Indiana’s deforestation has been pretty incredible. Historically about 90% of land-cover in IN was forest, that fell to something like 10% by 1900, but has sinc

Indiana’s deforestation has been pretty incredible. Historically about 90% of land-cover in IN was forest, that fell to something like 10% by 1900, but has since crawled upwards. Today, something like a quarter of IN is forested. Elsewhere in the Midwest, ecological destruction has had a rather different tune. Tallgrass prairies used to stretch from Northern Texas, to Chicago, to Minneapolis, all the way up into Manitoba. Tallgrass prairie doesn’t really exist anymore, except for a fairly narrow strip running through eastern Kansas into the very corner of NE Oklahoma. This area is home to the Flint Hills, which happened to be too rocky to till & convert into farmland. About 4% of the original extent of Tallgrass Prairie remains. Even this portion is under threat. Tallgrass prairie is maintained by the vast wildfires that used to sweep across the Great Plains— there’s few barriers out here, so a lightning strike during a windy storm could easily trigger a wildfire that swept across hundreds of miles of prairie. Native Americans in the region would also periodically burn swathes of prairie to improve visibility (bison hunting) and renew the lands. Without regular burns, prairie quickly will be overtaken by shrubs and primary successional trees (mostly Red Cedar where I’m at). Within only a few years, the land will no longer resemble Tallgrass prairie, but rather a shrubby wasteland. Regular grazing is also essential for triggering the flowering of the full range of native wildflowers. Cows have replaced buffalo in this region, although their hooves do a fine job of approximating the topsoil-disrupting effects of buffalo grazing, a buffalo’s hooves are more acutely scooped and are needed to unlock the full majesty of Tallgrass prairie floral diversity. Although I’ve spent most of my life splitting time between the Appalachians and the Rockies, the infinite expanse of undulating green earth that one can see in the mid-summer Flint Hills is probably the most special landscape I have ever witnessed. No other place feels are unfamiliar, or alien, or verdant, or melodic, or uncomplicated. I would recommend to all a drive through Chase County, KS, where you will stare into the horizon and see nothing but a azure amphitheater atop a boundless emerald sheet, and the silhouettes of a few distant cattle peppered at their margin.