Columbian mammoth
The mammoths and mastodons were relatively recent arrivals on the plains, Ice Age immigrants that migrated across the Bering land bridge from Eurasia during intermittent cold spells. Whenever the climate worsened and the glaciers advanced, water became locked up in the ice and sea levels dropped, exposing a bridge of land across the Bering Strait between Siberia and Alaska. When the glaciers receded again, the land bridge was drowned, but a passageway simultaneously opened to the south through the Canadian plains, which allowed the newcomers to wander into the heart of the continent. Some mammals, including ancestral camels and horses, made this journey in reverse, moving north when the plains corridor was open and then migrating across to Asia when the land bridge appeared.
Of all the species that arrived on the North American plains during the Ice Age—a menagerie that included not only elephants but also grizzlies, elk, and moose—two demand special notice. The steppe bison, Bison priscus, was a magnificent, thick-maned animal with flamboyant curving horns (attributes that are dramatically depicted in the cave art at Lascaux, France). The first bison herds likely poured across the Bering land bridge a few hundred thousand years ago and eventually made their way south to the Great Plains. Over the millennia that followed, successive waves of steppe bison made the same long trek, eventually meeting and mingling with the descendants of the pioneer herds. Meanwhile, that pioneer stock had been changing, shaped by life on the steppes and forests of a new continent. The result of this complex process of immigration, adaptation, and interbreeding was the emergence of several distinctively North American types, notably the giant, long-horned Bison latifrons and the somewhat smaller Bison antiquus. In time these species were displaced by an even more compact version, Bison bison, the shaggy beast that, in historic times, provided food and shelter to the first people of the plains.
Exactly when the first of those hunting people arrived on the scene is a mystery. Until quite recently, most archeologists insisted that humans (members of a genus that was born in East Africa some two million years ago) entered North America from Asia, by crossing the Bering land bridge and traveling down an ice-free corridor into the plains. This migration was said to have happened about 13,000 years ago. Then, in the 1970s, researchers working in Chile uncovered evidence that people had been living there for two thousand years before this supposed first-arrival date. Subsequent discoveries in Bell County, Texas, and elsewhere have pushed the timelines back even further, to at least 15,500 years before the present. This accords with the spirit of Indigenous memory, which affirms that their forebears were here at the beginning. Equipped with elegantly chipped fragments of stone and bone, these ancestral hunting people killed and butchered not only bison but also camels, horses, mastodons, and—their specialty—mammoths. At sites from Alberta to Texas, the proof of their presence—blackened hearths, discarded tools, and cracked marrow bones—lies buried where they left it so long ago. In some places, the skeletons of several large mammals lie strewn about the camps, testimony to the prowess of these big-game hunters.
But inevitably, on a planet where change is the only constant, this regime was fleeting. By thirteen thousand years ago, the fabulous array of large mammals on the plains was already disappearing. As many as fifty species—including giant beavers, ground sloths, lions, cheetahs, dire wolves, saber-toothed cats, horses, camels, mammoths, and mastodons—all became extinct within a few thousand years. Did an exploding population of well-fed humans hunt the animals into oblivion, as some archeologists believe? Or was climate change the culprit? The evidence suggests that, between about thirteen thousand and ten thousand years ago, average global temperatures first dropped abruptly and then rebounded. On the North American plains, these climatic changes ultimately translated into a dramatic shift in vegetation patterns. Pushed by warmer, drier conditions, the spruce forests gave way to pines, then in places to open, mixed woodlands, and ultimately to grass. In the blink of an eye (geologically speaking), a carpet of grasses spread out across the plains, blued by sage and beardtongue and enlivened by patches of golden beans, blazing stars, and prairie smoke, or three-flowered avens. The prairies of historic times had finally been created.
This new grassland was big and bold, but it was also much less varied than the mixed landscape of tundra, grass, and forest that it had displaced. And perhaps this in itself is enough to explain the disappearance of the Ice Age megamammals, which required a rich and varied supply of foods that grasslands alone could not provide. Yet if the new habitats were insufficient to sustain mammoths, they appeared perfectly suited to the bison, which soon emerged as the dominant grazing animal on the open range.
As the great herds drummed across the prairie, they of course had no conception of how their homeland had been shaped. The evidence of that drama lay unnoticed beneath their hooves—long-buried evidence of onrushing seas, rising mountains, silt-burdened rivers, and towering cliffs of ice. But the bison were untroubled by the traumas of the past, as they flowed across the horizon toward the present.
CHAPTER 3
THE GEOGRAPHY OF GRASS
I am the grass. Let me work.
CARL SANDBURG, “GRASS,” 1918
GRASSES ARE THE heart and soul of the prairie, the living link between the physical resources of the Great Plains—sunshine, rain, and soil—and almost every other aspect of the ecosystem. At first glance, grasses may look simple or even primitive. In fact, they are highly evolved organisms, especially adapted to cope with extreme climatic uncertainties, including frequent drought. From probable origins in the African region of the supercontinent Pangaea some 60 million years ago, grasses have migrated to every continent except Antarctica and have diversified into about 10,000 species throughout the world. Of these, approximately 140 species, in 41 genera, naturally occur in the Great Plains Grasslands. That’s nearly twelve dozen distinctly different native grasses! Some of them, like the magnificent big bluestem, or turkey foot (so called for its large, three-lobed seed head), grow up to 10 feet (3 meters) tall. Others, like the stick-in-your-socks specialist needle-and-thread grass, seldom exceed 3 feet (a meter) in height. At the low end of the scale are species like the diminutive blue grama, which grows close to the ground and rarely raises its elegant, eyebrow-shaped seed heads more than a few hand widths above the soil.
Yet despite these obvious differences, the prairie grasses all share one crucial ability. They are tuned in to the climate, able to dial their metabolisms down when conditions are unfavorable for growth and speed them up when the weather improves. Far from being passive stalks blowing idly in the wind, prairie grasses are lean, mean growing machines, designed to make the most of limited and unreliable resources.
MANAGING MOISTURE
ONE KEY TO the prairie grasses’ success is their ability to conserve water. Like most plants, grasses take in water through their roots and lose it as water vapor through tiny mouth-shaped valves, or stomata, in their leaves. The larger the surface of the leaf and the more stomata it bears, the greater the risk that the plant will lose too much moisture through evaporation, causing it to collapse. Grasses are protected from this