A dreamland for bison: Kansas’ Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve is an American gem

A winding trail makes its way through Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve near Strong City in February 2023. (Max McCoy/Kansas Reflector)

A trail hike can walk you back into your soul. The Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve hiking trails provide over 40 miles for you to do so. Located two miles north of Strong City, the preserve is about a 30-minute drive west of Emporia on U.S. Highway 50. There is no charge to visit, and you can go anytime. The park is open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

The tallgrass prairie is considered one of the most endangered ecosystems in North America. It has been reduced to less than 4% of its original size, once covering over 170 million acres from the United States to Canada. What appears as rolling hills from a distance is a richly biodiverse ecosystem blanketed in tallgrass and wildflowers.

We’re extremely fortunate to have this national preserve in Kansas. It is the only national park unit dedicated to the tallgrass prairie. The Nature Conservancy and the National Park Service jointly manage Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve, which is home to bison.

Arriving at the visitor center, I was welcomed by a park ranger. She handed me a map with trail distances and information. Pointed out where the bison are located in Windmill and West Trap pastures, outlined on the map in bold red lines. “If the bison are interested in you, you should probably turn around,” I was warned. It clearly states in print on the map: “Grazing cattle are unpredictable. Use caution and do not disturb them. Stay a football field distance away from the bison (100 yards/92m).”

I came here to see the bison. So I now know that I am in the right place. The Scenic Overlook Trail is where the bison graze. The trailhead is half a mile northwest of the visitor center. At the trail’s entrance gate, there are various warning signs depicting bison catapulting a person into the sky.

My only memory of a bison is one full of ruth. It was 1999, and I was a young teen attending Southwest High School in San Antonio, Texas. Off campus, just down the road, there was a small petting zoo next to a locally owned taco shop. You could visit a bison and a zedonk while sipping on a Big Red soda and eating flavorless hardshell beef tacos.

Back then, what stood out to me was how old, dusty, and tired that bison looked. They shackled his thin leg to an iron post, and metal bars surrounded the dry dirt that was now his home. The bison appeared to be staring off into the distance. It was almost trancelike, as if he were stuck in a vision of a different place. He never made eye contact with any of us watching. He didn’t acknowledge his captivity. He was still above it all — dignity intact.

While hiking the trail, the wind kept gusting at 40 mph, bending the tallgrass like time. A Texas horned lizard greeted me. The meadowlarks stirred like wind chimes singing in a choir of their own, that only the sky could understand. I was getting anxious as I walked through the howling wind. The wind has always been a prophet of change, and there was nothing between me, the rolling prairie, and the big blue sky on these meandering trails. Nature humbles us all.

Turning the corner at the trail bend, I saw him. A large, black-like mass of shadow resting by a tree in the shade, near water, by an open trail, surrounded by tallgrass and prairie flowers, the rolling wind undulating through its fur. This must have been what that bison in Texas was dreaming of.