The story of the Flint Hills is also a story of tall grasses. Some of the best vistas of the largest remnants of what was once a vast sea of grass can be found by traveling the Flint Hills National Scenic Byway. Go anytime of year and you won’t be disappointed. There is always something to see.

Early settlers learned to use limestone to build fences to mark off their cattle pastures.

The Native Stone Scenic Byway (read more about it here) is a tremendous stretch of road, with great vistas, tallgrass prairie, and many examples of how early settlers figured out how to create a way of life with limestone.

A very hardy plant, little bluestem grows in a bunch in dry soil. Its roots reach 8 feet down, looking for water.

December 30 was a good day for thermometers. It was also a good day for hiking. How often does the temperature reach 65 degrees in Kansas during the final days of December? It did this year, leaving my wife and I with just one thing to do. We went to Konza Prairie for a walk. It was a perfect way to say so long to 2010.

I also went to look for some quick pictures of little bluestem. More later on little blue. We found a whole lot more.

The good news was the temperature was way up for the end of December. The warm temps brought out plenty of hikers, even some wearing shorts and t-shirts. It was also good news to have a breeze from the south. That kept the temperature up. The bad news, there was plenty of breeze to go around. At times it was downright windy.

Wind is always a part of prairie life. Sometimes it can be brutal. See here for example. The wind this day was not at all brutal, nor even unpleasant. It was just one of those days that make you hang on to your hat. So I put together some short clips to give you an idea. Grass is an amazing plant, rigid enough to stay upright and giving enough to bend to the ground. There is a great formula for durability in that description. It’s not a bad idea to think of grass when you face some of life’s hardships. Stay just strong enough to stand up to anything and know when to give.

Here’s the video, just to give you an idea.

Some of that grass blowing in the wind was little bluestem. That was part of the reason for the hike in the first place. I wanted to get a couple of quick shots of some bunches of little blue. It actually does grow in bunches. Clumps, really. Sometimes it is called bunch grass. While it isn’t as tall as its cousin, big bluestem, it is a very significant plant on the prairie. It’s the only native prairie grass that is found in every county in Kansas. That is one of the reasons it was selected this year as the official state grass of Kansas.

In the fall, little bluestem turns a rusty red.

That fact got me to thinking recently. Dangerous, I know. But I remember someone once commenting on their desire to visit a famous landmark on the other side of the world. They said they wanted to know it existed, not just take it by faith that it did. I am feeling the same way about little bluestem’s ubiquity in Kansas. I would like some day to visit every county in the state and collect a sample of little bluestem. Its hardiness is part of what makes it grow from the high plains of western Wallace County to the urban jungle of Johnson County in the east. It is part of the tallgrass prairie, but also survives well enough in dry conditions to grow out west, where rain is infrequent.

Part of the reason for its hardy nature is a root system that stretches downward as much as eight feet. Impressive for a plant that barely reaches three feet above ground. With roots that go down so deep and stems that grow lower to the ground than many native grasses means little bluestem can get by on less water than lots of plants in the tallgrass prairie.

In the flint hills, it is found upland, on the slopes of the hills, were water is scarce. When the soil is dry, other tallgrass plants get thirsty and do not thrive. That makes way for little bluestem to fill in the gaps. The stems do have a faint bluish hue in the summer, but turn rusty red in the fall. Thus, little bluestem stands out on the hills late in the year. Indian grass stays a bright golden yellow through winter, but red bunches of little bluestem can been seen from far away.

So I think I would like to visit all of Kansas and see how little bluestem does it. Along the way, I believe I could discover a lot more about each region and the people who care for the prairie, whether tallgrass, shortgrass, or mixed. I even think there is a book to be written about the discovery and I would love to write it. I am sure I can find little bluestem in every county, if only I look. Now if only I could find a way to earn a living while doing it.

Ground plum is one of the first spring blooms in the prairie.

This time was different. I’ve heard stuff like this before and each time become frustrated. This time, however, what I heard got me questioning myself.

It was another campaign/proposal/story about saving the forest. I don’t even remember where I heard it. Maybe on the radio, or maybe something I read online. Things like this come around fairly regularly. There are always campaigns to save a rainforest, or plant a gazillion trees. Someone is always trying to raise money to plant trees. Others want to get some legislation passed to protect trees. Trees, trees, trees, until I’m sick of hearing about trees.

Why don’t these people say something about saving the tallgrass prairie? Why do trees get all the love? What about some love for big bluestem?

I’ve heard it before and each time gotten frustrated by whatever naturalist or ecologist was pushing an agenda for preservation of forests, as if that is the most important ecosystem worth saving. Only this time, it was different. This one got me thinking.

This time I had to ask myself a question. This time, I had to ask myself why I liked the Flint Hills and tallgrass prairie so much. Why do I like prairie? Of all God’s great creation, from mountains to solar systems, from oceans to forests, why am I afflicted with a deep attachment to the tallgrass prairie?

It didn’t take too much thought to come up with my reasons, so I thought I would share.

There is an ever changing beauty in the prairie. No two days are ever alike. Springtime brings out the green in the prairie. After a spring fire, new grass emerges and covers the hills with green velvet so vibrant, it burns the eyes. It’s fresh, it’s new life, it’s brilliant.

I’ve lived in Normandy, France, where it almost never freezes and rains 300 days a year. The hills there, covered with trees by the way, are always a brilliant green. The sunlight in Normandy, when it does emerge, is amazing. For eight years living there, I was amazed by green every day.

Spring in the Flint Hills is like that.

Plus, the prairie produces wildflowers in abundance every spring. After the green comes purple. Ground plum has its own shade of violet that I find amazing, and that is the start of a cascade of colors that change from week to week, even from day to day. What I love about the tallgrass prairie in the spring is that when I hike the same ground two weeks later, I see a whole new landscape. The trail can be the same but the views change.

In summer, the grass begins to grow taller. Sure the sun it hotter and the flies and chigger bites are more irksome, but that is a small price to pay for moments of reflection. Summer in the prairie is for me the best time for spiritual life. In the summer, the prairie is more alive than ever, filled with the sounds of dickcissels and meadowlarks. The howling wind is visible in waves over the ocean of grass. The sunrises and sunsets are sublime and the summer thunderstorms electric. It’s in all the noise and tumult of that living prairie when I feel the most peaceful. Like Elijah, that’s when I can hear the still, small voice. I can pray and thank God for grace, redemption, and the privilege of seeing the grass grow.

Colors return in the fall, only different colors. The prairie is ablaze in yellow, as sunflowers take over. They quickly give way to the blazing reds of sumac, the first leaves to turn. At the same time, the grasses change. The stems of little bluestem turn a wine-red and hillsides glow with the color in the setting sun.

In the fall, the prairie reaches over my head, at least in years of good rainfall. I wait for the tiny yellow flowers to bloom in the inflorescence of Indian grass and big bluestem. Soon the grass turns golden-dormant and winter comes with ice and snow. The sun, too hot in July, isn’t quite hot enough in December, but the days are crisper, the edges of the scenery sharper. I can see farther in the winter.

All year long, it’s the subtleness that brings me to the prairie. I like the prairie because you have to look harder to see its beauty. You have to know more to appreciate its qualities. Knowledge and patience are rewarded in the prairie.

I’ve been to the mountains. You don’t have to know much to appreciate the beauty of the mountains. It’s not surprising that Yosemite and Yellowstone were the first national parks. I can understand and appreciate that. Everyone is attracted to that kind of grandeur and awe-inspiring beauty. Those places offer deadly scenery. Get lost in those places of wilderness and you can die.

The prairie is kinder, gentler, easier on the senses. There is grace in the prairie, and forgiveness. Get lost in the prairie and you will find yourself. At least, that has been my experience.

So I admit, my attachment to the Flint Hills is personal. I am glad I have had to work hard to appreciate what I have learned about the tallgrass prairie. It is something that appeals to me and I might be in the minority, but I’ve learned to deal with that too.

So I will continue to love what God has made in the prairie. I will continue to appreciate the uniqueness of a treeless landscape otherwise filled with life and vibrancy. There may not be trees, but this is no barren desert.

So wait here, let me get my ax. Let’s go chop down some trees and plant some grass.

The Flint Hills invite you to come closer and take a look.

In nature, almost everything has a built in defense. Roses have thorns, turtles have shells, rabbits run fast, and even mosquitoes fly just faster than a swat. The natural world is competitive – the survival of the fittest and all that – and plants and animals must have some kind of defense.

The same is true of ecosystems, which are also competitive. The North American tallgrass prairie, for example, was always threatened along its eastern border by encroaching woodlands, but fire, grazing, and drought defended the prairie, kept the woody plants at bay, and allowed the grasses to dominate their environment. Today, the threats to native remnants of tallgrass prairie are far more dangerous, since the prairie is basically defenseless against modern threats, like development.

Some people see a prairie and see only a big empty field. “Oh, look,” their thinking goes, “wouldn’t that make a nice place to build something?” A field of grass, to the uninitiated, looks incomplete, empty, void. It’s understandable that people feel that way. Understandable, perhaps, but not accurate.

It’s unfortunately too easy for people to think prairie is worthless unless we convert it into something productive. Many of the first pioneers felt that way. Emerging from the eastern woodlands onto open prairie, they couldn’t figure out why there were no trees growing on the prairie. They thought the soil must have been poor, because only grass grew. In time, they realized that the soil was actually deep and rich and that a plow would get rid of those pesky prairie plants and allow them to cultivate row crops.

From then until now, too many folks looked at the prairie and saw only emptiness and said, “Let’s plow it up, and plant something. Then it will be more valuable.” In time, that turned into, “Hey, it would be even more valuable if we could build something on it. Maybe some houses. Maybe a factory, or a big wind energy farm. That would make the land productive, wouldn’t it? The land isn’t productive as a big empty field, now is it? Just think of the taxes the county would get if we could build a big factory there, hire lots of people, make something, sell it, and make money. After all, making money is the only true purpose for a big empty field.”

The thing is, the field isn’t empty. It’s not worthless. That field actually isn’t just a field. It is prairie.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not anti-progress. We need agriculture and food production. We need factories and jobs. We need cities and housing developments. We need to build and the tax base that results from the growth will pay for schools, roads, and a better quality of life.

I just want us to understand what we gave up when we plowed the prairie under. We were not simply improving a blank, sterile chunk of land. We were sacrificing prairie for progress. Once, that may have been a fair tradeoff. Not now. Once we had 140 million acres of tallgrass prairie. Now, we have less than three percent of what was once a vast ocean of tallgrass, swaying in the prairie wind. We’ve lost too much of a national treasure.

The Kansas Flint Hills, with about three million acres of prairie, are home to some of the last few remaining stalks of big bluestem, switchgrass, and Indian grass. Once, you could have walked from Chicago to Kansas City – before there was a Chicago or a Kansas City – and be surrounded by these tall grasses in every direction as far as you could see. In the fall, the grass would reach the sky and hide herds of bison. The prairie sea rippled with wildflowers of every color, shape, and size. But those days are long gone. There is not much grama grass left, either hairy or side oats.

The Prairie, you see, is going away. It was easy at first to convert the prairie into something more useful. In 1837, John Deere invented his self-scouring steel plow. At that time, Illinois – the Prairie State – was covered by 22 million acres of tallgrass prairie. By 1887 only 2,000 acres of tallgrass prairie remained. People couldn’t see the value in the prairie.

Some say it's just grass, but it's more than a field. It's prairie.

Please let me repeat myself, I’m not claiming we should have left everything tallgrass prairie. I enjoy what the soil has produced in the prairie states. My life depends on the agriculture and commerce that was developed in the prairie. I’m certainly not against all development. I just want us to realize the tradeoff. Despite how some folks feel about an empty field, there is value and productivity in the prairie. When you develop a prairie field, you are giving up something valuable. We should have left more prairie.

Take for example the difference between the popular perceptions of prairie and forest. Most people get excited about forests, much more so than they do about prairie. The forest is full of trees, so it must be valuable, right? Something is actually growing there. A forest isn’t empty, it is filled with trees. Trees are impressive. Trees inspire awe. Plus, we have a utilitarian view of what it means to have value. Something has value because we can derive useful things from it. A forest is valuable because trees are considered of more value than grass. We can take a tree and cut it up for lumber or paper. Forests are also harder to develop into something else. It costs more money to clear a forest for development than an empty field.

That’s why, I think, we like to save trees and forests. We perceive them as more valuable than prairie. But prairie is not only rare, it is productive. Grasslands are necessary ecosystems that help shape our world. Take carbon, for example. We are very concerned that carbon levels are increasing in our atmosphere and perhaps changing our climate. Plants remove carbon from the atmosphere. Trees in a forest, for example, take carbon and store it in the wood. The grasses of the tallgrass prairie, do the trees one better. Prairie grasses remove carbon and push it down through their roots back into the soil. When trees burn or decay, the carbon is released. When grasses die and burn, the carbon is still stored deep in the soil. We breathe better.

Prairie also produces habitat for wildlife. Prairie is a good filter for rainwater and protects the soil from erosion. Prairie also created the topsoil we are using to produce corn, soybeans, wheat, and other crops. Prairie is productive.

Just because a blade of grass is tiny compared to a tree, that does not mean the grass is less valuable than the trees.

So when we tear up the prairie to develop it into something else, we are giving up something valuable. Maybe we gain something, but we lose something too. With only 3-4 percent of the original tallgrass prairie left, it’s time, I believe, to stop the tradeoffs.

Thanks to the Flint Hills, we have that 3-4 percent left. It was easy to plow under prairie in Iowa and Illinois. The prairie soil was deep and rich and the plow cut through the soil easily. The same thing happened in Missouri and Minnesota. The Flint Hills, however, offered a final defense for tallgrass prairie when all else was lost. The soil of the Flint Hills is not deep, it is shallow and rocky. The eroding shale layers of the Flint Hills left behind flint-hardened limestone layers. Chunks of rock litter the surface of the Flint Hills and hard layers of stone lie just below the surface. Mr. Deere’s plow was worthless in the Flint Hills.

The settlers found out quick that cattle ranching was a better use of the prairie. They became ranchers and learned to protect and nurture the tall grasses of the Flint Hills. They defended the prairie and drew their livelihood from the shallow, rocky soil. Their fields were extremely productive. Those empty prairie fields became pastures, with the same native grasses and wildflowers that grew before.

But for a time, it seemed even the flint-hardened stone of the Flint Hills was not going to continue protecting the tallgrass prairie. For one thing, fire and grazing are always necessary to keep a healthy prairie and when the settlers arrived, many stopped the burning that allowed the grass to have the upper hand on the woody plant invasion. These settlers were terrified of fire, as we see from their descriptions of the damages caused by early grass fires.

Thankfully, the Flint Hills ranchers learned how necessary those flames were to keep the prairie healthy. But today, those historic ranches are threatened by other struggles, often economic. Ranches are being sold. Sometimes those lands are bought by folks who want to be good stewards of the grasses and will take care of them. But sometimes not. Sometimes the land gets an owner who wants a private hunting reserve, and maybe the burning stops because islands of woody plants offer better cover for game animals. Other owners want to carve up the land and build homes on 20 acre plots. Those homes can become summer homes for city folk who don’t know they need to burn or don’t want to. The land becomes fragmented into little plots where grass loses its battle with the trees and the prairie disappears.

Wind farms pose another kind of threat, development on a massive scale. Wind farms offer the promise of renewable, clean energy. It’s all great, right? Well, not exactly. Some oppose wind farms for aesthetic reasons. The huge towers dominate the landscape and take away from the view of hills and grass. If a tree on the prairie is an eyesore, imagine what a 300 foot tower would be.

More than aesthetics, however, it’s the tradeoff of wind farm versus prairie ecosystem that should keep these monstrous towers out of the Flint Hills. There are millions of acres in Kansas that has already been disturbed. The prairie won’t be damaged if the wind farms are sited in those locations, so go build the towers there. But building them in the prairie will alter and threaten the final remnants of an important ecosystem that deserves protection. The landscape will be something with the towers in place, but it will no longer be tallgrass prairie.

The tallgrass prairie should be a national treasure. We should all be working to protect the last remnant of a vast ecosystem that once defined the heart of a continent. Losing the prairie is a tradeoff we no longer can afford.

This video is but an example.

Enjoy

A sunrise over the tallgrass prairie.

Autumn has fallen on the tallgrass prairie. For those who have the chance to explore the Flint Hills, this is a fall filled with grace.

Prairie fall colors tickle the senses, a gentle brush of color across the eyes. With hopes of renewal I went on a fall hike through tall grass in a search of some natural grace. The trip didn’t disappoint.

To see the sun rise over the tall grasses — the best way to capture the prairie’s fall beauty — requires an early start. Obviously. Or as my teenage daughter would say, “duh.” For that reason alone, no teenage daughter accompanied me on this trip; I sought my grace alone. Instead of a teenager’s adage, I thought of what my father would tell me, “If it were that easy, everyone would pitch like Bob Gibson.” My dad’s point, which he tried to impress on his only son with mixed results, was the need for dedication in the pursuit of the highest goals. Finally, thanks to the highest overlooks and the hope of morning light in the Flint Hills, his lesson is beginning to sink in, half a century later.

Anyone can drive through a New England maple forest or a stand of Ohio oaks and “ooh” and “aah” over autumn’s flashes of red, orange, and yellow. It doesn’t even require a pre-dawn wake-up call. With some blue sky and a mid-day sun as a backdrop, anyone can find fall beauty in a stand of hardwoods. And anyone often does.

I wanted more, however. I ached for redemption for my inner self, not a postcard. It was a connection with God’s creation that I sought. Trees are nice, when growing in their proper place, but I have prairie on my mind and in my heart. I agree with what William Least Heat-Moon wrote in PrairyErth in response to the question of how you know when the prairie is in you: “When you see a tree as an eyesore.”

Smooth Sumac is the first plant to turn red in the Fall.

What I sought, and was willing to work for because prairie grace may be free but it isn’t cheap, were the subtle fall reds of big bluestem after a frost, the yellows of goldenrod and Indian grass, and the white of Snow on the Mountain. Red, however, is the ultimate fall color, the first sign summer is over. Whatever else may pop up in a tallgrass pasture, the bright red leaves of smooth sumac are the first signs of fall. When patches of red appear on the slopes of Flint Hills, it is time to get the sweaters out of the storage closet.

That bright red is only the down payment, however, to autumn’s beauty. Sumac may be prairie bling, but the subtle reddish hue of the stems of big bluestem grass give a better indication that fall is on the prairie and winter is on its way. You have to know when and where to look and most miss the subtle colors, but after the first frost of fall, big bluestem takes on a unique hue, somewhere between burnt orange and faint crimson. In the light of the setting or rising sun, hills of bluestem turn ablaze.

Goldenrod shines yellow in the rising sun.

My hike through a pre-dawn glow took me to the top of a high Flint Hill. For the moment, everything was gray. I had hoped for a red sky in morning, but yellow was the color of this dawn. The sun arrived quickly; this was no lazy morning, obviously because the teenagers were still home in bed. Soon, the yellow light reflected brightly off the goldenrod, followed by the golden yellow of Indian grass plumes. The green of spring and summer grass was long gone, but mature Indian grass doesn’t just turn brown, it fades first to gold. The day’s first sunshine highlighted this momentary dazzle.

Bison graze in the morning sun

Bison grazing in the distance only added to the grace of the moment. Their appearance was a pleasant surprise since they were invisible in the pre-dawn gray. A precious few moments of prairie solitude filled my senses with all the right hues. Soon patches of sumac appeared, shining brightly. On hills to the west, away from the sunrise, the faint reds of bluestem finally arrived as the sun cleared the horizon. This was a moment of prairie’s fall perfection.

The plumes of Indian Grass shimmer in the morning sun.

The press and tug of life was nowhere to be found, not in the morning beauty before me, nor in my minds reflection on the moment. Everything I was looking for was right there before me, God’s creation reflecting his glory. It was how every morning should be.

Smoke on the horizon means the prairie is being cared for.

Don’t worry. It’s April, so those massive columns of smoke rising up over the Flint Hills’ horizon are perfectly normal. And if it smells a little smokey here in eastern Kansas this time of year, that’s a good thing.

In the springtime Flint Hills, where there is smoke there is fire. In many parts of the country, fire is considered a bad thing. Wildfires in California and forest fires in the Northwest make national news, and not in a good way. Many people consider fire, because of its destructive nature, a threat to the environment. Visitors who are unfamiliar with the Kansas tallgrass prairie often become concerned when they witness a grass fire sweeping across a pasture. Recently, I met a traveler who had just arrived to the Flint Hills on an evening flight and had witnessed some pastures burning in the dark. “Somebody had better call that in, that’s dangerous,” was the traveler’s remark.

When homes are endangered and forests destroyed, fire is a bad thing. In the tallgrass prairie, however, fires of controlled burns are not only a good thing, they are an absolute necessity.

During April, I plan on posting more stories about fire and controlled burns in the Flint Hills. Fire is a necessary part of the story of this place. For now, I want to talk about visitors’ reactions to smoke and fire in the Flint Hills and offer some reassurances that these fires are good.

Every so often, I will hear or read of someone opposing fire in the prairie. “The smoke releases carbon in the air,” they say. “It destroys wildlife habitat,” claims someone else.

These reactions and concerns are understandable, if inaccurate. There is strong historic precedent for the reactions. From the time European pioneers arrived in the prairie, they have feared fire and tried to stop it.

Fire was one of the first and most impressive aspects of the prairie noted by early explorers. When Colonel John Freemont passed through Kansas in 1842, he noted in his journal:

We suddenly emerged on the prairies, which received us at the outset with some of their striking characteristics; for here and there rode an Indian, and but a few miles distant heavy clouds of smoke were rolling before the fire.

A few years earlier, explorer Isaac McCoy had several encounters with fire as he made a fall expedition through the tallgrass prairie of Northeast Kansas. (Read the full account in the Kansas Historical Quarterly) McCoy and his party first encountered a small fire in early October of 1830. In his journal, McCoy notes:

Thursday Oct. 14
Grass for our horses, is every day becoming more scarce. The season is remarkably dry. The whole country around us, has burned over today. We had encamped in a creek bottom where there was least danger of the fire approaching us, and still, it sometimes seemed as though we should not escape. We were much annoyed by smoke and more than once, had to beat out the approaching fire. We did not leave camp. Some of the soldiers erected a couple of mounds.

Friday Oct. 15.
We steered our course due west and encamped on the sources of the Soldier. Difficult to find tolerable food for our horses. Had to beat out the fire to save a little spot for our horses. In a day the whole country put on its black and dismal dress. The dust arising from the burnt grass, and the blackened weeds and shrubbery, annoys our eyes, and blackens face, hands, and clothes.

After the fire blackens the soil, the grass grows back. Always.

I’m not sure how dry it was in 1830, but apparently the grass had already gone dormant in early October, resulting in a “black” landscape after the passage of this fire.

That was only the beginning of McCoy’s fire encounters, however. A few days later, he recorded a more impressive passage of another, larger fire:

Thursday Oct. 21.
Again had to leave our course, with the packhorses, two or three miles to find grass. Late before the surveyors came into camp. We had got into a tract of a few miles square, which had not been burned. While in the act of pitching our tents, we discovered the fire coming towards us with alarming rapidity. We set fire in the grass in self defense.

The fires around us were sublime-the long lines and the flame ascending ten, fifteen, and sometimes 20 feet high. On seeing these praries on fire in such a dry time as this we cease to wonder that the wood does not increase faster-we only wonder that a vestige of wood is left. It was in the night before the surveyors got in to camp. We have seen sign of Beavers and Otters, for a few days.

Both of McCoy’s encounters happened north of the Kansas River, somewhere between Soldier Creek and the Blue River. So he was likely in modern-day Pottawatomie County, around Wamego. The second entry in the journal is interesting because McCoy understood the effects the fire would have on trees. In a time when most European settlers had no idea why there were so few trees growing in the prairie, McCoy saw the fire as a major reason.

Fire takes away what's dead, making it easier for the new to come. Photo coutesy of Marcia Rozell

Of course, McCoy and his crew did not look at the fire as a friend. Because of fire, it became difficult to find forage for their horses. They also feared for their own safety, setting a backfire to protect themselves from the oncoming line of 20-foot flames. Also, it would not have been pleasant to deal with the black soot that covered their equipment and clothes.

After the explorers, those who chose to live in the prairie thought even less about fire. A roaring grass fire would burn down houses and destroy hay. Consider the following accounts (These accounts are taken from the book Last Stand of the Tallgrass Prairie , p. 84):

Reminiscences of Wallace Wood, born in 1855
The grass in the Cottonwood Valley would grow as high as a horse. After the frost in the fall, we were always in danger of a fire. The tall dry grass would make a fire which could travel faster than a man could run. We would make backfires by mowing a stretch around our buildings and then burning the piles of grass. Hardly a year would pass that the fire would not break loose somewhere and come across the hills. If not by any other means, the lightning would often ignite it. … Sometimes the fire would start down in the Indian Territory of Oklahoma and would be days getting here. Night after night we would see its glow in the distance

Diary of George Hildt, 1857
Sunday, Nov 1 The prairie on fire all around us & no one but Elick & myself at home. It was a magnificent sight and had been, I thought, well represented in paintings that I had seen. But there was some difference to look at the real thing itself coming towards 50 tons of hay worth $20 dollars a ton on the ground or $30 at Kansas City. As we had taken the precaution to plow a few furrows away from the stacks we did not feel as uneasy as we otherwise should. But nevertheless the raging flame at every side excited us & tonight as I am writing the horizon is lighted up at every side as if we were surrounded with furnaces and all of them burning ore.

Fortunately, the settlers in the Flint Hills also discovered the fire was good for producing rich prairie grass, which was good for cattle. They learned from the Indians who burned fires to find buffalo. The buffalo were attracted to fire because they knew after the fire came fresh, tastey grass. So despite the danger of fire, the settlers became ranchers and used fire as a way to keep the prairie healthy and feed their cattle. Despite calls to stop the burning from the so-called experts at the time, the ranchers kept burning. That’s good. Without the fire, the trees would have taken over the prairie and there would be none left.

Even today, those complaints I mentioned at the start of this post will fall on deaf ears, thankfully. As to the complaint that fire releases carbon into our otherwise endangered atmosphere, it should be noted the grasses of the tallgrass prairie actually take more carbon from the atmosphere than is released in burning. The grass, as it goes dormant in the fall, actually sends that carbon down into the soil, where it is stored for centuries. Tallgrass is actually one of the most efficient means of reducing carbon in the air. More prairie would be a good thing.

As to the complaint about destruction of wildlife habitat, there is an element of truth in that. If grass is burned every year, there is no thatch of dead grass left from last year. Many bird species need that dead thatch in which to make nests. This protects the nests from predators.

Many ranchers, however, realize this danger and are turning to patch burning as a way to protect wildlife habitat. Some ranchers burn only a portion of their pasture, each year leaving a different patch of prairie unburnt. This offers habitat cover for birds. For more information, see Dr. Bill Smith’s oral history interview with Jane Koger at the KansasFlintHills.travel heritage site.

Besides, if burning were stopped altogether, that would be catastrophic for prairie wildlife habitat. So next time smoke gets in your eyes, be happy. Breath deep, that’s a very cool smell.

Climbing Butterfly Hill against a stiff wind. Are we crazy or what? (photo courtesy of Dena Huff)

Right away, let me make it clear, I suggested we try plan B. You might think we were foolish to go on the hike as originally planned. At least I thought so, and just so you won’t think I’m irresponsible, I want to make it clear I suggested an alternative.

In the end, however, it worked out okay. We went on the hike. Maybe we were crazy, but we were rewarded and it turned out to be a pleasant experience.

What am I rambling about? Maybe you saw the recent news reports that 90-mph winds were clocked on the Konza Prairie Biological Station. I can attest to that news report, because I was leading a hike over Butterfly Hill at the Konza at the time of those 90-mph winds.

If you have read many of my posts here, you know I really enjoy hiking in the Flint Hills and the public trails at the Konza are a great opportunity to see the tallgrass prairie. I’m usually not afraid of difficult hiking conditions. Rain? Don’t worry, it’s just water. Hot? Just bring water and keep drinking. Cold? Dress warm and walk fast. Even with high winds, I am ready to hit the trail and keep my head down. The sight of waves of wind crashing through the tall grass is always impressive.

Not everyone, however, shares my willingness to experience the tallgrass prairie under these conditions. Recently, I was with my coworkers from the Manhattan Chamber of Commerce at the Konza for a staff retreat. As a docent at the Konza, I was planning on leading our group on a hike over Butterfly Hill behind the headquarters. This is the trail that is used for the Friends of the Konza Prairie Wildflower Walk, which is open to the public in June. There aren’t too many wildflowers in bloom in March, but I had hopes of being the first group of the year to see the blooms of the ground plum. I even prepared a little speech about our response to the tallgrass prairie, how visitors have had different reactions to the prairie since 1800, and how the prairie has been misunderstood by many visitors. I had planned a great hike and really wanted my friends to have a positive experience and learn why I love the prairie so much.

As we sat indoors preparing for the hike, however, the winds were howling with angry fierceness just outside the door. It wouldn’t bother me to hike on a day like that, but I didn’t think it would be very pleasant. I figured most of those on the hike, many of whom have not hiked in the Flint Hills before, would have a very unpleasant experience, the exact opposite of what I was hoping. So I suggested a plan B. I said we could go to the public hiking trail and visit the Hokanson Homestead site. That site is down in the valley, under the gallery forest along Kings Creek, and should be protected from the wind. We wouldn’t get a great vista of the tallgrass prairie, but we wouldn’t be blown away (literally) either.

Lyle, Kim, and John fight a 90-mph wind atop Butterfly Hill. Hey, I suggested a plan B! (photo courtesy of Dena Huff)

Some folks in the group jumped at the idea. I could tell they were not looking forward to fighting the wind. Group dynamics, however, took over the decision-making process. Some others in the group had been looking forward to the hike almost as much as me. So wind-be-darned, we decided to try.

That is how I found myself atop Butterfly Hill in the fiercest wind I could remember. So much for my speech. You couldn’t hear me, even if you wanted to. And not many in the group really wanted to. I was surprised, however, to see some smiles. Some folks seemed to enjoy trying to stay vertical.

As a reward, our group was the first of the year to see Ground Plum Milk Vetch in Bloom. (photo courtesy of Dena Huff)

It was at that point we got our reward. Just below the crest of Butterfly Hill, right in the middle of the trail on the southern slope, we saw several plants of ground plum in full bloom. That sighting qualified our group for mention on the Konza’s phenological list of Konza plants. Take a look.

Once we got off the hill, the hike actually turned pleasant. We were on the leeward side of the hills, where we could talk about limestone, wood rats, tallgrass, grazing, and bison. I was glad we went. I think a few of those on the hike were also glad. We saw redbuds about to bloom, pussy-toes in bloom, and a freshly-burned pasture with sprouts of new green grass. We visited the Hulbert Demonstration Plots, where we saw the affects of fire, or lack of fire, on what grows on the prairie.

On the leeward side, the hike turned unexpectedly pleasant. (Photo courtesy of Dena Huff)

It turned out to be a pretty good hike.

That evening, however, the news reports came out regarding 90-mph winds on the Konza. The next day, everyone told me about the report and gave me a hard time for leading them through the wind. I wasn’t too bothered, however. They were smiling. So was I.

Meadowlark (Image: Western meadowlark. Credit: Doug Greenberg.)

Not all birds live in trees. Many kinds of birds love to live in grass, including songbirds like meadowlarks and dickcissels, and prairie specialists like the famed greater prairie chicken. Even killdeers and upland sandpipers, birds related to long-legged shorebirds, have made a home in the tallgrass prairie.

Recently, some of these birds have been in the news. Researchers spent some time in the Flint Hills over the past few years studying dickcissels, grasshopper sparrows, and eastern meadowlarks.

I’m not what you would call an avid birdwatcher. I’ve only recently learned to identify a dickcissel (hint: it’s easier if they are singing). I’m still not totally confident in distinguishing eastern and western meadowlarks (but I do know the western version is the state bird of Kansas). And I’m very sure I don’t know the difference between a grasshopper sparrow and many of the other sparrow species in the prairie (my birdwatching friends are certainly rolling their eyes at that confession).

I do know, however, birdwatchers get excited when they catch a glimpse of these species. I also know these and other prairie-loving birds are important elements of the tallgrass prairie ecosystem. It’s another reason to love the Flint Hills, for their protection of the tall grasses that grow here and the birds that make their home in the grass.

So I was interested when Kansas State published an article a few weeks ago, summarizing the results of the aforementioned research on the population numbers of these three prairie birds. I hope you take a moment to read the article. Basically, the researchers found the numbers of dickcissels, eastern meadowlarks, and grasshopper sparrows are in sharp decline. Much of the reason for the decline comes from the way the prairie is managed. Basically, there is less cover in the Flint Hills for these bird species to make their nests.

The article says burning and grazing practices in the flint hills have eliminated much of the cover these birds require to protect their nests from predators. As I understand it, in my non-scientific way, these birds make nests in stands of tall grasses in the spring, hiding the eggs from raccoons, possums, and other egg-eating predators. When the grasses are short from grazing or burning, these nests are more exposed.

The article from K-State has made the internet rounds in recent weeks. The associated press even picked up the story and sent out edited versions on the newswire.  Papers like the Topeka Capital-Journal have run their own versions of the article. The article has also made its way into online science magazines and science blogs. The AP version of the story was cut short and The Kansas City Star recently ran this shortened version. For a couple of weeks after the K-State story was issued, it seemed a version of the story was being published almost every day.

Adding fuel to the (prairie) fire, another study was recently published, called the State of the Birds Report. This report, like the K-State story, finds declining bird populations across the country. It was also widely reported in many nationwide outlets and one blogger from the Nature Conservancy looked at grassland birds in the report and found reason to be concerned.

So what’s my point in all this listing of links to studies and newspaper stories? I’ve had some conversations lately with some folks who have misunderstood part of the reasons for bird declines. The point of this rambling is this: don’t throw out the baby with with the bathwater, or in this case, don’t throw out the baby chick with the nest — or something like that.

A quick read of some of the published articles, especially the condensed AP versions, might lead readers to believe prairie burning and grazing is all bad and should be eliminated to save the birds. The articles seem to imply burning and grazing have removed all the habitat for these grass-loving birds.

I only want to point out it is fire and grazing that have preserved the grassland habitat. Without fire, the whole tallgrass prairie would have been lost to an invasion of woody plants (i.e. trees) a long time ago. Without grazing, many other crucial prairie plants would have been lost. We need to continue burning (a post on that is coming soon I hope) and grazing.

It is, however, the amount and frequency of burning and grazing that have caused problems for our feathered friends. Too much grazing and too frequent burning leaves very little protection of tall grasses in the spring. The birds need to hide in the tall grasses. Too little grazing and burning not often enough would also endanger the very prairie the birds need to survive.

There are ranchers who understand this and have experimented with patch burning, or burning practices that use fire on portions of their pasture land on a three-year, rotating cycle. That burning regime keeps out woody plants and some other invasive species, produces grass for their cattle, and still preserves cover for birds to hide their nests from predators.

It is tough, however, to find the right balance. The ranchers need lots of grass to feed lots of cattle, or their operation will not succeed financially. But good prairie health is important and the ranchers understand that as well.

This oversimplifies the issues, I’m afraid, but it gives some insight,  I hope, into the discussion these news stories have generated. So whatever you do, do not throw out the baby birds with the bath water.