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Chalk dust billows in the air as Sam Gleeson slaps his hands together. He walks through the cloud as he approaches the wall, his eyes scanning the rough surface from floor to ceiling. The first hold, a "sloper," is just within reach. He inhales sharply as his finger tips press into the surface and pulls himself upward.
 
From the floor, Talia Karim coaches Gleeson up the wall.  She cranes her neck to find the holds that he can't see and to keep him on the correct route.

"The blue one to the right--just about three inches or so from your hand," she says. "Yep, that's it. You're there."
 
The climbing shoes on Karim's feet are tattered and worn. As a sixth-year member of the University of Kansas Rock Climbing club (K.U.R.C.), Karim has grown accustomed to the "hand-me-down" quality of the gear. Karim, who will graduate with a Ph.D this spring, will be one of the last members to endure the aging equipment.



Starting this fall, K.U.R.C. will receive a budget increase that triples its original allowance. Previously, the club's budget was $1,500 per year.  In August, it will increase to $4,500 per year.  Sharayah Stitt, club treasurer, said the money would be extremely helpful to improving the quality of the club's activities.
 
"It's a huge bonus for us," she said.  "We've definitely had some shortages with so many more people joining this year."

Last fall, the climbing club doubled its membership from 30 members to 60 members. This surge of newcomers made K.U.R.C. the largest club on campus, and it was a major factor to qualify the club for the budget increase.
 
Will Pass, K.U.R.C. president, was responsible for getting more people involved. His efforts during the fall led to the drastic membership increase. Pass said that most of the advertising was spread by "word of mouth." In addition, the creation of a new website for K.U.R.C., with updated information and professional imagery, made the club more accessible to interested students.
 
"We kept it really chill--no pressure or anything," he said. "People would come to the climbing wall and we'd just talk to them and get them interested in going on trips and learning to climb."

Jason Krone, associate director of KU recreation services, said that the system used to distribute budget money from the university rewarded this kind of effort. The budget money, which comes from student fees ($3 per semester per student) totals to $143,000. Every March, the Sport Club Executive Board, made up of five elected student members, decides the allocated budget for each of the 33 club teams.

"This is supposed to be a student-driven, student-run, and student-led program," Krone said. "The officers that are encouraging involvement and activity will be rewarded with a higher budget range."
 
KU sports club budgets are determined by two factors--the number of members and the amount of money they raise on their own through fundraising, dues, and donations. Based on these credentials, the clubs are organized into four levels, with Level One having a budget range of $10-20 thousand--the highest possible range of allocated money for clubs.

 

 K.U.R.C. will be in Level Two, which offers $3,500 to $7,000. To qualify for this level, a club must have 30 members and raise $5,000, at least. Pass said he'd hoped for more than $4,500 since his club had the most members. He said it reflected the Board's general dismissal of K.U.R.C. as a sports club.
 
"Just because we don't have to worry about entry fees and uniforms doesn't mean we don't have expenses," he said. "We're never going to fit in with the sports clubs because we don't do competitions. We're more into the welcoming, learning environment."

Krone said it was more likely that the board made their decision based on the lack of fund-raising by the climbing club. He said their generated income was one of the lowest of their level. In the last year, K.U.R.C. generated $5,895, compared to the swimming club--also in Level Two--which generated $8,040. In turn, the swimming club has a $6,000 budget.
 
 "We have 33 unique clubs, all who think they are the most important club--as they should," he said. "But this gives us 33 different angles on how the system should work, and not everyone is going to be happy."

For the most part, however, the climbing club is thrilled with the "extra dough." Jake Wolf, the club's vice president, has been climbing for 15 years and has been a climbing club member for six years. He said he was grateful that the board recognized the need for an increase, since the high membership had taken a toll on the club gear. He said the new budget would allow for "much-needed" purchases, like harnesses, ropes and shoes.



"We can't provide a safe and educating atmosphere if our gear is getting too old," he said. "But we also don't want to make people spend $300 on climbing stuff. For beginners, especially, we'd rather provide that ourselves."

Pass said that the money would be dedicated, first, to buying more club gear. Any money left over would be used for renting vans so that people didn't feel pressure to drive their own cars across the country for climbing trips.
 
"Our club members should never be limited by lack of gear or transportation," he said. "I want everyone to have the gear to go climbing when they want to go climbing, and that's been my goal all along."

It was no ordinary game. It was the big one, the last one--the volleyball state championship.
Coach Wells was calm. No hint of emotion in her face. Blue eyes like ice. Her players ran the mantra through their heads. Stick to what works. 4-2 offense. Attention to detail. Be confident.
 
It was another victory for the Lawrence Lions, another trophy for the shelf. But abundance didn't lessen the glory of it. It intensified it. For Coach Joan Lundstrom Wells, this was the Golden Age of Lawrence High athletics, and whether she admits it or not, she was a major reason for it.
 
From 1971 to 1997, Wells shaped one dream team after another. In 27 years of coaching volleyball at Lawrence High School, her teams won the state championship 15 times. They made it to the finals 22 times. Indeed, her "infamous" composure served a greater purpose. It calmed her players when the games got stressful--especially games with a lot at stake.
 
"Even when you're really nervous on the inside, your team follows your demeanor," she said. "You have to have confidence in them so they can have confidence in themselves."
 
It was a tactic that served her well.
 
In February, the University of Kansas celebrated 40 Years of Women's Athletics, and honored pioneering greats like Marlene Mawson, who was inducted into the KU Athletics Hall of Fame. Joan Wells was present for the occasion, and it was one of the few award ceremonies that Wells attended without being the recipient. Her achievements are echoed in the halls of a different school, Lawrence High--the one just down the hill from KU.


 
Born December 21, 1948 in Atchison, Kan., Wells showed signs of competitiveness early on. Her parents were convinced of it when a neighborhood bully started beating up on her big brother, and so she beat him up in return. Mostly, though, her competitive drive came out through sports. At a time when organized women's sports were infantile, Wells had to be scrappy to get playing time.
 
 "You did a lot of things just so you could compete," she said. "If you loved sports, you'd find a way to play."

Only by the hands of determined teachers and willing students did Wells get to play sports competitively before college. The Girls Athletic Association created "Play Days," which brought 10 kids to a central location where they would play four to five sports during the day.  Wells said the quality of these events often came down to the teachers who led them. If they were competitive, it was a good day.

By the time Wells went to college at KU, women's athletics were still in the primitive stages of development--no scholarships and little funding. Nevertheless, she played volleyball, field hockey, tennis, softball and basketball. In 1971, she graduated with a bachelor's degree in physical education.
 
Wells was 22 years old when she was hired as a teacher and coach for Lawrence High School. Her face darkens when she recalls this year. She remembers the game in Holton, Kan., a game they should've won, but didn't. Afterward, on the bus, her players told her about a group of boys in the stands that were yelling at the two black girls on the Lawrence High team--the only black kids in the entire gym.
 
"I hadn't heard them during the game, but I could tell we weren't playing the way we normally did," she said. "And, in fact, as we were leaving, people were giving us the finger."

It was the only year that her team didn't make it to the state tournament. Dodi Jordan, who played for Wells from 1971-1974, said that the team never would've taken the heat from Wells for a loss like that.
 
"I cannot recall Joannie ever getting mad at me--or any body," she said. "She'd tell us in a nice way what we needed to work on. She never made us feel like a failure."

Jordan called Wells a "miraculous coach." She had a quality that no other coach--college or otherwise--was able to project.

"She knew how to motivate us," she said. "She made us...I don't want to say 'kill,' but yeah, she definitely gave us that drive."



Wells never left her first job, and she never wanted to. Lawrence High School was her second home and her passion. Even when she fell in love with Terry Wells, the umpire "giving us all kinds of trouble" during a softball game, she didn't marry him until 1979, over a decade after they started dating. They never had children; though, as educators, it would've been redundant.

"We were both very career-oriented, getting our masters in education at that time," she said. "It just wasn't something we needed to do. I know Terry's mother always felt she was cheated with no grandchildren."

After sporting red polo shirts with black shorts for 27 years, Wells retired from coaching in 1997. She had accumulated an 865-89 record--90.67% wins. Wells said that she had a motto that she internalized throughout her career: Be the best that you can be, on and off the court, and winning will take care of itself.

Unfortunately, not everything can end so sweetly. The same year of her retirement, the Lawrence School District divided the city into two high schools, Lawrence High and Lawrence Free State High. Wells said the division was a painful turning point for the Lawrence Lions.
 
"That was really hard. My seniors were allowed to stay for their last year, but I had some juniors that had to go to Free State," she said. "Before, there really wasn't any other school in Kansas better than Lawrence, but that all changed with the split."

The loss expanded beyond sports, too. Academics at Lawrence High suffered greatly from teachers and students leaving.
 
"Before the split, we were like a small college. I know everyone did an outstanding job of teaching their subjects. The physical education department once offered 17 courses," she said. "I can only think of a couple courses that are offered now. It's a big disappointment and very hard to accept."

She found solace from this scene when she retired from teaching in 2003. Wells said the change in routine was welcome.  It allowed her to pursue new ambitions, like perfecting golf and becoming more active at Trinity Lutheran Church.
 
"You grow to like every age that you are," she said. "Being newly retired, I wouldn't want to go back to coaching right now, but not because I didn't love it."
 
Wells said she's pleased with the way women's sports have developed, and she shows no bitterness over its slow start.
 
"That's just the way it was," she said. "You were grateful for any chance you had to play."

Although Wells's direct efforts were dedicated to the public schools, her influence extended to the college level. She coached 29 athletes that went on to play Division I Intercollegiate Volleyball. Wells kept track of many of them, like Claire Masinton, a 1983 Lawrence High graduate who went to Yale and started a club volleyball team--the first volleyball team at Yale.
 
It's peculiar to see what makes her smile. There's no giddiness when she talks about the eight national awards she has received for her coaching achievements; no exuberance for the 15 state championships. These things reveal pride, sure, but Wells is seasoned in temperance.  Her excitement is reserved only for the most precious.
 
Instead, talk about bombardment, the game she used in tryouts to see who had guts and who "just tried to survive." Talk about Butch and Lucy, the middle-aged shitzus that stole her heart and now bask in her daily attention. Talk about Terry, to whom she affectionately calls "such a ham." These are the things that make her eyes shine; that make her quiet, even voice turn bubbly.


 
Most of all, talk about her life as a whole. Wells trained herself to be sensitive to her surroundings. She worked to be non-impulsive, to assess every circumstance with a cool head. For her happiness, it's made all of the difference.
 
"It's just like my 4-2 offense," she said. "You don't make a change unless you make it for the better, and I'd go back and do it all again exactly the same way."

Every place, no matter how remote or forgotten, has a history. The Flint Hills of Kansas are no exception. Though seemingly barren, these hills are rich with stories.


 
It's a land that once echoed with the thunder of bison hooves and calls of the Comanche, electrified by the hunt; a place where wild fires spread and settlers marveled at the stars. Now, it is quiet, every sound swallowed by a vast sky.
 
Every Kansan knows this phrase: "...Where the buffalo roam." Buffalo, or bison, are a Kansas trademark, like tornados or "The Wizard of Oz." However, for the last 130 years, bison have been absent from the prairie. It seemed this would be a legacy forever lost--but not for long. In November of 2009, the Tall Grass Prairie National Preserve, located in northern Chase County in the Flint Hills, will be home to bison once again.


 
Kristen Hase, the natural resource program manager for the Natural Parks Service, is coordinating the reintroduction of bison into the preserve. She says serious planning for the project began a year and a half ago.
 
"We really wanted to make this happen. It's important to us and probably a lot of Kansans to see the bison back on the prairie," she said.


 
Every step has been slow and deliberate--and not without a hitch. The preserve is owned in a public-private partnership. In other words, The Nature Conservancy privately owns the bulk of the land, and the National Parks Service manages it. Hase said this co-ownership is the only one of its kind in the United States. Perhaps there's a reason for it.
 
"In some ways, it's a really good system because both partners can bring ideas to the table," she said. "The problem is there's a gray area where we don't know who is accountable for stuff or who's paying for what, etc."
 
In the past, the federal government paid all expenses for the park. In addition, it was solely responsible for managing the park. The bison project has brought enough "excitement," however, that The Nature Conservancy has offered to pay for half of the expenses. Hase said this was a plus, since the "wheels roll slowly" for any process involving the federal government.

"With Nature Conservancy, things tend to happen faster," she said. "It's easy for them to ask donors to write a check for something specific and get the money quickly."

Paula Matile, conservation specialist for The Nature Conservancy, is the other side of this equation. She said that the two sides working together could be a "headache," but that, overall, it made their program stronger.

"Each agency has its own processes and policies," she said. "But we view this challenge as an opportunity to use the best of both worlds and move projects forward."

Another obstacle to come is the management of the bison themselves. Robert Timm is the curator in charge of the Natural History Museum at the University of Kansas. As head of the mammalogy department, Timm has had personal experience in dealing with bison. He said the biggest challenges to overcome were their size and strength.


 
"People sometimes forget that a bull can weigh a ton," he said. "In the hands of skilled, trained ranchers, it would work fine, but certainly not in the hands of amateurs. That's just dangerous."

Although these bison will not be farmed, they will be enclosed within a pasture of 1,100 to 4,500 acres. Adequate fencing poses an additional problem. Hase said that these bison, which come from Wind Cave, South Dakota, would respect fences. For this herd--of which there are twenty bison--they plan to use five-strand, barbed wire fencing with an electrical offset. Timm said this isn't enough.
 
"The hide of a bison is extremely tough," he said. "They evolved from the harsh climate of the prairie, and they're well-adapted to it. Barbed wire wouldn't have much affect on them."

This is one of the main concerns that neighboring cattle ranchers have for the project. Amber Bortz, Pratt junior, has family in the area that farm cattle.
 
"If those bison ever broke through the fences, it would an expensive fix. Plus, they might get violent with the cattle," she said.


 
Another concern for ranchers is Brucellosis, or Bang's Disease. It causes mothers to abort their calves and can be spread through bison. Hase said this problem would be avoided by testing the animals before their arrival.  She said that problems like this would be avoided, generally, by frequent observation of the herd.
 
"We're not just setting them loose on the pasture," she said. "We plan to monitor them, and if there are problems, we'll be able to act fast."

As the paperwork is completed, open discussions will be held so that public concern can be addressed. Hase said this would be one of the last steps in finalizing the project that would bring the "history of the prairie" back into the landscape.
 
"The tall grass prairie evolved in the presence of fire and grazers, and we want to continue that cycle," she said. "Visually, for our visitors, it will be meaningful for them to look out over the hills and see the bison on the horizon."    

There's nothing like a night at the movies.

The parking lot is packed. Couples walk arm in arm toward the double doors, hurrying to get out of the cold.  A little girl hops alongside her father, tugging his sleeve toward the line of people inside.  Upon entering the building, the smell of popcorn and the loud hum of conversation overwhelm the senses.

It's a busy evening for Southwind Hollywood Theater in Lawrence, Kan., and busy evenings can no longer be taken for granted. Jon Ratzlaff, general manager of the theater, is sensitive to the atmosphere at Southwind.




"Right now, it's fabulous, definitely. November and December, however, were pretty low. I think we can blame that more on poor product than the economy, " he said. "We didn't exactly have Harry Potter playing during those months."

Poor product may take the blame in this case, but theaters nationwide are struggling to keep attendance steady.  According to box-office website "Media by Numbers," last year had the lowest attendance since 1995.  The number of tickets sold dropped from 1.4 billion in 2007 to 1.2 billion in 2008.

Mary-Nell Gleeson, a Lawrence native, said the drop in attendance was unsurprising.  She said that "evenings out " were getting too expensive.

"It's no longer cheap entertainment," she said. "People can't afford to spend eight or nine bucks for one evening."

Greg Weseloh, Liberty, Mo. junior at the University of Kansas, disagreed. He said that going to the movies was actually a cheap activity compared to going to sports' arenas or concerts. He also said the experience was too unique to die off.

"That's something you can't replicate. When you have the big screen like that and surround sound, you just can't beat it."

Movie attendance reached its peak in 2002 when epic movies like "Spiderman," "The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers," and "Star Wars: The Clone Wars" hit the big screen to combine for a gross total over $1 billion.  Since then, attendance has declined.


One factor has always kept the industry's earnings growing, however.  In the last decade, ticket prices have increased at an average rate of 25.1 cents per year.  Despite the decreasing attendance, movie theaters still made a profit. In 2007, ticket prices went up by 33 cents, and the total box-office gross grew 4.09 percent. The increase helped to make up for lost attendance.



This trend remained steady until 2008, when the total box-office gross went down by .22 percent.  This isn't the first dip to occur in recent history. In 2005, the gross decreased by 5.19 percent--a more significant drop. In the two years that followed, however, the total box-office gross increased by 3.7 percent and 4.09 percent.  The dip of 2005 became a mere fluke due to, as Jon Ratzlaff said, poor product. 

 With the economic recession looming in the foreground, however, the dip of 2008 is being taken more seriously. Mike Van Horn works for AMC Theater as manager of theater systems support. Headquartered in Kansas City, Mo., AMC owns 353 movie theaters in the United States and Canada.

Van Horn said that raising ticket prices was still the most viable option for making money in the movie industry.  Whether the revenue decreases or not, ticket prices are raised habitually once--sometimes twice--a year.


"You will never see the prices go down.  It's just the market we're in and we have to keep up with it," he said.

Van Horn said the next two years will show the true effects of the economic recession, and that AMC is large enough to absorb the losses. While shutting down theaters would be unfortunate, Van Horn said this would be an opportunity to update the other theaters with better technology.

"It is, ultimately, worth the money to get out of one or two-screen markets and go to larger concepts, like stadium seating and 3D entertainment," he said. "It's that kind of stuff that will separate movie theaters from home entertainment."