A few years ago, my friend, Mary, and I took off on an adventure to follow the part of the Lewis and Clark Trail starting in Bismark North Dakota and extending to the North Dakota Badlands.
At the end of our trip, we did some hiking in the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. I'd been to the Badlands of South Dakota -- had even done some solo backpacking and camping there -- but I'd never seen North Dakota's. They were, as advertised, stunningly beautiful.
As in most places in that part of the country, herds of bison roam freely around the park. If you keep at a respectable distance, and you don't engage in any predator-like behaviors (e.g. "sneaking up" on them to take a photo), they generally ignore visitors. Bison generally weigh between 2,000 and 2,500 pounds and can sprint at speeds of up to 30 mph. As huge as they are -- and as cow-stupid as they look -- they are surprisingly nimble, jumping fences as easily as any deer and able to turn quickly while running. (They also have creepy eyes and know physics, but that's a story for another time.)
Despite numerous warnings posted throughout our National Parks, despite rangers' attempts to save people from themselves, and despite the obvious humongousness of the beasts, several tourists are gored or trampled every year, sometimes to death. Bison are seen as photo opportunities, not as wild animals. In fact, my mother overheard a Yellowstone tourist comment, "The signs are just for show. Buffaloes aren't really dangerous. If they were, they'd be fenced in. They wouldn't be allowed to roam around the park where people go." Yep. Darwinism definitely has its place.
The thing with bison is this: They'll tolerate you. And tolerate you. And tolerate you...
Then they just get up and kill you.
Mary and I had the opportunity to photograph members of a small herd, from a safe distance, from the inside of our vehicle. We also had a chance encounter while out on a hike, which is where Mary learned that when it comes to self-preservation, I'm a bit more pragmatic than heroic.
We decided to hike a short trail that went out into a prairie and around some rock formations that were marked "of interest" on the map. The trail was a long, narrow path with a little loop on the end that put you back on the same long path on the way back. Picture a needle or a lasso. That's what the trail looked like. One way in; same way back out again.
Ahead of us on the trail by about 100 yards or so was a couple in their late 40s or early 50s. They were chatting and looking around as they walked and disappeared around a bend in the trail. When Mary and I turned the same bend, we were met with a rather disturbing scene.
To the right of the trail, not more than 50 yards off of it, was a large male bison. He was grazing peacefully as the couple neared where he was standing. They'd slowed a little, but they hadn't stopped their progress. Mary and I, on the other hand, screeched to a halt. We waited to see what the couple would do.
When the two hikers got within about 50 yards of where the bison was grazing, he looked up at them. He swished his tail a little and stomped on the ground. This made me nervous. If their tails come up, they're going to do one of two things: take a potty break or start breaking some irritating humans into little pieces. The couple paused, presumably to confer with one another about the situation.
Their solution was to move a little to the left and skirt around that part of the trail by scrambling over some rocks just a few yards away from the trail. As they clattered over the rocks, the bison took a few steps toward them, alert, keeping them steadily in view. He didn't return to his grazing.
"Should we follow them?" Mary asked.
"Well," I replied, "there's only one way in there, and you have to take the same way back out again, which means we'll be following them on the way out as well as on the way in. That bison already looks a little irritated. If we pass by, we'll probably irritate him a little more. He might be downright pissed by the time we come back through on our way out again."
The bison swished his tail and rather menacingly moved a little closer to where the couple was clumsily making their way back to the trail.
Mary grew alarmed. "What do we do if he charges them?"
"We run -- back to the car."
Mary turned a disbelieving gaze on me. "You mean just leave them there?"
"Well...no," I responded. "When we get back to the car, we'll call the ranger station and report a grease-spot on the trail." (Clean up, Trail 7!)
Mary's expression turned to horror. "What if they run toward us and he chases them? There's no way we could outrun him!"
Remembering an old joke, I responded, "We don't have to outrun the bison. We just have to outrun those other two yahoos. And we'd have a head start."
Mary wasn't amused. We decided we didn't need to see that particular part of the park and headed back to the car, leaving some other poor hiker to report the mess (should one occur).
On the walk back to the car, it occurred to me to add that I really didn't even need to outrun the other people. I just needed to outrun Mary -- and she had a couple of years on me and bad knees.
I kept the thought to myself, though. That kind of pragmatism tends to ruin friendships.
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