In the mid-1960s, a country-western singer named Roger Miller had a popular cross-over song (meaning it made both the country and popular music charts) with this title. One musical phrase that sticks out in my mind…
You can’t rollerskate in a buffalo herd,
But you can do a lot, if you’ve a mind to.
By “buffalo,” Miller was referring to the mighty North American bison, once native to the great plains in numbers estimated to be as high a 66 million. Of course, in his eminent wisdom, the white man slaughtered this species almost to the point of extinction. Only a few isolated small herds remain today, mostly in Montana, South Dakota, and Wyoming. One of these small surviving groups of bison figures prominently in my life’s memories.
Okay, so here's my bison story... It's August 1978. I'm assigned to Francis E. Warren Air Force Base in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and I've got a week of leave time. My wife’s parents come out to visit us. We have a camping trip planned to Grand Teton National Park. The drive up there is eight hours from Cheyenne, in my VW bus, loaded with four adults, my two-year-old daughter, and camping equipment.
The day after we settle in, my father-in-law and I go on a 2-hour float trip down the Snake River in the Park. The ladies stay at our tent cabin, because our daughter was too young to ride in the river raft.
After the float trip was over, my father-in-law and I get back in our VW Bus and start driving through Teton Park, back to the campground. As we're heading toward the Jenny Lake area, we come over a low rise, and in the dip on the other side, cars are lined up along both sides of the highway. People are getting out of them and swarming eastward into the sagebrush.
I say to my father-in-law, “Well, it looks like we'd better join the crowd. Something unusual is happening, and we don't want to miss it.” So, we park and troop across the sagebrush field with the crowd, now numbering perhaps 40 people.
Ahead I can see a small group of bison—not big enough to call it a “herd”—grazing on the grass among the sage. We get to about 50 yards from them, and I say to my father-in-law, “This is as far as we go. Bison are notorious for their vile tempers, and they're easily aroused.” Plus, they weigh about a ton each.
But about half a dozen obviously east coast tourists (in the obligatory easterner uniform: bermuda shorts, polo shirts, and sneakers) are continuing to approach the bison, Brownie Instamatics in hand, looking for the perfect picture.
One guy reaches a point about forty feet from the nearest bison. I say to my father-in-law, “This is NOT going to end well.”
And sure enough, the lone bull, who is the master of this group of cows and calves, takes exception to this guy's approach. He snorts and paws the ground— what should have been an obvious warning to this New York dipstick that it's time to beat feet. But no... he hadn't gotten his picture yet!
As he's making eye contact with the bull (not a smart thing to do ... some wild animals take direct eye contact as a challenge), the bull starts accelerating toward him: 2,000 pounds of angry meat and bones taking aim. New York dipstick may be crazy, but he's not stupid—well, not COMPLETELY stupid. He gives up on his picture, turns back toward the road and starts running for his life.
The bull keeps accelerating, closing the gap. There are shouts from others watching. The guy realizes he's not going to get away. In front of him is a small cottonwood tree, about 20 feet high with a few substantial lower branches. With a running leap, the guy hits the tree about three feet off the ground, wraps his arms around the trunk, and scrambles up another 2-3 feet... as the bull lowers his head and blasts into the trunk of the tree with about 10,000 foot-pounds of energy.
The tree shakes hard, the guy almost loses his grip but holds on. And the tree comes out of the ground by its roots, falling over in the direction away from the bull bison. With that, the bull seems satisfied that the engagement has gone to him. He turns around and trots back to his cows.
The stupid New York dipstick extricates himself from the tree, scratched all over his arms and legs from the tree branches, and checks to see if he needs to change his underwear. All to the laughter and merriment of the other 39 people (including my father-in-law and me) in the appreciative audience.
And that, as Walter Cronkite used to say, is the way it was… ♦
(There’s always ONE in every crowd . . .)