The last Kansas prairie

COUNCIL GROVE, KANSAS, 1987 – Though most of the sea of grass that once stretched across the continent’s heartland has been plowed and sown into wheat, an 80-kilometre-wide strip of virgin prairie still survives in central Kansas.
      The Flint Hills of Kansas owe their name and their unspoiled condition to the ubiquitous outcroppings of rock that frustrate attempts at tillage. The Prairie Parkway leads from the Oklahoma border 350 kilometres north to Nebraska, through the Flint Hills and one of the largest expanses of native grass left in North America.
      Motorists can spend several relaxing hours gazing at a simple panorama whose primary colours are blue, green, and white: bright skies, lush pastures, fluffy clouds and sun-bleached stone. Or, if you prefer to travel at a more leisurely pace, you can take a bicycle and spend several days rolling over these gentle hills.
      I cycled through Kansas in late April, when the grass was its greenest and the southerly winds were comfortably warm. While the landscape was a delight, I also found a wealth of history – nearly every county I passed through boasted a well-stocked museum, and townspeople were eager to tell me about the early days of their locale. Last but not least, numerous man-made lakes offered campsites, fishing, and swimming.
      With more than 5,000 residents, Council Grove qualifies as a metropolis in central Kansas. Oak trees on the banks of the Neosho River made it an important stop for westerly travellers in the last century, and a dam on the river today makes it one of Kansas’ most important recreation areas.
      In 1825 the Osage Indians signed a treaty here ceding right-of-way for a road to New Mexico. The prairie oasis became a key point on the Santa Fe Trail, the last source of hardwood for wagon repairs for several hundred kilometres. By the 1850s a bustling town had grown up and in 1857 Seth Hayes founded a tavern. Today, the Hayes House is the oldest continuously operating restaurant west of the Mississippi River.
      I rolled into town at high noon on a Sunday, just in time for the sumptuous all-you-can-eat buffet. Two hours and a mere $7.25 later, I staggered out and mounted my trusty steed. Council Grove Lake was my destination; after such a feast I was thankful the lake was only a few kilometres to the north.
      But a cyclist’s appetite returns in a hurry. I spent the afternoon relaxing in the shade before meeting a local couple who had spent the weekend fishing. When they offered me a fresh fish supper I was easily persuaded.
      While we cleaned and grilled some of the afternoon’s catch, Jay and Elaine Puckett told me about local history, starting from a long way back.
     “ Have you noticed,” Jay asked, “that when you’re on top of a hill and you look across to the next one, it’s always just the same height? That’s because this used to be the flat bottom of a sea. After the sea dried up some spots eroded, but in a sense there’s no hills, only valleys.”
      The Pucketts also told me about the cut-stone buildings that were the predominant architecture of the first European settlements in the area. Wood was a very scarce commodity on the prairies, but in the Flint Hills stone was abundant. While some of the stone buildings and fences are in ruins, others are still in use, well-maintained by owners who value historical heritage.
      Thanks to local informants like the Pucketts, I had a wealth of suggested sights to see. I spent several days in the area, roaming the rutted backroads of the prairie, touring museums, camping and swimming. Before I made my way to Kansas City, I paid a return visit to Council Grove to spend a night at the Cottage House hotel. Founded in the 1870s, the Cottage House was recently restored to its original elegance and is a popular bed-and-breakfast establishment. Guests can relax in chair swings on the shaded veranda, sipping iced tea and perusing the latest local newspapers. The sauna and whirlpool bath upstairs are of dubious historical authenticity, I’ll admit, but there are some imperfections that a weary cyclist just has to overlook.

Published in the Toronto Globe & Mail, August 12, 1987.