By Jim Robertson

(From the fall 2006 issue of Animals Voice magazine)

“All those buffalo!” The remark was not a declaration of awe from an appreciative observer. Instead, it was a contemptuous appraisal in a superior tone that could have come from a nineteenth century aristocrat riding the first train to sever the Great Plains as he leveled his rifle and commenced to fire into a herd of bison peacefully grazing along the tracks.

Uttered only recently, “All those buffalo” was just a tourist’s scornful description of her impression of Yellowstone National Park and its most distinguished inhabitants. It seems for some, attitudes toward bison haven’t changed much since the bloody hide-hunting days of the 1800s, when wholesale slaughter reduced the great herds that once blackened the plains to a mere handful of individuals.

Having witnessed the carnage firsthand, early American painter, George Catlin, wrote the following visionary line in 1832: “It is truly a melancholy contemplation for the traveler in this country, to anticipate the period which is not far distant, when the last of these noble animals, at the hands of white and red men, will fall victims to their cruel and improvident rapacity.”

By 1889, Catlin’s prophesy was all but realized. Only 23 wild bison survived the onslaught, hiding out in a remote valley near Yellowstone Lake. A holocaust to the tenth power, over sixty million bison were systematically exterminated--permanently removed from their former homeland, which extended east to the Atlantic and north from Florida and Mexico to Alaska. Of the few who remain, most are now fenced-in on ranches or measly refuges, like the 29 square mile National Bison Range, or the Buffalo Paddock at Canada’s puny Waterton National Park. The only free-roaming bison left are also in effect prisoners of the inadequate confines of Yellowstone and it’s pint-sized neighbor to the south, tiny Grand Teton National Park. Any bison daring to cross the park boundaries and venture back into their former range face almost certain death. Since 1985, over 4000 bison caught leaving the parks have been slaughtered by state and federal agencies.

Yet many are unmoved by the bison’s current plight or their sad history of near-extinction. For every visitor to Yellowstone who drives respectfully and pauses to appreciate wildlife, countless others begrudge the park’s 45 mph speed limit and seethe at having to stop and wait for herds to migrate across the highways that bisect the bison’s last remaining haunts. Whenever an assembly of new mothers cautiously escorts their calves over the asphalt, or a triad of confident bachelor bulls swagger slowly down the roadway, there’s sure to be some self-important person who honks, squeals, or shouts at the dignified bison. How far removed are they from those who shot at bison from trains?

One thing nearly every park visitor agrees on is that they “love” bison in the form of “buffalo burgers”--a feature item on the menu at most any restaurant in and around the parks. Like the French explorers who dubbed bison “les boeufs” (their term for cattle, which grew into the slang, “buffalo”), today’s bison-eaters perceive all bovines as livestock put here for their dining pleasure. But beneath their covetous lust for bison flesh lies the same ugly hostility that rears its head when beefeaters ridicule cows for being “dumb animals.” Like their ancestors who painted on the walls of caves, do they envy the size and strength of the gentle beasts? Or do they resent the bison for their seemingly simple existence of roaming, grazing, and lounging? The truth is, life for the bison of Yellowstone is extremely demanding, but they take the rigors of wilderness living in stride.

While it’s remarkably easy--almost second nature--for carnivorous humans to disassociate the remains they’re eating from once living beings, doesn’t it at least bother folks that they are consuming the flesh of the animal chosen as the icon of the National Park Service? Perhaps it makes them feel somehow closer to nature. If so, a jar of huckleberry jam from the gift shop should suffice.

Evidently, that won’t that quell the primal bloodlust built up after an auto tour of the park’s extensive road system. Still, the beaver is the emblem of Parks Canada, but visitors don’t expect to be served beaver burgers when they visit Canadian national parks. And Smokey the Bear is the mascot for the Forest Service, but most people don’t crave bear sausage whenever they camp on national forests.

It’s fitting that bison became the symbol of our national parks, since Yellowstone, the first ever established, has a history linked with theirs.

Not only was it the last place in the country to harbor the besieged buffalo, but on either side of Yellowstone one can visit the shrines that stand as dark reminders of how bison have been exploited by voracious, over-consumptive humans since time immemorial.

Near the park’s west entrance, the Madison River flows between the rubberized legs of hundreds of Brad Pitt wannabes who (ever since the movie “A River Runs Through It”) have taken up the gentleman’s sport of fly fishing. Dressed in hip waders, stylish vests, and fancy hats worthy of any 1800’s aristocrat who found diversion in shooting bison from trains, they seek amusement by hooking fish to drag ashore. (Is there some parallel universe out there where aquatic humanoids make sport of hooking birds or small mammals to drag underwater?) Seventy miles northwest of Yellowstone (and 70 miles beyond the allowable range of bison now or in the foreseeable future), the river passes an area designated a Montana state monument commemorating the Madison Buffalo Jump. In a ritual far more heinous than Spain’s “Running of the Bulls,” aboriginal people--glorified as ecological stewards and fabled for their special relationship with the animals they killed--ran terrified bison over cliffs, laying waste to far more than they could ever use. The broken bones of these unfortunate animals--many of whom suffered for hours while their assailants butchered one after another of their herd-mates--still lay 30 feet deep at some of these sites.

The “buffalo jump” was a common hunting practice for tribes along the Rocky Mountain front. In a May 29, 1805 entry of the journals of Lewis and Clark, Meriwether Lewis described the following scene: "Today we passed…the remains of a vast many mangled carcasses of Buffalow which had been driven over a precipice of 120 feet by the Indians and perished; the water appeared to have washed away a part of the immence pile of slaughter and still their remained the fragments of at least a hundred carcases…they created a most horrid stench. In this manner the Indians of the Missouri distroy vast herds of buffaloe at a stroke.”

With the advent of buffalo jumps, the bison’s adaptation of fleeing to escape human predators--a response that had served them well in earlier times--was turned against them. Around a million years ago in Eurasia, the bison line branched off the bovine family tree that included the ancestors of the cattle that made Ronald McDonald the wealthy man he is today. Having adapted to the northern climes, a pioneering species, the Steppe bison, crossed the Bering land bridge from Siberia to Alaska during an interglacial period roughly 600,000 years ago. They gave rise to several other bison species, including the giant long-horned, the ancient and the Asian bison (from which today’s species, known as the American bison, is the direct successor). Like the American, the Asian bison had upward-pointing horns and lived by the flight-rather-fight strategy. The other early bison species had forward-pointing horns, which they employed as defensive weapons, while holding their ground against predators.

But any species who exercised this defensive strategy found it ineffective when they encountered the first humans to reach the New World via the land bridge around 12,000 years ago. Those people brought along stone-bladed spears which they hurled--from a safe distance--at any large mammal they met. At least two early species of bison around at that time were quickly eliminated by human hunters. They and with many species who evolved on this continent, such as mammoths, mastodons, horses and camels, found their horns, tusks, hooves or bulk were no match for the weaponry of these new super-predators. This American blitzkrieg marked the tragic, catastrophic end of 75% of North America’s indigenous large mammals, including giant species of beaver, ground sloth and bear, as well as the American lion, dire wolves and saber-toothed cats--none of whom were prepared for humans’
hunting tactics.

Often romanticized as a match made in heaven, the relationship that developed between Indians and bison was more like that of a stalker and the object of his obsession. Just as the trout is an unwilling participant in the fly fisher’s sport, bison were forced to play host to the cravings of parasitic humans. Although driving bison off cliffs was primarily motivated by a quest for resources to support a way of life, to those plummeting headlong into the abyss, the intentions or beliefs of their assassins were irrelevant.

So unpredictable were humans and their predatory behaviors that American bison would not to stand and allow them to get too close. On the other hand, healthy adult bison--equipped with horns and hooves and surrounded by their fellow herd members--felt safe and didn’t stampede when wolves approached and moved among them. Ever the innovator, primitive humans devised a clever strategy to creep up within shooting range of their bows and arrows: they concealed themselves and their murder weapons under wolf hides.

When Spanish explorers reintroduced horses to the continent, Indians learned to use them to overtake herds of bison and selectively shoot their prey on the run. Having the luxury of choice, they went after the cows for their tender meat and supple hides. Soon, the ratio of bulls to cows was skewed 10 to one. Fewer cows meant fewer calves. With the tenuous equilibrium between bison and Indian thrown off track, the bison were edged toward the precipice of extinction.

The next people on the scene were even more reckless, bringing with them devastating firepower, in the form of 50 caliber rifles, that would quickly spell doom for the species. Death followed these pale riders who saw bison only for their market value. First, they killed them simply for their tender tongues, which sold as a gourmet treat. Then, with bison fur carriage robes the latest fashion in New England, buffalo-skinner became one of the most popular, if temporary, occupations. Later, as the industrial revolution surged ahead under full steam, toxic tanning solutions were developed to better utilize bison skin as a source of leather for machinery belts.

These new immigrants sought not only the riches they could extract from bison, but ultimately to replace them with the species they had long-since domesticated. Neat lines of taught barbed wire bear witness to this new orderly world, while dust bowls and chemical fertilizers hint at the absurdity of efforts to dominate Mother Nature.

Due east of Yellowstone lies the town of Cody, complete with a museum honoring it’s namesake, serial bison killer “Buffalo Bill” Cody. Bill earned his nickname in 1868, after winning a twelve-hour bison killing contest. He scored 69 to 48. Although he murdered thousands of bison over his lifetime--killing 4,280 in 17 months alone--in the years to follow, his dubious achievements would be outdone by an unending procession of copycat killers.

The flesh of some of Buffalo Bill’s victims--those who weren’t merely skinned and left to rot--was fed to the cavalry and to Kansas Pacific Railroad workers. The railroad they built, in turn, was used to haul boxcar after boxcar of bailed hides back East. For a short time, that first railroad dividing the plains marked the delineation between the northern and southern bison herds and any animal near the tracks became a target. But the southern herd was completely annihilated by 1879. The commercial hunt on the northern herd was a bit more of a challenge. Though assisted by the Blackfoot and other tribes (who had long since abandoned bows and arrows for rifles), efforts were hampered by terrain and the lack of established shipping lines; so the bison there managed to linger for another decade.

In the end, gunners from across the country converged and stationed themselves at every available watering hole, laying in wait for the remaining herd of 10,000. Within a matter of a few days, those bison, too, were no more, and the final solution to the bison problem was all but realized. As in Nazi Germany, railroads played a key role in the hide-hunting holocaust. Infinite loads of bleached bones--the last reminder of the species that once symbolized the plains--were hauled away to fertilizer and sugar processing plants.

Compared to the human world, the bison nation is a shining pillar of civilization. Herds of bison never waged war or decimated their fellow mammals. The definition of the word gregarious, bison are much like elephants in character and culture. Breeding-aged bison bulls travel in their own small groups--usually in threes, for companionship and to watch each others’ backs--only rejoining the herd during the summer mating season.
For the rest of the year, the herd consists of several generations of mothers with their young, cousins, aunts and uncles, including bulls up to three years old, and is led by an experienced matriarch.

Bison form lasting bonds in and outside the family, not only between cows, calves and siblings, but also between unrelated individuals who grew up, traveled and learned about life together. Selfless and protective, juveniles help mothers look after the youngsters and will gladly lend a horn to keep bears or wolves from the helpless calves. And like elephants, bison have been known to mourn over the bones of their dead.

To better picture their way of life, listen for a moment to the animal’s voice as you follow the young hero of a timeless story that took place last spring in the Norris Geyser Basin of Yellowstone National Park:

“It’s warmer today than it has been since the snowy season finally ended.

Reminds me of the sunny days a year ago when I thought mother’s milk was the only food on earth. Nowadays, I graze on grass like the grownups. Someday I’ll be as big as my father and the older bulls who get to live off away from the cows and babies. For now I’m happy to stay with the herd. I like to watch the new young calves play, and it’s fun to help herd them around.

“We’ve been grazing along the bank of a winding creek all morning, and now the cow in charge has grunted her signal that it’s time to move on. The creek has cut a narrow ravine through the meadow, but she easily jumps over to the other side. One by one, the rest of the herd joins her. The cows and other young bulls who are resting get up and move toward the creek. They cross the ravine like it’s no big deal. The calves are having a harder time with it. Some of them hesitate, but some just follow their mothers and leap without looking. I’ve crossed this creek before, and many others like it.

It’s a cinch once you get over the fear of it.

“One of the calves who isn’t so sure is running back and forth, looking for a way across. She must have been playing with her friends when her mother moved on. I guess her mom expects her to figure it out for herself.
Sometimes the cows are kind of hard-nosed that way. I’m staying back to make sure the little calf gets across. She’s acting more and more panicked, now that the rest of the herd is heading through the meadow toward the trees.

“I can’t stand to watch the poor thing get so upset. If she’ll follow me, I can show her an easy way. As I start to herd her she calms down some, glad to know we haven’t all left her. She gets the idea and moves in alongside me. We pick up the pace as we near the ravine and make the leap together.

“We’re greeted by her mother on the other side. I guess she was worried after all. The calf immediately begins suckling. Her mother gives me a grunt of appreciation and I reply, ‘No problem, ma’am. Anytime.’ I leave the happy reunion with my head high and one of my cousins shoots me a glance like, ‘What are you so smug about?’ I turn to him and we lock horns and start a pushing match. I’ve seen the older bulls get really serious about this stuff, but we’re just messing around--enjoying life.”

In an ultimate act of betrayal, the winter of 2005-2006 saw nearly 1000 of these same sociable, benevolent souls--who have never known confinement or any reason to fear humans--massacred to appease Montana cattle ranchers. 947 were rounded up and hauled to the slaughterhouse in cattle trucks, just like their domesticated brethren, while fifty were shot during a state hunting season newly imposed on national park bison. Spurred on by industry-driven greed for grazing land (veiled under the guise of concern about brucellosis--a disease with a negligible risk of transmission that has never actually been passed from wild bison to cattle) the state of Montana recently sued to seize control over bison ranging outside Yellowstone. Their Department of Livestock has now implemented a lethal policy and our National Park Service is going along with it.

A May 10th, 2006 editorial entitled, “Let’s get consistent on brucellosis policies,” by the staff of the Bozeman Daily Chronicle lauded the first hunt of Yellowstone bison in years as a return to “…consistency with other wildlife management policies.” The editorial went on to say, “Bison will never roam the plains in great numbers; they simply represent too great a conflict with human activities.”

Never? Never say never; never is a long time. Times change, people change and policies can be changed. It’s high time to learn from the past and move forward as a species. If human society continues to evolve by adopting a more compassionate way of living, eating and utilizing land, millions of acres may yet be freed up to allow for the return of animals like bison to their native habitats. Bison are survivors. For all we know, they’ll be around long after we’re gone.