Every time I drive I-35 through the Flint Hills of Kansas, I am mesmerized by the vastness of these upland, rolling plains. Such a contradiction to the stereotype images of the state, the miles of grassland are punctuated by trees, ditches, outcroppings of limestone and occasional creeks and small bluffs. Lots of hills.
Maybe folks from the Rockies are not impressed. I guess if you grew up gazing at the mountains and the seemingly infinite distances of open territory, the Flint Hills just aren't that impressive. But having grown up in West Kentucky where you can rarely see more than half-mile of road up ahead of you, this is really something. Occasionally, you'll see a bit of the road rising up on the next ridge, five miles or more away from where you are at that instant.
One of my favorite spots is where a rock-bedded creek passes beneath the road. Trees line the banks as the stream emerges from the low bluffs and flows into a small bend and disappears. Someday—I keep telling myself—I'm going to take time to stop. Maybe hop over the fence and follow the water for a bit. If there aren't any bulls around…
Back up out of the valley, the grazing territory stretches out—literally—from horizon to horizon. On a breezy day, which is just about every day in this part of the state, tall grass, native wildflowers, and low brush join together in weaving, rhythmic motion, pulsing and swaying, flinching, and bowing in the wind.
Cows munch their way across the land, resting in the shade in the heat of the day or else finding their way into one of the ponds. They'll stand there, bellies cooling in the water, chewing their cud, and looking as content as turtles on a log. Long, meandering trails of bare dirt mark their travel habits.
These miles of hills that stretch from Oklahoma up to Nebraska do not rival the Appalachians or the Rockies for grandeur, scale, or scope. But they do show the handiwork of God and in their own way bring a bit of awe. And a welcome bit of beauty to refresh my traveling.
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