Each time I visit Yellowstone
National Park, I watch people ignore park regulations (and common
sense) that say you should keep a distance of at least 25 yards
from a bison. It’s almost as if folks think they’re in a giant
petting zoo. Maybe the video I saw once of a man being gored by a
bison and tossed into a tree should be required viewing upon
entering the park.
Instead, a gate attendant hands out a
bright yellow sheet of paper that warns: “Many visitors have been
gored by buffalo.” It’s certainly true: Between 1978 and 1992, 56
people were injured by bison in Yellowstone, two of them fatally.
Maybe I’m overzealous when it comes to wildlife-watching
etiquette, but spending a lot of time outdoors has taught me that
the behavior of wild animals is always unpredictable. So, last
fall, when the attendant at the entrance to Yellowstone handed me
that bright yellow sheet of paper that instructs visitors “Do not
approach buffalo,” I thought, “You don’t have to tell me not to
approach any animal that weighs 2,000 pounds and can run 30 miles
per hour!”
The next day, when I saw a small herd of bison
grazing in a field adjacent to the Storm Point trailhead, I
recalled that warning. But since the animals didn’t seem to be
reacting to our presence, my friend and I continued our hike around
the edge of Indian Pond, a former Native American campsite high on
the forested bluffs above Yellowstone Lake. It was an easy hike,
except for having to dodge puddled piles of bison poop. It is true
that some places were crisscrossed with hoof prints shaped like two
giant kidney beans curving toward each other, but we quickly forgot
about the bison as the trail rose into the forest and began to
skirt the bluffs, revealing views of the lake.
Then,
farther down the trail through an opening in the trees, I saw
something move — one horned, shaggy head, pointing in our
direction, followed by another. That sheet of paper, I suddenly
realized, had omitted some vital information: what to do if a bison
approaches you.
We stepped off the trail, backing into
the trees just as a bull pulled up even with us, looking like a
massive and woolly Volkswagen car. He was so close I could see bits
of grass tangled in the coarse hairs of his mantle; his eye was as
big as a tennis ball, and it stared at us, unblinking. I held my
breath, feeling my own eyes widen. Then, a cow and calf crowded up
on the bull’s flanks. The bison swung his head around as if to show
us his horns.
Instinctively, I looked down at the ground,
remembering something I’d read about how some animals interpret
staring as a challenge. That movement startled the calf into
skittering all over the trail, which in turn alarmed the rest of
the 10 or 12 other bison that had arrived; suddenly the ground
began to rumble. The last bison in line whirled and ran back the
way it had come. We waited, unsure of what to do, with bison in
both directions on the trail. But soon the last one returned to
catch up with the herd, crashing through a fallen tree in its path.
The crack of its hooves against the wood reverberated like
gunshots.
When we were certain all the bison were gone,
we resumed our hike, but their tracks continued on the trail, and I
was concerned about being caught between bison and the cliff’s
edge. I remembered how some early Native American tribes hunted by
using fire and harassment to stampede herds over cliffs; this time,
we were the ones who could be pushed over the edge.
I’d
never had these kinds of thoughts while gawking at bison from
inside a vehicle. It’s no wonder humans devised ways to hunt them
while minimizing close contact with such massive beasts. They may
appear placid while grazing, but being close to a small herd while
it was on the move showed me how deceptive that image is.
As we drove away from the trailhead, I looked back to see several
bison resting in the grassy field, faces turned toward the lake. I
wondered what visions were going through their heads. That day, a
bison had gawked back at me. I hoped I’d left a better impression
than those people who walk up to them using a camera for a shield.
Debra Mihalic Staples is a contributor to
Writers on the Range, a service of High Country
News (hcn.org). She writes in Littleton,
Colorado.
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