Shadows and Feathers: A Flint Hills Prairie Hunt

A storied history of prairie hens and the men who hunt them in modern times

"Cattle pens on the prairie." All photos in this essay by Edgar Castillo.

As the sun crested the horizon, the landscape was bathed in a purple haze. After two hours on the road, we arrived at a popular scenic overlook—an unassuming turnoff that lures in travelers with its sweeping view of the silent, stoic Flint Hills. The sight alone compels people to stop and stare at the sculpted expanse of color, shifting with the seasons.

But I wasn’t there just to admire the view. I was meeting a stranger, a fellow law enforcement officer and wingshooter, to chase a bird so steeped in history, conservation, and mystique that it draws hunters from across the country: the iconic prairie chicken.

Our meeting had been months in the making, sparked by a message from a California cop nearing retirement. I had left the force two years earlier after a 27-year career in the Kansas City metro. Despite the 1,350 miles between us, our shared bond as officers—and bird hunters—was instant.

“Edgar. Geoff Grisso. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I cannot thank you enough for meeting me and inviting me to hunt prairie chickens with you guys today,” he said as we shook hands.

From our vantage point beside weathered cattle pens, we gazed out at rolling hills stretching to the horizon. The corrals, rusted from time and rain, framed the prairie like a sepia photograph. October’s chill had tinted the landscape in hues of copper and plum. This was our entryway into the tallgrass, watched by red-tailed hawks and the occasional coyote.

“If you look closely,” I said to Geoff, “you’ll see more than grass—there’s life everywhere. Waterholes, fences, rocks, maybe even prairie chickens, if you’re lucky.”

The Flint Hills

Stretching roughly 50 miles wide from northern Kansas to Oklahoma, the Flint Hills hold the largest expanse of intact tallgrass prairie in North America. Trees are scarce, but the region flourishes with hardy grasses and wildflowers. Fire and drought shape this land, allowing only the most resilient species to survive.

Known as "The Flints" due to the abundant flint rock near the surface, the area earned its name from U.S. Army Captain Zebulon Pike in 1806. He noted in his journal, “Passed very ruff flint hills,” and later, “Killed three prairie hens on high-hilly prairies.” Early settlers, unable to till the rocky soil, turned to ranching. The resilient prairie grasses proved ideal for fattening cattle—and for sustaining wild game.

Our group—my friend Rich with his French Brittany and Geoff with his German Wirehaired Pointer—spread out forty yards apart as we pushed through the prairie. Sun-drenched golds, deep greens, and rusty reds blended into a rolling tapestry, interrupted by bursts of wild blooms and brush-stroked skies.

Kansas is home to two species of prairie chicken: the Greater (eastern Kansas) and the Lesser (southwest Kansas), the latter protected since 2014. The Flint Hills serve as a stronghold for the Greater, which thrives in tall and mixed-grass prairie. These birds favor hillsides, ridgetops, and grass-filled bowls—always watching, always wary.

We moved in formation, dogs working the ground. Hills rose like grassy serpents. Geoff trudged silently, perhaps questioning the odds. Prairie chicken hunting can humble even the best.

Forgotten Abundance

Once numbering in the millions, prairie chickens symbolized the spirit of the Great Plains. In the 1800s, Kansas hunters harvested hundreds daily. Waves of birds fell to a single shotgun blast. Wagons were equipped with gun racks, kennels, and iceboxes. In 1875, The Ellsworth Reporter noted a local man trapped 920 birds in five days.

Children shot chickens from trees. Farmers filled sled boxes for the market. "Clouds of prairie hens" darkened the skies as they moved from roost to feed. At the 1872 Kansas Academy of Science meeting, birds were said to sell for $1.50–$3.00 per dozen, packed in barrels and shipped east. Even Kansas City's Savoy Grill served them to Roosevelt and Rockefeller.

But such abundance faded under the weight of overhunting and habitat loss. The untouchable became rare.

We crossed hills, ridges, and grassy knolls, the dogs teasing us with fleeting scent. “They’re birdy!” someone would call, only for the trail to fade.

Though it was mid-October, summer clung on. The sun cast orange silhouettes of hunters climbing hills. I described to Geoff the prairie chicken’s signature flight: fast wingbeats, short glides, a burst of clucking—none of which we encountered. After hours of walking, we paused at a waterhole. The dogs drank deeply. Geoff remained quiet, tending to his dog. I wondered if he doubted the hunt, or maybe us. It’s common among those who chase this elusive bird.

But prairie chicken hunters know: it’s not just about the bird. It’s the open spaces, the silence, the resilience required to return again and again.

Traces of Hope

We shed layers and began the long walk back. Each man kept to his thoughts until Rich’s dog, Stormy, suddenly froze. Geoff and I rushed up, hearts pounding—only to find no flush. Instead, in a tuft of grass, we found a white clump of dried droppings. Nearby, a single prairie chicken feather. A trace. A whisper of presence. It was enough.

Soon, we returned to familiar hillsides and then to the gravel path. At the trucks, we exhaled. Miles walked, no birds in hand, yet something still gained. We shook hands. I gave Geoff a few suggestions for places to try before heading back to California. No promises—only hills, wind, and the chance of wings.

And that is enough to keep men hunting prairie chickens. The next day he walked several miles and was able to shoot his first prairie chicken.

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About the Author

Edgar Castillo is a retired law enforcement officer of 27 years, where he worked for a large Kansas City metropolitan agency. He also served in the U.S. Marines for a decade. Edgar was born in Guatemala, and upon arriving in the U.S., he discovered his passion for wingshooting. His passion lies in the uplands, wherever the dirt roads takes him: hunting open fields, walking treelines, and bustin’ through plum thickets in search of wild birds in wild places.  He has written for over 30 outlets, including a variety of publications, digital/print magazines, journals, websites, and blogs across the U.S. and Europe.