What’s the Real Tumbleweed Capital?

Several years ago, mom gave me a sweatshirt advertising Hooker, Oklahoma, as the Tumbleweed Capital of the world. After a recent drive across the Oklahoma and Texas Panhandle, I’m certain Hooker is not the only center point of Russian thistle abundance. Winds that day blew an average of 40 mph so we saw droves of prickly Russian immigrants racing pell-mell across three states. Fence lines trapped enough to fuel miles of potential prairie fire. Clearly, this transplant’s adjusted well to arid western soils.

These herbaceous invaders adapted to the Great Plains environment better than many homo sapien immigrants who hit American shores during the same era. The tumbleweed’s human counterparts often left for easier pickings that included more moisture and less wind. This forb, however, took root and multiplied like creatures mentioned in biblical plagues. It prefers disturbed soil—so farmers breaking virgin grassland and then abandoning their efforts unintentionally supported the hardy newcomer. Aridity doesn’t hurt them, and winds strong enough to deform trees and make flags fly at 90 degree angles guarantees each plant sows its 250,000 seeds.

Think of that--one plant produces several hundred thousand potential offspring. Scientists have documented how many actually take root, mature, and reproduce. By the 1890s, researchers reported the first of these Ukrainian hitchhikers arrived in Scotland, South Dakota, in the 1870s. Before 1900, the government assigned U.S. botanist Lyster Hoxey Dewey to investigate this curse to western agriculturists. Dewey, wrote, “The rapidity with which the Russian thistle has spread, both in infesting new territory and in thoroughly covering that already infested, far exceeds that of any weed known in America.” According to writer Doug Main, the only two states that don’t have tumbleweeds are Alaska and Florida. That’s a record-breaking invasion!

The day I drove across the Panhandle, herds of rolling thistles bounded over barbwire fences, surging across roads. This dark force made me think of millions of roaming bison 150 years ago. Due to sheer size, these mammals halted train travel. The tumbling seed-sowers I encountered didn’t halt traffic, but they slowed it.

Due to wind speeds, thorny orbs, small and large, rocketed across flat grasslands. I was glad to travel protected in a vehicle and not afoot like pastured cattle or wild critters. A thistle scouring of this magnitude would leave a being picking stickers for weeks. Unfortunately, these dried plants came in numbers so enormous I couldn’t avoid whacking one after another and dragged several beneath my vehicle until friction shattered and scattered them.

While I smacked some, others slammed into the sides of my Toyota hard enough I felt vibrations through the steering wheel. I’d like to think these collisions halted their seed dispersion, but that’s a vain wish. In fact, I’ve probably introduced Oklahoma thistle DNA to Kansas varieties.

Hookerites may disagree, but that sweatshirt’s claim to fame limits the scope of this invasive plant. The entire Great Plains is the Tumbleweed Capital of America.

Christmas Magic: Turning a Tumbleweed into a Christmas Tree

courtesy Nicedemus Natl. Hist. Site

Despite stickers embedded in fingers and palms, I don’t want to give up my beautification project.  Nope, I’m not digging backyard sandburs.  I’m decorating a Prairie Christmas tree. Yep, I’ve gone Laura Ingalls Wilder, and I’m turning a tumbleweed into a showcase for curling green, gold, and red ribbons accented by shiny ornaments.

A girlfriend invited me to celebrate an old-fashioned Christmas at the Nicodemus Township Hall, which included designing a tumbleweed Christmas tree followed by homemade soup and cookies.  How could I turn down that offer?

The catering crew buzzed our senses the moment we walked in the door. Homemade gingersnaps and peanut butter cookies, old-fashioned peppermint sticks, fresh-brewed coffee, hot cider, and ham and beans distracted participants from the mountain of tumbleweeds piled on the stage.

On a table below that heap of well-traveled Russian thistles, an assortment of colored Christmas ribbon, miniature ornaments—round, bell, and bulb shaped--tinsel, and cans of powdery snow challenged participants to fashion something lovely from prickly stems.  

Over the years, I’ve read books and magazine articles touting turning a common prairie invader into an elegant Christmas decoration.   I’ve even visited homes where the artistic host produced a centerpiece out of these Russian interlopers.  While admiring such creativity, I’ve never tried to craft such holiday magic myself.  That changed Saturday, December 8th.

While many wannabe decorators selected huge orbs, I chose a lean example that had one main stem with a few straggly protuberances.  I couldn’t imagine it doing much serious rolling over a pasture, even during a big wind. It looked more like  Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree than an actual tumbleweed, although I’m certain DNA testing would confirm its origins.

My first challenge was stabilizing its stem in the red Solo cup provided.  Toby Keith had no idea the real purpose of the RSC was to provide a stand for a prairie Christmas tree. During that little procedure, at least a hundred stickers dug their way into my thumbs.

Once I had the “tree” set up, I analyzed it’s festivity potential.  With so few branches, it seemed best to go with a less is more motif.  While some folks slathered on spray snow, ribbon, ornaments, and tinsel with grand success, I suspected that would overwhelm my sparse example of drought-inspired plant life.

Using scissors the park service provided, I curled red, green, and gold ribbon and tied  them one to a branch.  Completing that task, I tied a mass of eight colorful ribbons to top my straggly collection of spikes.  To enhance my design, I added  contrasting Christmas ornaments.  It was simple, yet elegant.  Who says that about a sticker bush?

When I thought I was done, I wasn’t.  The weight of the colorful orbs caused it to tumble to the floor where several glass bulbs shattered.  After cleaning up my mess, I re-evaluated and resorted to western Kansan’s favorite standby—duct tape.  

I stabilized that tree with long strips of gray adhesive in every direction.  Of course, those weird spider webs begged to be hidden.  That drove me to a sack of cotton balls and a bottle of school glue.  Yes, my decorating skills now depended upon techniques perfected in kindergarten.  I glued cotton balls over the duct-tape until it looked like my imprisoned weed sprouted from a fuzzy snow bank atop a red Solo cup.

What began as a lark became a three hour challenge.  I nearly forgot to hit the snack table in my attempt to turn a straggly stem into something festive.  I question the beauty of my little tree , but the stickers irritating my hands make surprisingly lovely designs.

courtesy of Nicodemus Historical Society

Dust Storms and Tumbleweeds

Growing up, I heard story after story about the Dust Bowl from my parents and grandparents.   Dad described his mother shoveling rather than sweeping post-storm drifts.  Grandma told how she placed wet sheets over her children’s beds to protect their lungs as they slept.  She’d launder the linens the next day because they got so dirty.

My mother’s family lived in Southwest Kansas and shared similar taleswhen family gathered. What made these epics unique was that I grew up in Southern California among fertile citrus orchards and strawberry fields.  The concept of dust darkening the sun was outlandish to a little girl who played outside year round.

When we moved to Oklahoma in 1972, I listened to more first person accounts of the Dirty Thirties, but the tales seemed movie or a book-like to me.  Even though I had seen dramatic photos in history books, I couldn’t imagine that air could hold more dirt than breathable oxygen.

As a college junior in Weatherford, Oklahoma, I literally got my first taste of a dust storm.  As my relatives had described, daylight disappeared.  Aeolian soil, probably from Nebraska, found its way through every crack and crevice in my ancient dorm room.  Mucus I coughed up in response to this invasion was muddy, which explained why my taste buds screamed, “What are you doing, eating the garden?” 

Just as in the stories my relatives relayed, the day turned so dark I had to flick on the overhead light to see.  I also had to skip the trek to the  cafeteria for supper.  My tongue thanked me as it had plenty of foreign matter to process. I hadn’t sampled that much dirt since I was three.

Over the years, I’ve seen dust storms enough that those old tales ring true, true, true.  Recently, I drove twice in one day between Ellis and Logan during  marathon winds.  In the morning as I traveled toward my destination, air-borne  loam muted the horizon line.  A normally sharp view took on fuzzy edges, but I could clearly see distant elevators. 

By the time I finished my chores and began my return, I couldn’t see from one section line to another.  Wind speed had increased considerably, stirring air into the color of milky coffee.  What had been bluster earlier was now a gale that pressed weeds in the ditches flat to the ground.  

Hordes of tumble weeds large and small raced east.  It was like watching a movie or news report about throngs of people breaking out of a prison and running helter skelter to get away, only these were herbaceous orbs of all sizes rolling at top speed across the prairie.  I didn’t clock them, but if I’d had one of those radar guns, I suspect some sleeker plants cruised by at 55 miles per hour.

Thankfully, they were plants and not people or animals  that dashed in front of my grill.  I know I whacked at least 200 unmoored Russian thistles on that journey.  At times, it seemed as if 2000 prairie critters sped my way.  If I had been able to see more than a couple hundred feet, I may have had to stop driving  to count the masses passing before my astonished eyes.  The tumbleweeds that day compared in number  to the millions of migrating buffalo that once stopped trains crossing these grasslands for up to three days.

I no longer have trouble understanding family Dust Bowl accounts. In fact, after that nasty Saturday storm, I have a saga of my own to pass on to my granddaughter.  As a Kansas kid, she isn’t going to have the trouble her grandma did picturing a landscape erased by blowing dirt.

Tumbling Tumbleweeds Become Dollars in the Bank

 I sometimes fantasize about growing fields of golden wheat, tasseled corn, or russet milo.  When I see newly turned earth, I want to run the soil through my fingers and nothing smells better than fresh rain on dry dirt or a field of newly mown alfalfa.  Thinking about farming in this light makes me want to go deep into debt to fill a shed with huge implements.

While perks exist, farmers have one of the toughest jobs in existence. Watching crops dry before one’s eyes must be as bad as watching a loved one wither from an incurable disease. Though I dream about farming and I admire farmers and ranchers greatly, I don’t have the guts it takes to gamble a year of labor and money on a turn of the weather or the luck of the market.

Despite my lack of financial intestinal fortitude, I can imagine making a living from the land I love.  From the looks of things this fall, I believe the crop to plant should have been the Russian thistle--yes, the Kansas tumble weed.  The plant of  Sons of the Pioneers’ song “Tumbling Tumbleweeds,” the plant tourists show friends, the plant that fills my tree row and fence line, the plant that Russian–Germans brought with them from the Steppes.

This year’s crop looks especially fine.  Like good wine, tumbleweeds need to age, and those on our property are turning from green to gold.  With time, they will fade to a sand color.  At that point, wind gusting from any direction will tear them from their moorings, launching them on untold journeys.

I considered putting a radio collar on a tumbleweed to keep track of its travels. How far do they travel once they take off?  Do they make it out of state? Do they fall apart before they make it out of their county? 

I don’t know answers to these questions, and I cannot imagine our government funding a study on this subject. However, I have a friend who has capitalized on the wandering tumbleweed.

My friend and her sister created a web page for their imaginary Prairie Tumbleweed Farm accompanied by a fine story about farming tumbleweeds and appropriate photos to support their tale. Amazingly, they found a market for their tumbleweeds.

Because they hadn’t expected a huge demand for tumble weeds, they found themselves and their children digging tumbleweeds out of snowdrifts and blow-drying them before shipping them to eager customers.  To their surprise, a Hollywood director ordered some for a movie set. 

I find a lesson in my friend’s unexpected success.  Perhaps Kansans need to think outside the traditional crop and land uses to find ways to help not only to keep our land, but also to protect it.

 I don’t agree with some that the only future for our Great Plains is use as a buffalo pasture.  We can learn lessons the land teaches and from others’ mistakes.  With ingenuity and effort, the possibilities are endless.

 I may end up a farmer yet.