March 25. Tipton, Missouri.

A short day, yesterday, but I think I'm still on schedule to meet Terry on the 28^th at the airport in Manchester, VT—short mileage-wise, as I only made 250 miles and not the 400+ on Days 1 and 2.

I spent a few incredible hours at the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve in the Flint Hills of Kansas. After an hour in the visitor center (I had no idea there were so many different grasshoppers—five including the Birdwing and the Plains Lubber) I decided to take a walk along the Scenic Trail, where I was told I might see Bison. This trail--more of a road--had recently been covered by tan-colored road based which contrasted with the orange 'tall grasses' on my left and the dark, recently burned right side.

This is the season for using controlled burns to duplicate as closely as possible the natural process. I was all alone and my body was ecstatic to be moving. My map showed miles and miles of trails through the 11,000 acres 'preserved' in this partnership the National Park Service has with the Nature Conservancy. I'd learned that only 4% of the nearly 200 million acres of original grasslands still exist.

I couldn't help connecting what I'd seen the day before in Dodge City. There, the entire town seemed dedicated to the memory of the time in our history when efforts by our government to settle America's nether regions in order to take advantage of the natural resources found there. Dodge City's fame is based on the debauchery of its white, largely male, population who were there to kill the Indians and the bison, clearing the way for America to fulfill its destiny. The destruction of these grasslands was one price of this progress. 

The road/trail curved right (Without the mountain and cliff landmarks I'm used to, I never know what actual direction I'm facing) past a small pond made by the original owners of the ranch this preserve once was. A large sand-piper, one of a dozen species, called out a warning. I walked up the hill where the road turned left across the rim of a slope that dropped into a wash to the right. From there, this preserve seemed to go on forever. Small lark-like birds squeaked in the grass, never flying high enough for a good look. All alone, the low grey sky and anemic light, I felt like the last person on earth and I liked it. Fresh signs of bison were everywhere. The road turned right and I could see in the distance where it crossed up through a small pass. The small hill on my left seemed to be a high point and I was thinking about walking up it when I noticed the distant black dots and knew I'd found the bison. I could see in my binoculars at least a dozen. Which became two dozen once I realized that what I'd assumed were rocks on a hillside were soft brown boulders--more bison. I walked on, slowly, hoping not to frighten them. The closest (a young male?) looked up and stared at me. I recalled only one warning sign about getting too close to the bison, in contrast to Yellowstone, where this is a constant and widespread issue, most likely due to the numbers of people who visit there. The young male turned and moved toward the others, as if wanting them to know I was approaching. He stopped and looked again.

I moved to the other side of the road and walked slowly, methodically, thoughtlessley, remembering the meditation walks I'd been on with Jack Turner. He believes that we give off an energy with our thoughts which wild animals sense and are frightened by. Reducing our thoughts quiets that energy, allowing us to approach more closely. I think it worked. For some reason I was not afraid of these grassland bison. I'm not sure why. I stopped and sat down on the ground and waited. I noticed that the air near those bison seemed thicker and heavier, as if they played a role with gravity (why wouldn't they?). Any sounds were muffled. I sat there watching the bison until my butt was wet and cold. I figured I could walk down through the wash back to the trail head, and started off across the recently burned plain. White rocks and small green plant shoots dotted the dark, lush soil. Dropping into the wash I noticed the bison trails woven back and forth and immediately thought of September, two years ago in Gates of the Arctic National Park. I still can't believe that standing in the middle of a grassland in Kansas could in any way remind me of the Arctic, but it did. The trails--bison/caribou; the grasses between boulders; the low metal sky; the small stream. Context. The beauty and brilliance of National Parks is context and how if we let them they can create small worlds within worlds where we are part of life is as it once was, how it should be. Yesterday, for that moment in that wash that small world was the only world and it was as big and full of wonder as the Alaskan Arctic.