tell a story. I’m learning some of that story, but I believe there is plenty more story to be told than what little I can say. So I listen, every chance I get, I listen.

This week I took the opportunity to drive north on K-57 from the little town of Dwight to Interstate 70. The road parallels Dry Creek, which is a branch of Clarks Creek, as it flows down from the high hilly region of Geary County to the Kansas River. This wonderful drive gave me the chance to listen again to the Flint Hills’ story and this time I heard a little something new.

Many people have noted how the Flint Hills protect the remnants of large expanses of the tallgrass prairie. That story has been told and retold hundreds of times in hundreds of ways. The Flint Hills protect a valuable treasure. All throughout the Midwest, in Illinois, Missouri, Iowa, Minnesota, Oklahoma, and Texas, people work hard and invest lots of money to restore tallgrass prairie landscapes in places where tall grass once flourished but disappeared. These people devote time, energy, and money to restoration projects because they have learned the tallgrass prairie is a resource too valuable to lose.

As I descended the valley towards Clarks Creek and the Kansas River this week, I had to ask myself if we in the Flint Hills value that resource as much as they do. My first response has always been to say of course we do. This is the Flint Hills. While most states gave up the tallgrass prairie, we had ranchers in the Flint Hills that kept the fires burning, and the fires preserved the grasslands, and the grasslands fed the cattle, and the cattle sustained the ranchers’ livelihood. So of course we love the prairie.

My descent towards Clarks Creek, however, gave me reason to wonder just how strongly we in the Flint Hills love tall grasses.

Clarks Creek — I didn’t have my camera, sorry — is one of the more significant streams that flow into the Kansas. Clarks Creek actually begins near US-56, just east of Herington. It flows north and is joined by Humboldt Creek just before connecting to the Kansas River near Ogden. The next time you take K-18 and cross the Kansas River near Ogden, look downriver to the east of the bridge and you will see the mouth of Clarks Creek.

The creek cuts a deep path through the hills. The crown of the hills at the lower end of Clarks Creek is at roughly the same elevation as the headwaters of the creek. By the time the creek enters the Kansas River valley, however, it has descended close to 300 feet, creating some of the most massive hills in the Flint Hills region. The next time you are driving along Interstate 70 near exits 301 and 303 (near the Fort Riley airfield), you will see massive flint hills to the south of the highway. These tall hills were formed as Clarks Creek cut through 300 feet of limestone and shale. At the top of one of those hills is the static display of a large canon, an atomic canon actually. The hike from the base of the hill to the canon on top is long, but worth the view.

As I descended Dry Creek along K-57 to the interstate, I was impressed again by the force and stature of the hills along the eastern edge of the valley. These hills are massive, rising high above the valley floor. Thick outcrops of limestone form white contours of rock along the upper layers of the terraced hills. Rows of curved hills, soft and enticing like curvaceous shoulders, line the small draws that descend into the valley. Tall grass covers the hills, softening the hard edges.

Across the valley to the west, however, the image was completely different. The hills were the same. Dry Creek had cut its way through the exact same layers of limestone, creating the same topography on each side of the valley. For whatever reason, however, no grass grew on these hills along the western edge of the Dry Creek valley.

Actually, I know the ecological reason. Without fire, such as the controlled burns that keep grass and wildflowers growing on the prairie, trees take over. That’s what had happened along the western edge of Dry Creek. Trees covered these hills. I could see the shape of the underlying hills by watching the shape of the tree canopy. The view was shockingly different, strange. I saw no limestone outcrops. There were no stands of Indian grass or little bluestem to cover and soften these hills. Remnants of sunflowers and sumac, so prevalent along the eastern side of the valley, were nowhere to be seen.

The contrast saddened me. One side of the valley showed tallgrass prairie, while the other side grew a forest. Forests are fine if kept in their place. Across the top of the Flint Hills, however, is not the place. We have so little tallgrass prairie left and people throughout the Midwest are working hard to preserve what there is and restore it in places where it is lost. We have it in the Flint Hills, but we can lose it if we don’t see its value.

That threat of loss, that lack of value attributed to the prairie, that is another part of the Flint Hills story I heard this week. I hope we all listen and understand.

Oh, and another lesson learned is not to travel without a camera.