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thought the campground was heaven.
It was a warm evening, with a steady but gentle breeze blowing. While the parks were used by hunters and fishermen, much of the area around the lake had been allowed to go back to native prairie. It was now an ocean of mixed wild grasses blowing in the breeze—Little Bluestem, Big Bluestem, Switchgrass, Indian Grass, Blue Gramma, I Buffalo Grass, and Sideoats rGramma.
lap!. They filter runoff into the lake, making the lake one of the clearest in Kansas. They also attract many native wildlife species that had all but disappeared with the clearing of prairie for farming.
That night the smell of the grasses was completely intoxicating, so much so that I literally couldn’t sleep. Of course, we pay for these miracle moments. When I arose, exhausted, at dawn, with the intent of having a leisurely breakfast by the lake, I noticed really, really black clouds rolling over the RV campground.
Having gained a healthy respect for tornadoes in my years of traveling through the heartland, I threw everything into the car and sped west down the interstate. As I passed the town of Russell, I could see in the rear-view mirror that it was getting clobbered by storms. On the radio, the local station was warning of hale storms and funnel clouds. Fortunately, hale was all that ended up hitting the
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