Resurrecting Prairie Ghosts

“O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again. “–Thomas Wolfe

***

Pulling sweet clover and giant ragweed from the prairie on hot June mornings can seem endless. On one workday, sweating and tired, a volunteer turned to me and sighed. “Tell me again–why are we doing this?”

I can’t remember exactly what I said. But this is what I wish I’d said.

Just a few hundred years ago, more than half of Illinois was prairie.

Settlers moved in,  looking for adventure and a better life. Agriculture and the John Deere plow soon turned prairies into acres of corn and soybeans. There was good in this–we need places to live, and food to eat. But we didn’t remember to pay attention to what we were losing.

And when we forget to pay attention, our losses can be irreplaceable.

For a while, it looked as if the prairie would become nothing more than a ghost. A distant memory.

But, just as the tallgrass had all but vanished, a few people woke up to what we had. They panicked when they saw how little of the Illinois prairie was left…

Then, they sounded an alarm to save those few thousand acres of original tallgrass that remained.

They persuaded others to reconstruct prairies where they had disappeared, and to restore degraded prairies back to vibrant health. Soon, prairie wildflowers and their associated insects returned. Purple milkweed and bees…

Wild quinine and tiny bugs…

…the prairie’s roses and crab spiders…

The drain tiles that piped the wet prairies dry were broken up.  The land remembered what it once was.

Dragonflies returned and patrolled the tallgrass.

The rare glade mallow raised her blooms again in the marshy areas, with a critter or two hidden in her petals.

These reconstructed and restored prairies are different, of course. Bison roam…

…but within fenced units. Power lines and jet contrails scar the skies that were once marked only with birds and clouds. Today, you may see houses along the edges, where once the tallgrass stretched from horizon to horizon.

It’s not perfect. But when we made a promise to future generations to bring back the prairies for them, we crossed a bridge of sorts.

 

We put aside our own instant gratification.

Every weed we pull; every seed we collect and plant, is in hopes that the Illinois prairie won’t be a ghost to the children who grow up in Illinois in the future.

Rather, it will be the landscape they love and call home.

Photos (top to bottom): bison (Bison bison), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; old barns, Flagg Township, Ogle County, IL; moon rising over Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; Scribner’s panic grass (Dicanthelium oligosanthes), The Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; white wild indigo or false indigo (Baptisia alba macrophylla) and pale purple coneflowers (Echinacea pallida), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; purple milkweed (Asclepias purpurascens) Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; wild quinine (Parthenium integrifolium), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; pasture rose (Rosa carolina) with a crab spider, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; female calico pennant (Celithemis elisa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; glade mallow (Napaea dioica), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  bison (Bison bison), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; child crossing the bridge, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie ragwort (Packera plattensis) Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, I; sunset over Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL.

The introductory quote is from Look Homeward Angel, by Thomas Wolfe, an American novelist in the early 20th Century. This quote is used to describe the lost prairie by John Madson in his seminal book on tallgrass, Where the Sky Began: Land of the Tallgrass Prairie.

April Showers

April showers on the prairie bring… mud.

But for the discerning eye, life stirs.

Grasses loop out of the ground.

 

The first marsh marigolds are a bit of welcome sunshine in the rain.

 

Grassy reflections shine and swirl  on prairie ponds, streams, and waterways.

 

Wait–are those hedgehogs?  Pincushions? No, just spiky blades of prairie dropseed, needling out of their hummocks.

 

Listen!

You’ll hear a killdeer calling its name: kill-deer! kill-deer! The nest is a simple scraped-out depression where the bird will sit, camouflaged against the rocks and twigs.

 

The first rattlesnake master shoots push through the mud and ashes, looking a lot like yucca. Some were nipped by the late spring prescribed burn.

They’re tough. They’ll survive.

 

Bloodroot blooms in the prairie savanna. A fleeting pleasure, as the petals drop off a day or two after the flowers are pollinated.

April showers bring more than mud. There’s a lot happening on the prairie this week.

Take time to see.

 

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby: (top to bottom): mud season on the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie grasses, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; marsh marigolds (Caltha palustris), author’s backyard prairie pond, Glen Ellyn, IL: tallgrass reflections, Meadow Lake prairie plantings, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; tallgrass reflections, Meadow Lake prairie plantings, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie dropseed (Sporobolus heterolepis), Meadow Lake prairie plantings, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; killdeer, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; rattlesnake master (Eryngium yuccifolium), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis), The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

Beginnings

Morning dawns on the prairie.

A lone red-winged blackbird calls. No breeze rustles the brittle, bleached out stands of little bluestem; the dry stalks of prairie switchgrass. The seedpods of of St. John’s wort and other bloomers have long since cracked open and dropped their seeds. There’s the promise of something new ready to germinate.

 

Few flames from prescribed burns have touched the tallgrass here in Illinois … yet. But there is the rumor of fire.

 

The temperatures have warmed. The wind whispers “it’s time.”

 

Time for everything to begin again.

 

To burn off the old; to spark something new.

 

With the flames will go our memories of a season now past. What waits for us  …

…will build on what went before, but is still unknown.

There is a sadness in letting go of what we have.

 

Yet to not move forward– to shy away from that which that will seemingly destroy the tallgrass– is to set the prairie back. To keep it from reaching its full potential.

So we embrace the fire.

 

We accept that things will change.  

 

We realize there will be surprises. Things we don’t expect.

 

We strike the match. Say goodbye to ice and snow.

 

Watch the prairie go up in flames.

 

We wait to see what will appear.

On the other side of the fire.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby: (top to bottom) sunrise, Meadow Lake prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie grasses and Great St. John’s Wort (Hypericum pyramidatum), Meadow Lake prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prescribed burn, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; Willoway Brook, The Schulenberg Prairie, Lisle, IL; eastern cottontail, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;   prescribed burn, The Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prescribed burn sign, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Meadow Lake prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prescribed burn, The Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; July on the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  twin fawns, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Meadow Lake prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prescribed burn, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; two-track through Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL. 

 

In Praise of Snow

What is it about snow? We moan when we see the forecast. Act as if we are personally offended that the white stuff is coming down. Shrug as we salt our driveways and sidewalks for the umpteenth time.

 

We seem surprised. Although—isn’t February in Illinois usually about snow?

 

The prairie reminds us that snow can be beautiful.

 

Snow paints still life after still life, using a limited palette.

 

Without the full range of colors available, the prairie in February relies heavily on getting the structures right.

 

Tallgrass blanketed with falling flurries offers  both stillness and motion.

 

February’s snowy prairie is not so much about growing.  

 

True, the deep root systems that plunge beneath the soil line spell life for the season ahead.

 

Yet, the prairie’s icy surface tells the story of life on pause; at rest.

 

Observing this, we are reminded to take stock of where we have been—and what has been— no matter how painful or difficult it is to look.

 

To contemplate who and where we are in the here and now.

 

To dream about what the landscape of our future might be.

 

It’s this yearly rhythm of growth and rest …

 

… that gives us space to reflect. To remember. To imagine.

 

It’s  a lot to think about …  the next time we’re shoveling snow.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): savanna, Hidden Lake Forest Preserve of DuPage County, Downer’s Grove, IL; squirrel in the snow, author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; old field with prairie planting, East Side, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca), East Side prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum; asters (Aster spp.), East Side prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum;  Queen Anne’s lace (Daucus carota), East Side prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum; goldenrod (Solidago spp.), East Side prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum; Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum;  Nachusa Grasslands in winter, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; brambles and snow, East Side prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum; Queen Anne’s lace (Daucus carota), East Side prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum; the path, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum; switchgrass (Panicum virgatum) on the snow, Meadow Lake, The Morton Arboretum; East Side prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum;  prairie plants and savanna at Hidden Lake Forest Preserve of DuPage County, Downer’s Grove, IL.

 

Ghosts of the Tallgrass

“Where there is no vision, there is no hope.” George Washington Carver.

It’s an unseasonably warm day in December. Fog shrouds the prairie. Everything softens. Fades. Blurs.

Bison haunt the tallgrass, elusive and half-hidden.

Illinois once had more than 22 million acres of prairie.

Today, only 3,000 original acres of  tallgrass remain.

A ghost of what once was.

When we went looking for what was left of the prairie, we found only scraps. Prairie was found  in pockets and corners of land where the farmer’s plow and development could not reach.

Around rocky outcrops.

Along old railroad right of ways.

Tucked into neglected graveyards.

Isn’t it ironic that these neglected, overlooked places were virtual time capsules? That the  cemeteries of the dead became a repository for the living? For hope?

A springboard for rebirth. Resurrection.

It takes vision to imagine a better future. To remember — and believe —  that hope for the future may be found in the most unexpected places. Where will you look?

All photos by Cindy Crosby except where noted (top to bottom) : prairie in the fog, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; bison in the fog, NG;  misty December evening, NG; stand of trees in the tallgrass, NG; rocky knob, NG;  railroad tracks, Bosque del Apache, San Antonio, New Mexico — photo by Jeff Crosby;  tombstone, Chapel Hill Cemetery, just outside Rochelle, IL; CHC:; road through the bison unit, NG.

 

‘Round the December Prairie

A heavy November snow steamrolled the prairie into submission. A 50 degree day or two then melted the snow into invisibility. What’s left behind around Willoway Brook looks as if a giant paperweight has pressed the tallgrass flat.

December on the prairie opens with a brand new look. Before the deep snow, the prairie grasses brushed my shoulders, towered over my head; a thick, vertical wall. Now, in many places, a springy carpet of grasses lies under my feet.

For most of the autumn, the prairie has been drawn by an artist who loved vertical lines.

But now, with the verticals knocked to the ground, a new shape takes prominence.

Circles. One of the simplest shapes in geometry. I see them everywhere.

The prairie dock leaves, drained of their chlorophyll, remind me of a dress I once owned made of dotted swiss material.

The globes of bee balm repeat the circular pattern; clusters of tiny yawning tubular tunnels.

Sunken balls of carrion flower catch the afternoon light.

Tall coreopsis seeds dot the sky like beads suspended on wires.

Overhead, thousands of cranes are migrating south, punctuating the quiet with their cries. They circle and loop; circle and loop.

 

The gray-headed coneflower seeds have half-circle pieces missing.

Crinkled round ball galls look like they’ve dropped from another planet. Anybody home?  No sign of life inside.

Even the downy leaves of ashy sunflowers echo the pattern; try to loop  into circles.

The compass plant leaves curl into ringlets, stippled with tiny full moons.

Freckled and fanciful.

I miss November’s bold, vibrant tallgrass, upright and waving in the wind from horizon line to horizon line. A flattened prairie seems defeated, somehow. Beaten down by the elements.

But I’m glad for the unexpected gift of seeing a prairie pattern I might have otherwise missed. Losing a familiar way of viewing the world opens up a different perspective. Today, I’m seeing the prairie in the round.

Who knows what else I’ll learn to see in a new way before the year is done?

 

All photos by Cindy Crosby taken at the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL except where noted  (top to bottom): Willoway Brook; prairie grasses, prairie clover (Dalea purpurea, Dalea candida) , prairie dock leaf (Silphium terebinthinaceum), bee balm (Monarda fistulosa) ,carrion flower, tall coreopsis; sandhill cranes; Springbrook Prairie, Naperville, IL; gray-headed coneflower (Ratibida pinnata; ball gall; ashy sunflower (Helianthus mollis); compass plant  (Silphium laciniatum);  compass plant(Silphium laciniatum).

Finding Peace in Wild Things

So much fear in the world right now.

It’s catching. I find myself jumpy, anxious. Feeling like nothing will change. Up against a wall of doubt.

When the world seems like an impossible place, I go to the prairie. This time, instead of going alone, I go with friends. I need the reminder of how much we need each other.  A reminder that we’re not alone in the world.

The late summer and early autumn greens and reds of the grasses are draining away, creating a new palette of rusts, tans, and browns.

It’s quiet here.

Until, suddenly, pheasants fly up – two, three – six! One lands in a tree.

I admire their vibrant colors — that scarlet head — even while acknowledging that pheasants aren’t native to this place. But there’s room here for them.

We have so much.

A Cooper’s hawk settles in near the black plastic mulched plant nursery, where plants are going to seed, which will be used for future restoration efforts. I love the plant nursery, with its sturdy rows of prairie plants. It’s a visual reminder of how we deliberately cultivate hope for change in the future.

The hawk stares me down. Even when we think we’ve got the way forward all figured out and organized, there’s always a wild card.

Look! Just around the corner,  a herd of bison spill over the grassy two track.

One blocks our way.

We keep a respectful distance. The bison stay together, tolerating our presence.

I admire their shaggy chocolate coats; their heft and muscle. Their coats gleam and shine in the late afternoon light.

They know where the juiciest grasses are, even now.

We watch them for a long time before we move away.

The slant of the November sun backlights the prairie like a false frost.

The milk-washed sky brightens; the smell of old grass and decaying chlorophyll  lifts in the autumn chill. I inhale. Exhale. The autumn prairie is changing, seemingly dying.

It’s not the end. Just a transition to the next season.

Fur and feathers…and a sea of grass. My fears are not gone, but they begin to dissolve in the late afternoon light. There is so much to be grateful for.

So much in this world that gives us reason to hope.

All photos by Cindy Crosby from Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL (The Nature Conservancy) 

There is a beautiful (copyrighted!) poem by Wendell Berry, The Peace of Wild Things, that I find a good antidote to difficult times. Find it at The Poetry Foundation: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171140.

In Praise of Grass

“I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.” — Walt Whitman

Grasslands and prairies are some of the most imperiled natural systems in the world, says The Nature Conservancy. With this idea tucked into the back of my mind, I left the Midwestern tallgrass prairie this week for my first taste of New Mexico’s grasslands.

At first glance, the Southwest grasslands seem completely unrelated to the Midwest prairies I know so intimately.  Yin and yang. The plants, birds, and even the animals kept me reaching for my field guides to try and ID them.

Different birds. Different mammals. And what are these thousands of electrified false eyelashes?

Ahhh. Blue grama grass. Got it.

This grass? Native? or invasive?

Love this golden grass– but what is it?

I asked the rangers and staff at various nature centers and National Parks we hiked through about my “mystery grasses,” but they seemed surprised at the question. Birds? Here’s a field guide. Mammals? Let me give you a checklist for our site. Grasses? Ummmm. Even here — in these dedicated natural places — grasses are overshadowed by their more charismatic botanical companions.

Although many of the grass ID’s remain a puzzle (I’ve got some ID work to do when I return home), I discovered a few familiar tallgrass prairie friends. Canada wild rye bristles its way through the mountains just outside Santa Fe.

Little bluestem, a stalwart of the Illinois tallgrass prairies…

… brushes color into the mountains around Bandelier National Monument…

…and paints the Santa Fe National Forest grasslands with scarlet.

Hello, old friends. Good to see you here.

It’s almost 1,500 miles from Chicago to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Despite some similar grasses, the Southwest landscape could not be more different. Mountains, mesas, and plateaus instead of flat fields of corn and soybeans. Elk, instead of bison. Mule deer, rather than white-tails. The grasslands here, however, share the same status as our Midwestern prairies.  In need of protection.

In the northern part of New Mexico —at Valles Caldera National Preserve — the grasses fill an ancient crater of a volcano. Elk bend their heads to drink from this stream winding through the fields of short grasses, quenching their thirst.

In the southern part of the state, November paints the marsh grasses at Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge in dazzling rusts, tans, and golds. Together, the grasses weave a colorful carpet that underlies deep blue skies brimming with migratory birds. Hundreds of thousands of them — ducks, snow geese, sandhill cranes — use this refuge as a corridor each fall.

Perhaps learning to love something as seemingly simple as leaves of grass comes from seeing grasses in all their variety. Knowing some of their names. Spending time and work to name those new to us.  Feeling grateful when we find similarities. Exploring the differences.

Realizing that blades of grass — so often overlooked — stitch together a rich tapestry of colors, shapes, and smells.  A backdrop that creates context for the world we live in.

How, then, can we not pay attention?

All photos by Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): Wilderness trail, Bosque del Apache Wildlife Refuge, San Antonio, New Mexico; snow geese at BDAWR; blue grama grass (Bouteloua gracilis), Randall Davey Audubon Center, Santa Fe, NM; blue grama grass, Bandelier National Monument, Los Alamos, NM; unknown grass, RDAC;  unknown grass, RDAC; Canada wild rye (Elymus canadensis glaucifolius) BNM; little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium) , Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; little bluestem, BNM; little bluestem, Santa Fe National Forest, Los Alamos, NM; grasslands, Valles Caldera National Preserve, Jemez Springs, NM; grasslands, VCNP; marsh grasses, BDAWR; sandhill crane, BDAWR; mule deer, BDAWR.

The quote, “I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars” by  Walt Whitman is from “Song of Myself” from Leaves of Grass.