When home no longer looks like the place in your memories

Six years ago I moved from Seattle to a town of 2,300 people in the Kansas Flint Hills. This fall, after nearly two decades of quiet, the town I'm helping to revive runs horses again.

This is not a real estate ad. Keep going.

"I lost something in Seattle. I didn't even realize it was gone until I found it in Kansas."

I lived in Seattle for fifty-three years, and I loved it. I want to say that plainly, because everybody who writes one of these pages pretends they always hated the place they left, and it isn't true. I loved almost everything about it.

Then it changed. The traffic got worse and worse — you learn to put up with it. The taxes went up and up and up — you learn to deal with it. The politics went liberal, then progressive, then in 2020, downright totalitarian. That, I could not learn to live with.

I'd go on walks every day, outdoors, no mask. Everybody else wore one, so for a while all you could see of anybody was their eyes. And in the eyes I saw fear. I saw anger. I saw contempt. I felt like the only man in town who hadn't gone to sleep. And I had to admit something to myself that doesn't do a man any good to admit: I didn't fit in anymore. Not after fifty-three years.

Then in June of 2020 we drove across the state and crossed into Idaho, and I stopped in Coeur d'Alene to gas up. Went inside. Used the restroom. Got back in the car. Nobody looked at me funny. Nobody was angry. Everybody was just fine. It was like a heavy burden lifted off my shoulders right there at the pump. I turned and said, "We're leaving Washington." It was just that simple. Nine months later, everything was done and we were in Kansas.

Now I live in Eureka, in the Flint Hills. Population 2,300. I'm on the City Council. I started buying the houses nobody wanted — the blighted ones, the ones with good bones and bad luck — and my son and a crew rebuild them, one at a time. And I sell them to people who saw what I saw and are done pretending it's going to swing back.

I'm not a real estate developer. I'm just a guy who left, it worked, and I'd like some company.

Dan CampbellCity Council · Eureka, Kansas

Idaho was the answer in 2020.

In 2020, two hundred thousand people had the same idea I did, but they went to Idaho. They brought the same equity and bid on the same houses.

That many people arriving at once does what it always does — it set off a housing boom nobody planned for, and the dominoes fell from there. Mortgages they hadn't counted on. One commute traded for another. Everybody bidding against everybody for the same houses. And just like that, Idaho wasn't the deal it had been.

Eureka is not a boom.

That's not the disclaimer. That's the offer.

Nobody is bidding against you here. There's no line. But there is a page turning in this town, and a narrow window — measured in years, not decades — where being early is worth more than a sure thing. I can tell you exactly how narrow, because there's a date on it. Keep reading.

See What Your Money Does Here

The Flint Hills — what Hollywood doesn't show you

Tallgrass prairie once covered a hundred and seventy million acres of North America. Less than four percent of it is left — and two-thirds of what remains is right here. It survived for a reason that should appeal to you: the ground was too rocky to plow. Limestone, chert, flint. The prairie is still standing because it beat agriculture.

Photo
Every spring, they set it on fire

The ranchers burn it on purpose, and you can see the line of it running along the ridges for miles. It looks like the end of the world at dusk. It's the opposite — the burn is what brings the whole prairie back green. Nobody tells you Kansas does this.

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Green, and full of things that live here

By late spring it rolls out green from horizon to horizon and fills up with wildflowers. There are five hundred species of plants in it and a hundred kinds of grassland birds — including a prairie chicken that exists almost nowhere else on earth. This is not the flat, empty Kansas you were sold.

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Then it turns rust red

Come fall the big bluestem goes copper and rust red, all the way out. Open sightlines, deer and quail and hawks over an empty road. You've spent decades being told this was the boring part of the country.

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And the water nobody mentions

Three lakes within thirty minutes. Eureka Lake is five miles north and the fishing dock is heated — you can fish it in January. Fall River Lake runs fifteen miles long, with ten thousand acres of public wildlife land beside it and a state-record catfish north of a hundred and twenty pounds. Fall River itself is a four-hour float, and you can rent the canoe in town.

A racetrack that sat dark for the better part of two decades runs again this fall.

Let me tell you where this started for me, because I think it's where it might start for you. Twenty years ago I drove into this town for a funeral, came down Main Street, and my first honest thought was: oh my, this little town needs some help. And right on its heels came a second thought that grabbed hold of me and never let go — wouldn't it be something to be part of the small group of people who actually turn a town around? Twenty years later, that is exactly what I'm doing.

1872
Track built near Eureka — the oldest surviving track west of the Mississippi
2008–09
Racing ends. The grandstand goes dark.
2023
The Greenwood County Community Center takes over. Rebuild begins.
2025
$2.2M track rebuild funded. The high school class builds the offices.
2026
Racing returns this fall.
2027
Expanded meet.
2028
Full racing schedule.

The part I'd have noticed in my old job

I analyzed opportunities for thirty-three years. Here's one. Somebody just put $2.2 million into rebuilding a racetrack in a town of 2,300 people — and it isn't a grant that runs out. A thousand betting machines up in Park City send three percent of everything they take in to Kansas horse racing. That's a pipe, not a check. Think about what a racetrack actually needs — barns, feed, vets, farriers, trainers, trailers, stalls, rentals. For every horse on that track there are six more back at the barn, and every one of them needs somebody. Then come the people: families, owners, spectators. They eat somewhere, stay somewhere, buy fuel somewhere. Economic growth rarely arrives all at once. It shows up one customer at a time.

I showed up from Seattle and got elected to City Council. That's not just a heartwarming story — that's a math equation. In a metro of two million, you are a rounding error. In a town of 2,300, there are chairs at the meeting, and they are not all full.

Run the Numbers on Your Move

Stop imagining it. Run your actual numbers.

I spent thirty-three years in finance. Enter a few numbers and you'll get a directional read on how your housing costs, equity, and monthly expenses could change after a move. Unlock the summary on screen with your email, and I'll go through your numbers myself and send you the detail.

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Roughly what you'd walk away with after selling and paying off your mortgage.
What you pay for your home each month right now.

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Not ready to hand a stranger your finances? Good instinct. Follow what's happening in Eureka instead — no personal numbers required.
✓ Preview unlocked. Your numbers are with me at your inbox. I go through these myself — it isn't a template — so give me a couple of business days and I'll send you the line by line: housing, taxes, insurance, utilities, groceries, health care.
Where these numbers come from. Property tax uses the Greenwood County Clerk's certified 2025 levy sheet for a home inside the city of Eureka — 214.640 mills, Kansas residential assessment rate 11.5%, first $75,000 exempt from the statewide 20-mill school levy. The mortgage figure uses the Freddie Mac 30-year average of 6.66% (week of July 30, 2026). Cost-of-living differences use the MERIC/C2ER Cost of Living Index, first quarter 2026. The home price used is $119,000 — what a finished house of mine actually costs, not a market average. Homeowners insurance is a regional estimate based on the Kansas statewide average rather than a quote on a specific home — I'm getting a real local number and will include it in what I send you.

This is a directional read, not an appraisal, a lender quote, or financial advice. Your actual numbers depend on your situation, and running them properly is exactly the conversation I'd like to have with you.

What happens with your information. Your entries are sent to me, Dan Campbell, so I can put together your breakdown. I don't sell or share your information with anyone. No call center, no sales team — it's me.
The Town

The real question isn't what it costs. It's whether you'd have a single friend.

Eureka is about 2,300 people in the Flint Hills, on the Fall River, an hour east of Wichita. It is not a lot of town. That's the point. Here a week is slow on purpose — coffee at the same counter, the sale barn on Thursday, the ballgame on Friday, the lake five miles north, and a racetrack that comes back to life this fall. You won't disappear here. That cuts both ways, and most people who come find they wanted it to.

Comps — reference images from local sources, not yet rights-cleared. Final shoot pending.

Crazy Cow CafeBreakfast at the sale barn. Where a regular becomes a regular.
Half Dollar Bar & Grill1st & Main. There's always someone up for a game of pool.
Eureka LakeFive miles north. The fishing dock is heated — you can fish it in January.
Friday-night TornadoesUSD 389 football and small-school sports. Half the town's in the stands.
The Thursday sale barnThe county buys and sells cattle. Sooner or later, everyone ends up here.
ChurchesStill the center of a lot of local life, and a fast way in.
City CouncilNewcomers get an actual say. There are chairs, and they're not all full.
Eureka DownsThe track runs again this fall — the whole town, in one place.
What a week here would actually cost you

Not ready to run your numbers?

No numbers from you, no phone call, no pressure. I'll just send word when something changes here — and around here, things are changing.