The Flint Hills of Kansas

by Jeff M

Leaving the Spring Hill Ranch and its barn behind me, I head westward into the emerging hills. I think of the Flint Hills, and the prairie in general, as an almost human shape in the disguise of physical geography. These are not hills so much as they are the human body itself --- naked, with its valleys, its crevices, its mounds, its hidden moisture, its skin the grasses. Shadows are rare except beneath the black walnut trees. When clouds move across the sky during a strong wind, like the palm of a lover's hand searching for a place to touch, the shapes of their shadows are easily traced and followed.

The above picture shows the road leading out of the West Traps Pasture. Once you reach that point where the road disappears at its crest, so does civilization. The horizon is smooth and sharp, like the demarcation line on a map. Like vanilla crashing into chocolate ice cream. The bottom picture shows that not all civilization is absent; the National Park Service bus tour approaches, with its belching motor, its talkative guide, its interior aisles crowded with walkers and purses and backpacks.