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.

A weed, otherwise known as an Eastern Redcedar, grows amid tall grasses of the prairie.

Weeds attack even the best of gardens. Those who manage a landscape, any landscape, from the simplist garden to the largest ranch spread, struggle constantly to keep weeds out.

But what are weeds, actually? Why is one plant considered a pest to be eliminated and another plant is a welcome guest to be nurtured? It comes down to competition, I suppose, since plants, like people and other wild animals, compete for resources in their respective landscapes. Such is the case for one of the worst weeds in the tallgrass prairie of the Flint Hills, the eastern redcedar.

Redcedars, or just plain cedars to most Kansans, are known technically as Juniperus virginiana, which to lovers of the prairie translates roughly from the Latin into a bunch of cuss words. There are other invasive species that are harder to control, but none stand out as so visible a reminder the prairie is a fragile ecosystem that needs some help to survive. Cedars can quickly overtake a pasture and eliminate the native tall grasses. By some estimates, if the spread of cedars in a particular field is not stopped, then in as little as 40 years, the entire area will become a cedar forest and the prairie grasses entirely lost.

Cedars are trees, of course, and their wood is valued for closets and chests everywhere, since the wood repels moths. The trees spread with the help of birds, who eat the blue, berry-like seed pods and then deposit the seeds after it passes through the bird’s digestive tract. So whenever you see a cedar, think where it came from.

Controlling the spread of cedars isn’t unusually hard. They do not resist fire very well, so some regular regime of controlled burns will usually keep the cedars out. It is becoming more difficult to fight them off, however, even with regular burning. It’s sort of the prairie’s version of invasion of the body snatchers, but more on that in a moment.

All of this brings me to the question of why there are so many cedars in the Flint Hills. Since they are not good for the prairie, and fire keeps them out, then why are they becoming more and more numerous?

Just the other day, for example, I was driving home from Nebraska on highway K-177, just west of Tuttle Creek Reservoir. There are some beautiful prairie landscapes along that route, with the enticing curves of grass-covered flint hills rising up over the lake. To the east, the wind-blown deposits of loess soils over the Flint Hills permits quite a bit of cultivation, but there are still native tallgrass prairie grasses dominating many pastures along the route. All of a sudden on my trip, however, the grass disappeared and I found myself driving through a cedar forest. Just north of the bridge over Fancy Creek – land once explored by George Sibley and Isaac McCoy, the prairie grass had given way to thick, dense stands of cedars.

The simple explanation is the lack of fire. Stop burning and cedars will soon take over. The threat is growing, because the more cedars that grow, the more blue berries will sprout from their branches. And the more blue berries, the more birds will come for the feast. After the feast, the birds fly off and deposit the seeds with the rest of the crap in other pastures. That is why I said earlier it is becoming more difficult to keep the cedars out. There are more and more seeds being spread.

To be fair, I’m sure there are many people who love cedars and look at them as a valuable asset. As mentioned above, the wood of cedars is valuable material for many projects. The wood resists rot and makes for good fence posts. Others plant cedars as a windbreak to protect homes and farm installations from wind and snow. Quite a few animals can find shelter in the branches. (Some native prairie birds, however, are actually on the decline because of the influx of cedars, but I’ll save that story for another post)

Cedars, however, are a weed in the prairie landscape. They grow well in the thin soils of the Flint Hills and survive on reduced amounts of moisture. When a cedar is established, it changes the soil chemistry and native tallgrass plants are eliminated. When an entire field is overtaken by cedars, the soil is changed to such an extent it may take years to recover the lost prairie ecosystem, even if the cedars are cut down and burned.

How big a problem are cedars in the Flint Hills? I don’t have the information to put a number on the problem, but anyone who drives through the Flint Hills regularly and loves the prairie will tell you there are far too many fields dominated by these weeds.

Consider, for example, the Google satellite view below. A simple fence row splits this field in two. Above the fence, the field is burned regularly. Below the fence, fire has been eliminated for several years. It’s not hard to miss the difference cedars make.

View Larger Map

So if you are lucky enough to own even a small part of the prairie, don’t neglect your garden. Keep the weeds out.

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

Maybe I think too much, but lately I’ve found myself wondering about the attraction of the Flint Hills, at least what I find attractive. I can only speak for myself and I fully realize what appeals to me likely will not work for others. Still, I write this in the hopes some of you will relate in some way to my appreciation for this region and share your experience.

The Flint Hills are an unusual place. I have lived in many places and visited many, many more, each place possessing unique qualities. After a childhood spent in central Missouri, a decade in northern Indiana, and another decade in northern France, I have called many places home. I find myself, however, comparing those places to the Flint Hills, a region I called home only for a few short years while I attended Kansas State.

My Missouri home, as I have written here before, was once tallgrass prairie, but now is dominated by woodlands and farms. Where I lived in Indiana has also undergone a transformation from prairie to industrial development and agriculture. In France, I lived in the plains of the Normandy beaches and the woodlands of the Contentin Peninsula, areas vastly different from the Flint Hills in dozens of ways.

Now, however, I make my home in the Flint Hills and I find myself wondering about what makes this place so special.

Often, in books and articles praising the qualities of a landscape, authors employ vivid metaphors to bring that region to life. I am not interested, however, in personifying this landscape and I am certainly not willing to romanticize the place. To me, the Flint Hills are too real, too down-to-earth, to waste such literary devices on a description.

That’s part of the appeal of the Flint Hills, I guess. I feel no need to pour out some spiritual description on these hills and the grass. The reality of the place is good enough for me. Like a friendly uncle that always made me feel accepted when I was a kid, the Flint Hills are warm and inviting just as they really are, without adding a lot of imaginary, metaphorical qualities.

Then there’s that transformation-at-the-hands-of-man thing, or to be specific, the lack of human change on the landscape. Of all the locations I have called home, the Flint Hills are most like the landscape that existed before the industrial age came around. Missouri, Indiana, and France have each undergone such a radical change that I am sure I would not recognize those places had I seen them before Western culture’s influence.

In the Flint Hills, however, I can go for miles and see prairie-covered hills much the way Zeb Pike or Thomas Say saw them. There is still that “raw” element in the landscape. Sure, there are roads and fences, but I can squint a little and ignore that. Of course, the hills have been grazed and occasionally overgrazed, but the native grasses still flourish on these hills. The hills beat back the plowshares.

Even though the landscape is still close to a natural state, it is not frightening or overwhelming. I have visited mountain landscapes from the Rockies to the Swiss Alps and those places can likewise look untouched by human hands. Those places, however, do not look as inviting as the tallgrass prairie. When I see the rugged mountains, I have the impression nature wants to crush me. I wouldn’t survive long there. When I see the prairie, however, I feel I have been invited to spend some time exploring what the tall grass is covering. I am not daunted by the Flint Hills. Instead, I am attracted to walk in their midst and learn their secrets.

Where else in this world can I find a natural landscape that still bids me to come and visit? Most landscapes have been industrialized by development or the plow. Of the landscapes that have resisted this industrialization, most of those have beaten back every attempt and crushed those who tried.

Only the Flint Hills, of every place I know on earth, have fought back human conquest while welcoming those who would seek to conquer.

A hike among the grasses of the tallgrass prairie is the best way to discover the importance of this landscape.

The question struck me right between the eyes. It was even a little bit like a poke right in my eye. “What does one do in a tallgrass prairie?” At first that question upset me, but after a little reflection, I realized it was a legitimate one and deserved an answer.

The answer seems so obvious to me, and perhaps it does to you too, if you have spent some time among the tall grasses of the prairie and have taken strength from the experience. So when an outsider asks, and with more than a hint of condescension, what one “does” in the prairie, I get defensive. It’s sorta like someone looking at my lovely wife and sniffing, “what do you see in her anyhow?” Or perhaps it’s like me showing off a picture of my one-year-old granddaughter and hearing someone ask, “what is so special about her?” We all tend to get upset when someone heaps scorn on what we consider precious.

After a little more thought, however, I realized this analogy is a little over the top because it’s not a fair comparison. I have never met anyone who failed to see the beauty of my wife and even total strangers have praised the cuteness of my granddaughter. The prairie, on the other hand, is appreciated best when its character is understood fully. And outsiders who have never really looked at the prairie with some of that understanding might fail to see the value of the place. So please allow me the chance to respond to the question by discussing what I do in the tallgrass prairie.

Before I launch into my response, however, I should share some background and point out how I came across this question. I use Google alerts to find news stories, Web pages, and blogs that mention the Flint Hills or the tallgrass prairie. Every day I get e-mail notices filled with links to Web sites that use those terms. Recently, I was directed to a blog entitled, AdMonkey. The author is a copywriter from Southern California who presents printed advertisements in his blog and then critiques the ad copy. The site includes links to his business Web site, which offers his services as a copywriter, and a sign-up link to his marketing newsletter. It seems a great way to drum up some business.

The entry that triggered my Google alert is entitled, “We’re Not in Kansas Anymore,” which takes a full-page printed ad from the Kansas Department of Travel and Tourism and picks apart the text. I’m not here to defend the ad, although I like the ad better than the author of AdMonkey. I know many of the folks who work at the Kansas Department of Travel and Tourism, and I know the ad agency that is behind a lot of the department’s ads. I’m not sure who did this particular ad, but the AdMonkey doesn’t like it.

The ad shows a hiker on a high bluff, overlooking the Cimarron National Grassland in Southwest Kansas and includes a short text extolling the virtues of Kansas. The author of AdMonkey picks apart the ad with some valid criticisms and some not so valid. What I want to comment on, however is the question about the tallgrass prairie. Here’s a quote from AdMonkey’s entry:

The copy goes on to talk about nine scenic byways (my dictionary defines byway as a minor road or path), state parks (all states have state parks), and the country’s largest remaining tallgrass prairie (what does one do in a tallgrass prairie?).

I would remind the folks at AdMonkey that in this case, “byways” refer to a scenic byways program that includes the Flint Hills National Scenic Byway, which is more than a minor road or path, despite his dictionary’s definition. I will admit the reference in the ad to “state parks” is rather lame.

As I’ve said, the question about the tallgrass prairie at first made me defensive. But I got over it. I can understand AdMonkey’s point. If you’re are not at all familiar with the prairie, you might not know what to do when you see one. If the text had said amusement parks, you would know what to do there. The same goes for museums, ballparks, campgrounds, playgrounds, or broom closets. Everyone knows what those places are for. What’s so special about a field of grass, even if it’s grass that stretches over your head?

Since the question is “what do you do,” I will try to answer with a list of my favorite tallgrass prairie verbs. This is what I do in the prairie.

• Hike — I walk in the prairie. It is still the best way to touch the land and see the difference between uphill and downhill, between grasslands and woodlands, and between hill and valley. I walk in the spring when the fire has taken away the old grass and the sun is bringing out the fresh shoots of the new. I walk in the summer, even in the heat of summer, to feel myself sweat and imagine how native Americans and European settlers survived without electricity. I walk in the fall when the grass is over my head and the sunflowers make my eyes hurt with dazzling yellow. I walk in the winter, over snowdrifts, and wonder at the strength of a bison’s neck that she can push aside the snow to find food. When someone tells me to take a hike, I gladly do it.
• Ride — Sometimes walking won’t work, so it is okay to ride. Preferably, ride a horse. There are still places where the fall grass will reach your shoulder even when you sit on the horse. If you ever ride in those conditions, imagine trying to find your herd of cattle when they are lost in the grass. If you can’t ride a horse, ride a bike. Ride a car, even. Recently I drove my car on a minor backroad (a real byway, by the way) and saw new shapes in the Flint Hills.
• Discover — The story of the tallgrass prairie is important. Some folks call the tallgrass prairie the most endangered and altered ecosystem in the world. Sure, it’s exciting to save the rainforest, but there is only two or three percent of the original tallgrass prairie left in North America and most of it is found here in the Flint Hills. So come visit the tallgrass prairie and discover what that story is about and why it is so important to preserve our native grasslands.
• Breathe — I am not sure what the air is like in southern California, but all the tallgrass around here does a pretty good job cleaning up the air. I still love the quote from Flint Hills cowboy author, Jim Hoy, who said, “The Flint Hills aren’t a place to take your breath away, they let you catch it.”
• Weep — A park ranger from the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve once shared a story about taking a group of Japanese tourists on a tour of the preserve. One of the visitors, who lived in Tokyo where open space is rarer than frogs teeth, stood on a hill in the center of the preserve where he could see only prairie grass to the horizon in every direction. He began to weep. I know the feeling. The prairie can swallow us up and make us feel small and at the same time it allows us to grow and stand tall over the land. Another good verb to use here is emote.
• Gain — As in “gain an appreciation for this unique landscape.” Maybe you will come here and be disappointed by the prairie, although I doubt it. One thing is sure, however, if you never come to the prairie you won’t gain a thing from sitting at home.
• Love — There are many things to love in the prairie. Above all else, I love God, and I rejoice in what He put here. I love the way the sun warms my face and the wind cools my head. I love how every time I hike the same trail the prairie somehow looks different. I love snakes and the hawks that eat them. I love knowing the difference between limestone and flint. I love running my fingers through the soft tops of switchgrass and then running my fingers along the razor-sharp edges of cordgrass, even if it makes me bleed.
• Burn — Out West, fire is a threat, especially in southern California. In the Flint Hills we have tornadoes and floods, so we understand natural disasters. Fire, however, is a good thing. In the spring we burn pastures because it’s important for the health of the prairie. Fire is one of the three necessities for the tallgrass prairie; grazing and a relatively humid climate are the other two. Prairie fires inspire artists and attract the bison. Fire keeps away the trees. Like they say at the Konza, “only you can prevent forests.”
• Paint or shoot — I don’t paint, but I take pictures. It’s said you can’t swing a dead cat in the Flint Hills without hitting an artist. I would add landscape photographers to those creative folks who are endangered by flying felines. I’m no pro when it comes to photography, but I admire those who are. Visit a few of the Web sites listed under “Flint Hills Images” and discover the great tradition of artists and photographers capturing the imagery of the tallgrass prairie in the Flint Hills.
• Touch — Here is a list of things you can touch in the tallgrass prairie: grasshopper spit, bison hair, burnt grass, milkweed juice, hedge apples, lovegrass, snake skin, turkey feathers, coyote skat, garter snake musk, smooth sumac stems, dogwood leaves, and dirt. Just to name a few.

Here are a few more verbs I like: see, sweat, drink, educate, inspire, study, camp, grow, cultivate, and motivate. Read is a good verb, especially when there are so many books and Web sites about the tallgrass prairie. I just finished reading John Price’s book, Not Just Any Land, which describes his journey, literary and physical, through some of America’s grasslands. I think John Price would say that in the tallgrass prairie you can discover yourself, explore your past, and better appreciate your future.

So here is my last verb: visit. I am not sure what you will discover when you get out into the prairie, but you need to do something in the tallgrass prairie to find out.

No one can deny the charm of my granddaughter!

Be sure and look for this picture in the current edition of the Flint Hills Heritage Newsletter

Okay, I know. My productivity in writing posts about the Flint Hills and the tallgrass prairie has been lacking recently. If you need something to read, then let me recommend the Flint Hills Heritage Newsletter.

This newsletter, created by the Heritage Task Force of the Flint Hills Tourism Coalition, is now available for downloading. It features several great articles about upcoming events, the heritage of the Flint Hills, and some suggestions on ways you can get involved in the efforts of the task force.

In the interest of full disclosure, however, I should let you know I was involved in the production of the newsletter. I submitted a couple of those articles. Before you turn up your noses at the self-serving nature of this post, let me say I will try to make it up to you by dedicating the remainder of this entry to some other newsletters I enjoy. I have nothing to do with the production of the following newsletters, which gives them an advantage.

The Kansas Land Trust is a great organization that seeks to preserve natural ecosystems, ranch and farm lands, scenic landscapes, and historic places through conservation easements or land donations. This organization does not work exclusively in the Flint Hills, but several of the conservation easements established through the efforts of the Kansas Land Trust have been aimed at tallgrass prairie places in the Flint Hills.

The Kansas Land Trust produces a quarterly newsletter, Stewardship Notes, and posts the current edition along with an archive of past editions on its newsletter page at its Web site. The current edition of Stewardship Notes includes an article on the KLT’s efforts to preserve the 580-acre Kenneth Muller family ranch in Morris County.

A similar, but very different, organization is the Ranchland Trust of Kansas. Like the Kansas Land Trust, the Ranchland Trust of Kansas uses conservation easements to protect native ecosystems in Kansas. The focus, however, of the Ranchland Trust of Kansas, which is an affiliate of the Kansas Livestock Association, is to preserve agricultural land — working landscapes — like tallgrass prairie pastures and similar ranching environments.

The Ranchland Trust of Kansas Web site includes a news page, which offers links to current and past editions of its newsletter. The current edition of that newsletter includes a story about the history of the organization and its future goals.

Yet another organization working to preserve the Kansas Flint Hills landscape is the Tallgrass Legacy Alliance. As the name indicates, the focus of this organization is to preserve the tallgrass prairie, and this goal is being accomplished by keeping ranchers working the prairie. Another unique feature of the TLA is its makeup. The TLA is actually an alliance of several other organizations, groups as diverse as the Kansas Livestock Association, Kansas Farm Bureau, The Nature Conservancy, Kansas Department of Wildlife and Parks, Wildlife Management Institute, and others.

The Tallgrass Legacy Alliance also puts out a newsletter, The Prairie Pen, which is a collection of short articles dealing with various ranching and prairie issues. Sometimes technical, the newsletter is always a great source for information about Kansas’ and the Flint Hills’ ranching heritage.

For an entirely different kind of newsletter, let me recommend The Prairie Falcon, which is the newsletter of the Northern Flint Hills Audubon Society. This newsletter, obviously, focuses on birding and bird-watching issues. Stories in The Prairie Falcon cover topics like book reviews, practical suggestions for birdwatching, and information on particular bird species. In the current issue, you can even order bird seed for feeding the wild bird population.

And speaking of the Audubon Society, the Audubon of Kansas also puts out its own e-mail newsletter, which can be found at the newsletter page of the organization’s Web site.

One of my overall favorite newsletters is Bison and Bluestem, the newsletter of the Friends of Konza Prairie. It’s one of the benefits of being a member, but anyone can see the most recent edition of Bison and Bluestem at the newsletter page of the Friends’ Web site.

Finally, I want to mention the newsletter of The Nature Conservancy, which owns most of the land of the Konza Prairie Biological Station and the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve.

The Nature Conservancy’s newsletter is called Great Places and it’s free when you join the organization. The newsletter is customized to your physical location, which means in my case, the newsletter comes with a lead story about Kansas. You can see past issues of Great Places at the Nature Conservancy’s newsletter page of its Web site. The latest edition of the Kansas Great Places led with an article about the Flint Hills Initiative, which describes how the Nature Conservancy is working with the Tallgrass Legacy Alliance in preserving the native Kansas tallgrass prairie.

So while you are waiting patiently for me to write, be sure to read the above newsletters. There, now I’ve given you plenty of reading material.

Look hard and you can see the reddish hues of the Flint Hills in the fall.

Ah yes, autumn. Time to get out and enjoy some good fall color. As the landscape changes with the seasons, summer fading to fall, then green turns to red.

If you’ve read Flint Hills, Tall Grass long enough, then you know I am certainly not referring to trees. Of course, for most people, the changing color of the trees is the highlight of fall. Folks take long driving trips to woods and forests, just to see the trees change color. In the prairie, however, another color change occurs, but like many aspects of the prairie, you have to look harder to appreciate it.

Grasses have leaves, obviously, and many leaves change color, even if they are long and skinny and grow up from the ground. The stems from which those leaves grow can also change color. For most tall grasses of the prairie, that means going from green to golden brown as the warm-season grass turns dormant.

Early morning light brings out the rouge in the grass.

Take Indian grass for example. With sufficient rainfall in the summer — and there certainly has been sufficient rainfall in the Flint Hills this summer — Indian grass will stay green right up until it matures into shades of golden brown in early autumn.

Other grasses, however, like big and little bluestem, can turn various shades of red as the weather cools and the days shorten. That is especially true for little bluestem, or bunch grass, which often blushes deep red in the fall. Clumps of little bluestem often dominate the high ground in the Kansas Flint Hills. Where it does, it is as if someone has spilled rouge across the terraced slopes.

Of course, a light crimson swath across a flint hill is a far cry from the colorful explosions found in forested hills of the northeast, at least to most people. My preferences, however, draw me into the subtle shades of the tallgrass prairie. It’s an acquired taste, I admit, but one which I enjoy because so many others fail to appreciate how grasslands transform themselves as the seasons change.

Even the stem of bluestem grass turns red in the fall.

For example, just last week I was waiting for someone at the public trailhead of the Konza Prairie Biological Station. As I waited, I studied the field of tall grasses that grew near the parking lot. Starting last spring, I noted in the field the emergence of all the major prairie grasses. By late summer, the big bluestem and Indian grass had reached over seven feet high. Now, as fall took over, the grasses were beginning to go dormant. Shorter in height, but growing in thicker clumps, the little bluestem patches were turning a faint, but discernable reddish brown, adding a mix of color to this small patch of prairie.

While I enjoyed the show, a hiker emerged from the trail, two cameras slung over his neck and shoulder. He expressed his deep disappointment that the trees of the Konza’s gallery forest had not yet turned to any showy fall colors. His expectations, encouraged by a wet growing season and plenty of sunshine, were for some color in the oaks of the forest along King’s Creek. Not having found any, he was not at all satisfied with the hike.

I pointed out the color of the little bluestem growing before us and noted the grass itself can bring some interesting colors to the tallgrass prairie. He still was not satisfied and drove away frustrated.

I’m really not trying to be some elitist snob about this, but I do find some satisfaction in learning to appreciate what so many others miss.

If you really must have bright fall colors, look for some smooth sumac.

Within the last couple of months, I have heard two different people claim the Kansas Flint Hills were an “in-your-face landscape.” I think they meant the Flint Hills have some magnificent vistas that stretch to the horizon and fill your senses. That is certainly true, to a degree, but it is not the whole story of the Flint Hills. I have a lot of appreciation for the folks that used the expression, but I have to disagree with the evaluation of this place.

For me, the Flint Hills are not an “in-your-face landscape,” but more like an “under-your-nose landscape.” I think many of the best parts of the tallgrass prairie and the limestone-and-flint hills are right in front of you, but you have to look down and study a bit to see it. You can miss a lot of what makes the Flint Hills a special place if you don’t look down, because a lot of it is right there, under your nose.

I appreciate the comment made by Flint Hills cowboy author Jim Hoy, when he says the Flint Hills don’t take your breath away, they give you the chance to catch it.

So if you can get out into the hills soon, take the time to find some blushing bluestem. Wait for the right light, study the grass, and appreciate the fall colors.

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.

Was your home town once a field of tallgrass prairie?

Now I know. I recently made the pleasant discovery that my childhood home has a close connection with the tallgrass prairie. During my childhood, however, no one ever mentioned it. I would have liked to have known sooner that I was a child of the prairie. Maybe some of you might be able to discover a similar connection.

I entered the world in Wichita, Kansas, just outside the Flint Hills and I currently live in the northern Flint Hills. I am not talking about those locations, however. No, the heritage that connects my childhood, in a loose way, to tallgrass prairie is found in Little Dixie, otherwise known as Mexico, Missouri. Our family moved to Mexico, which is my mother’s hometown, when I was two and I lived there until I graduated from high school.

When I graduated from MHS — go Bulldogs! — I went to Kansas State University, where a degree in landscape architecture gave me a deep appreciation for the Flint Hills and the tallgrass prairie. What I didn’t know at the time, however, was I had been living in the land of the tallgrass prairie for years. All that was missing around Mexico was the prairie.

Mexico is a small, but important, town in Northeast Missouri and serves as the county seat of Audrain County. It’s modern history stretches back to the 1830’s with the arrival of early settlers, many of whom came from the upper south of Tennessee and Kentucky. Many of those early arrivals brought southern ways, including slavery and southern agricultural methods. Later immigrants came from Germany and other northern European countries.

Mexico and Audrain County became important as an agricultural center, as the region produces corn, sorgham, soybeans, cattle, and hogs. As a child I learned many things about Mexico’s past and present. Like, Mexico was the Saddlehorse Capital of the World and the home of the largest firebrick refractory in the world. These special fire bricks, which lined the insides of large furnaces around the world and even covered the launching pads of Cape Canaveral, could be made in Mexico because of the unique clay soils of the region.

As a child, I learned all about these and other stories of my town’s unique heritage. I also did a lot of exploring for my own stories. We lived on the west side of town, the very edge of town, so I spent a lot of time hanging out along the nearby creek (we pronounced it “crick”). We caught ribbon snakes and crawdads all the time, and kept a box turtle for a pet every summer. The creek was surrounded by woods, which made it a perfect place to play hide and seek.

On the edge of the woods were large empty fields. We had dirt-clod fights in the deep ditches that crisscrossed the fields and we could hide in the tall grass in late summer. I also remember where the gooseberry bushes grew, which gave us stomach-aches because we ate the berries before they were ripe.

Now subdivisions have tamed the creek and the fields, but Davis Creek still carries water north of town, where it joins the South Fork of the Salt River. That river then runs north towards Santa Fe, where it joins the North Fork and forms the Salt River, which then runs east to join the Mississippi, just north of Louisiana, Missouri.

[When you include Mexico, Santa Fe, and Louisiana with towns named Cuba and Paris, you start to realize early Missouri pioneers weren't too original with place names.]

So the land north of Mexico runs into a Mississippi River watershed. Travel just a few miles south of Mexico to Auxvasse (French for “out of the muddy clay”) and from there, the water flows southward into watersheds of the Missouri River. Mexico occupies the high ground between these two mighty rivers.

I never thought too much about that until recently when I ran across the Web site of the Missouri Prairie Foundation. I am always looking for information about the history of the prairie and how early settlers impacted the tallgrass eco-region (see my entry on Illinois). I was interested to learn, for example, Missouri was once covered by about 15 million acres of tallgrass prairie. As with most prairie lands outside the Flint Hills, the majority of that prairie was lost to development, invasive species, and agriculture. All the more reason to love the Flint Hills.

A map of the tallgrass prairie in Missouri (from the Missouri Prairie Foundation) shows the extent of the prairie in Audrain County.

Then I came across a map of Missouri’s original prairie lands at the Missouri Prairie Foundation. Most of the original praire, as expected, grew in the northern and western reaches of the state. One major exception, however, was a massive expanse of tallgrass prairie that occupied the high country between the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers in northeast Missouri. As I looked at that part of the map, I was amazed. It was as if the unusual shape of Audrain County was formed by tracing the edges of this tallgrass region. There it was, my home county was originally covered by tall grasses.

With a little thought, it all made sense. The clay soils, those same soils that made great fire bricks, held water well, but were also well drained. Mexico, in the heart of Audrain County, occupied a high spot. So the soil of my county would have dried out from time to time. Add a few prairie fires, and you have the perfect ingredients for a tallgrass prairie. My childhood outdoor playground was once covered in big bluestem, Indian grass, switch grass, and all the rest.

All my life in Mexico, however, no one had ever mentioned it. We never discussed tall grasses or prairies in school. I never knew what a tallgrass prairie was until I came to the Flint Hills, but all along I had lived in prime prairie land.

I am a child of the prairie, but didn’t know it. The thing is, maybe some of you are too. The tallgrass prairie once dominated the landscape from Illinois to Kansas and from Canada and Minnesota to Texas. Estimates claim over 140 million acres of tallgrass prairie covered the heart of North America.

The prairie as a landscape, however, has not been given its true worth until recently. So if you grew up in the heartland, maybe your home sat on land that was once covered by tall grasses, which were burnt and kept alive by frequent prairie fires, and no one today pays any attention to the fact. Maybe that field or park near your childhood home was once a field of goldenrod or cordgrass. Who knows, at one time, maybe a buffalo wallow once sat in your backyard.

Maybe some day, one will again.