Kansas is Kansas is Kansas

by Jeff Martin

What can you say about Kansas?

After having spent an entire day in the state, specifically western Kansas, I can safely say that Kansas is Kansas is Kansas.

1) Kansas, at least Western Kansas, is not entirely flat. In fact, my travels south from I-70 along I-177 from Council Grove to Cassoday, was anything but flat. The road is the Flint Hills Scenic Byway, a 48-mile asphalt journey that sends drivers through the Flint Hills, a 4.5 million acre miracle of rolling grassland and prairie. It is the last remaining unspoiled prairie in the United States --- certainly not because Americans appreciated the beauty and declined to manipulate the land; no, it remains so because of the cobbles of flintlike rock just below the surface, which made it impossible for early pioneers to plow. Now it is mostly private pasture land upon which literally thousands of stocky cattle feed.

The Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve, located approximately 20 miles from Council Grove, is the only opportunity travelers will get to walk and experience this landscape. Do it. I walked a good four miles, and the views were breathtaking and peaceful. The flora and soil is beautiful and ancient; you can literally sense the ancient voices of the Plains Indians, the trampling thunder of bison.

2) The town of Cottonwood Falls is certainly the manifestation of all Kansas stereotype: businesses close early, and some businesses inform visitors, by sign and magic marker, to call a specific phone number if desiring service; there are working payphones scattered throughout the thoroughfare; there are hitches for horses; the Post Office in Cassoday, known as the Prairie Chicken Capital of the World, is without a sign, and one carrier could be seen delivering mail on a four-wheeler; the food is hearty, evidence which could be found at the Grand Hotel and Grill in Cottonwood Falls, which serves hamburgers as wide as a manhole cover and over an inch thick; the newspapers average about six pages, and one front page story told the tale of Brooke Cunningham, an unfortunate soul who lost control of his vehicle and drove it into a ditch.

So indeed, what can you say about Kansas that can't be described accurately and simply by its unique landscape, its stoic souls clothed in denim and suspenders and cowboy hats and boots; by its winding roads and abandoned farmhouses, some of which had been swallowed by riotous wild grass and whose eaves and gutters buzzed with bumblebees the size of B-52 bombers?

Landscape reigns here; residents and travelers are but meek witnesses.

For more information about Flint Hills, check this out: http://flinthillsofkansas.blogspot.com/