I almost got a tattoo of a buffalo when I was younger. At the time I was living in Boulder, Colorado and surrounded by other tree huggers, fun-seekers, and free-spirits in their early 20’s. Ironically, the only thing that stopped me was the fact that the Buffalo was the mascot of the University of Colorado, and I didn’t want the image to imply that I was a die-hard follower of the team. Bison and buffalo have always held a place in my heart – a strange love and kinship that may trace back to a former life, or may simply reflect my love and desire for nature, the wild, nomadic lifestyle, and something akin to toughness, grit and an overall solidness that these magnificent creatures represent to me. The fact that buffalo were hunted nearly to extinction in an effort to eradicate the Native American People also intrigues, disgusts, and inspires me to keep my eyes open to current politicians and people in charge who continue efforts to destroy anything that was there first but gets in the way of their ambition and greed.
One of my bucket list goals was to see a buffalo in the wild. Or in what’s left of it. I learned at a young age that zoos and their newer, more politically correct cousins, the “wildlife refuge,” would only trigger a deep pang of sadness. “Hey kids, let’s go visit all the animals that got locked into cages for their entire lives today!” I have an early memory of seeing an elephant at one of these places with its leg in some kind of shackle that was attached to a large metal chain and bolted nearby in the ground. To this day, I avoid these unnatural places whenever possible, and I also take a guilty pleasure when wild animals become just that – wild – and remind their captors who they’re dealing with by taking off a leg or two. The Netflix series “Tiger King” is a worthwhile watch for anyone interested in all the reasons not to support zoos, “wildlife refuges,” circuses that use wild animals, and the like.
I learned about Yellowstone National Park and the surrounding area after submitting a resume and (quite shockingly) being hired by a low-budget tour company looking for tour guides to take European passengers across America. The job seemed perfect because the trips were advertised as “Adventure Tours” and involved traveling on a shoestring budget while camping and exploring numerous state and national parks. The idea of getting paid to see the natural wonders of America was almost as unbelievable as the fact that I was going to be responsible for the care and well-being of 15 people while driving thousands of miles around the country (the company couldn’t afford drivers and tour guides, so one person did it all)!
I sold my 1970 Chevrolet Impala for $300, put my lava lamp and a few other valued possessions in a small storage shed, and flew to NYC to begin my training – which is not an accurate term for the process. The company sent me out on a tour with a wild, whirling dervish of an Englishman whom they assured me was one of their “go-to guys” in the company. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Angus Young of the band AC/DC and told me straight away how bothered he was with my presence. Angus was convinced the company had sent me as some kind of informant to report on all the ways he was bending if not completely breaking the rather flexible rules they had in place. Don’t sleep with every passenger you can was one rule he found bothersome. Another was staying within 40 or 50 miles of the posted speed limit, which at that time was 55 mph in most places around the country. It’s important to mention that this was before GPS technology came out, so we tour guides/drivers were restricted to the oversized and often outdated Rand McNally™ maps.
My reluctant mentor liked to share tales about leading tours in South Africa before he had signed on to his current position. The stories he told of constant bushwhacking, avoiding daily lion attacks, and making camp each night in untamed and rarely-seen places made our tours to campsites with picnic tables, flush toilets and nearby shower buildings seem luxurious and simplistic. I suspect he reminded me and the passengers of how good we had it by design, but I have to give credit to the ole chap because he did know how to face adversity, roll with unexpected changes, and live each moment with a wild abandonment that got even the most reserved passengers out of their seat and their comfort zones to take risks and have fun – like the hour-long snowball fight he instigated after forcing us from the van and into a June snowsquall we hit driving over Black Elk Peak in South Dakota.
We were on our way to Custer State Park when the storm hit. The plan was to spend two days camping there while touring Mount Rushmore, the Crazy Horse Monument, and the many fudge shops and tee shirt emporiums native to that part of the country. We arrived in the Park at dusk, shook off the snow, and quickly set up our tents near a small lake. Our small crew then roasted some marshmallows around a fire and turned in for the night.
I’ve always been an early riser, and woke before daybreak the next day intending to try my luck fishing for trout in the lake. I got out of my sleeping bag, dressed, and unzipped my tent while letting my eyes adjust to the dim light and thick fog that had engulfed our encampment overnight. I squinted and peered into the dull mist. There were several large shapes out there, no more than 10 feet from my tent. My heart stopped for a moment and fear immediately gripped me when I realized the shapes were creating their own misty vapor which rose from their bowed heads with each breath. They were massive – easily one thousand pounds each – yet perfectly quiet. Like a ghost herd. Phantom Buffalo from a time long forgotten.
I have no idea how long I sat there, silent and watching. But I do know that a few things became crystal clear to me that day. The first was that I would not be getting a tattoo of a buffalo, or a bison, or of any wild creature. Nothing drawn on my body could ever accurately depict the real thing – nor could a portrait, a photo, a video, trips to one thousand zoos or nature preserves. This was a once in a lifetime event – meant to be experienced, felt, and cherished exclusively in my heart and soul. Never to be duplicated. Never to be forgotten.
I’ve pondered and re-played that morning countless times in my mind. With time and age, the specifics of the event have become more fluid, perhaps not completely accurate or dependable – but the memory always makes me smile and fills my heart with joy. And I reckon that’s more than we can ask for during our brief time on this wonderful, magical, wild planet. Not everything needs to become a tattoo, or a picture, or a documented, finite object. Some things we just need to feel and cherish deep within ourselves – where the very best memories are kept…
One response to “Buffalo in the Mist – Custer State Park”
Yes, I feel exactly the same way. That was a true gift. To recall it at will is all the “picture”you will ever need. I have a similar memory of seeing a moose feeding in a pond in Wyoming. The fires out west break my heart thinking of the animals affected as well as humans.
Yes, I feel exactly the same way. That was a true gift. To recall it at will is all the “picture”you will ever need. I have a similar memory of seeing a moose feeding in a pond in Wyoming. The fires out west break my heart thinking of the animals affected as well as humans.