The august Tallgrass Prairie

 

Bull overlooking the distant herd

Winter coat coming off

A bison might stand 100 yards away. That might seem far. But anyone that close must monitor the bull for sudden movements. The lack of cover in tallgrass prairie proves alarming. 

If that bison turns and breaks into a gallop, capable of hitting 30 mph, there’s not even a rock to huddle behind. The only calculation is how many pints of blood one might need in triage. 

Of course I would not let it come to that. I refuse to turn into a touron and harass wildlife in their domain. Respecting distances is a part of the wildlife experience.

Killdeer

Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve might sound boring. The ecosystem once covered much of the Central Plains and is now reduced to tiny patches in the Flint Hills of Kansas. 

The hilltops are loaded with flint and difficult to plow, leading to the hills becoming land for grazing and concentrating farms on the soils of the creek and river bottomlands. There are few trees, but plenty of wildlife, green grasses and blue ponds. 

A partnership between the park service and The Nature Conservancy, the national preserve sprouted beauty on a sunny spring morning. 

I had modest expectations from the free park – sure it boasted a bison herd, but no guarantees any members would roam close enough to the trail. I expected flat ground and … well, tall grasses. 

The wildlife started at the parking lot, an aviary unto itself. Killdeer trotted on their stilt legs while a half-dozen other species flitted around the trees and stone walls from the land’s time as a working farm. They were almost asking to be photographed.

After 20 minutes of photographing birds, I set out on the trails. Before I reached the bison pasture found myself enamored with the terrain.  Walking the trail did not end the company of birds. The green hills exploded with bird calls.The fields were rich with sounds I knew (western meadowlarks) and many I didn't.

Some dropped onto the backs of the bulls, picking at the remains of their winter hides slowly peeling off their backs.

Immediately the green overtook me. It was hard to imagine a lusher place even with the lack of trees. The preserve covered both sides of the road, with white-tailed deer romping near a stand of trees on the east side. Those trails were closed for an upcoming prescribed burn, but the deer moved freely. 

In the fields, western meadowlarks and the similar-looking dickcissels (yeah, yeah, laugh it up) stood on strands of tallgrass. Every moment felt like time in a bird sanctuary. 

In a roundtrip of 4 miles, I crossed paths with two other people. I spotted several more who crested a hill only to turn around at the pasture’s cattle/bison grating. They missed out, as a ranger told me there are times when the bison congregate around the pasture gate, essentially killing any pasture hiking plans for visitors. 

I crossed paths with four bison at a decent distance and the zoom on the camera reveal two dozen more grazing and lounging at the bottom of a hill. At times I might not have been the recommended 100 yards away from then, but I never felt I might irritate the giant creatures into charging me. Had one turned suddenly, I would have backed the fuck off instantly.

The second I stepped into their pasture, I felt a part of the food chain; yes, bison don’t eat people, but I was not the alpha here. They ruled this land, and watched my every step. 

Down the slope from grazing bulls, a bigger herd unfolded. They looked like a bolder bunch, with several little red dogs (baby bison) bounding among the the giant adults. 

The distance felt uncomfortable with time, and I eventually turned around. Tallgrass Prairie had enough miles of trails for me to wander for several days, but I had just a few hours to burn. The Flint Hills ecosystem offered enough wildlife and solitude to require an encore someday.

More than bison, Tallgrass Prairie was a place for the birds. I marveled at the diversity. The park also included the Spring Hill Ranch its sturdy limestone buildings. History talks of sod houses on the prairie but the history we can see comes from the lack of timber and use of stone in buildings. The first European settlers built these structures to last thanks to that lack of trees.

In a paddock outside the stone barn, a single gray horse grazed. It raised its head enough to acknowledge my presence but seeing I had nothing, it resumed crunching on grasses.   Because the farm predated barbed wire, it has a stone fence that resembles the border of an Old World estate.

Seeing the bison in their pasture and horse on the sprawling farm, I wondered how easily the prairie could have seen a different history, where the wild creatures that predated European settlement still had a role, maybe even the people who tamed these lands for previous centuries. At least a small parcel of rare tallgrass prairie has been returned to the bison and the birds.