Knowing that my time in Wind Cave National Park ran short, I set out for another hike in the prairie.
It was a mild and overcast day, the sort of the day the widlife would
be out and about (without heavy rain or harsh cold to prompt them to
seek shelter among trees or in ravines.) With my wide-brimmed hat,
and backpack with sketchbook, water, etc, I jumped into my vehicle,
with a planned destination of Highland Creek or Centennial Trail,
both of which begin in the eastern part of the park, off of NPS 5,
our dirt road “widlife loop.”
The previous evening, I had taken a
saunter from Wind Cave Canyon to Bison Flats Trail, a trip which
began practically outside my doorstep, and brought me across rolling
prairie. Coyotes barked and howled back and forth in the graying
evening. And of course, the prairie dogs did their backflips and
high-pitched yelps of warning as I approached.
Now, I drove to the north end of the
park and turned left onto road 5, prepared for more encounters with
the prairie fauna, especially the large and charismatic. Greeting me
on the rolling hillocks of prairie were three bison, one of whom
struck a dramatic pose, with the waving grass around her, and the
backdrop of angular orange-and-purple mountains behind. I started
a pencil outline for an image in oil pastel, but the subject kept
moving. And her cousins advanced towards the car, and I pressed the
pedal and moved on.
At the bison corralles (so named for
their role in the annual roundup) a throng of bison stood, moved in
their slow amble, and watched the coming vehicle, distracted from
their pursuit of grass. One was in Highland Creek, lapping up water.
I decided to go farther, to the
trailhead of Highland Creek Trail. As I drove the car higher up and
toward the open field, a herd of bison appeared. In my apparent
naivety, I still hoped to hike on Highland Creek Trail, and pulled
from the road onto its pull-off.
The bison were a good few hundred
yards away, and had their own business to attend to—or so I
thought. With confident strides, the herd advanced toward me. The
young ones, some yearlings, who looked like pygmy bison, RAN towards
the mobile mineral deposit. They licked their lips as they ran, as
though my vehicle were an ice cream truck. The bigger bison kept to
an even walk, but also had their pink snake tongues dangling at the
ready. The young ones reached me first, and the lick-fest began, like
a Tootsie Pop convention. With the car's aluminum shell and glass
windows separating me from then, I grabbed my camera from its holster
and set to taking photographs. The car gently rocked under the barrage
of licks. A larger bull bison swung his head to the side, and pushed
one of the young ones away—a backhanded slap from a sledgehammer
head. His larger size made this side of the car rightfully his, but
his code. I knew it was quite unsafe to try to get out and hike, or
even to open a door or window. I hoped that they would lose interest
after a few licks. But it was not to be. Instead, through my rear
window, the horde of salt-hungry thunderbeasts advanced. I restarted
the engine, and very slowly backed out from the parking space. The
bison, young and old, stepped aside for the moving vehicle, sometimes
just an inch from its path. Nonetheless, they respected the metal
beast in motion. I drove slowly down the road, And noted through the rear-view mirror that the bison followed. But when I sped up just a
bit, they quickly vanished into the distance. Despite their fondness
for salt, they wouldn't expend precious energy on running to catch
it, save for the youngsters, rambunctious as children are.
En route back, I tried to pick up
Centennial Trail, but found that it had its own crew of bovid
guardians. The one in the creek was preoccupied in slurping water,
but the others started their saunter towards my salty goodness.
Grudgingly, I drove back south. I elected to try Cold Brook Canyon
trail, since it was the only trail in this park which I had not yet
hiked. After a flat and unexciting mile out to the park's boundary
fence, and another back, I was still ready for more adventure. I and
my wheels went back north, to the other trailhead of centennial
trail. The southern trailhead was pleasantly nestled under a clump of
ponderosa pines. Passing the signs at the trailhead that warned of
bison, ticks, and rattlers, I went downhill.
In the valley, with walls of red rock
ahead, I met a trio of bison. Their heads to the ground, munching
tufts of tannish-yellow grass, the ongoing quest of the herbivore. I
felt the beckoning of opportunity, and reached for my sketchbook. A
medium-sized bull posed before me. He lifted his head and evaluated
the bipedal ape. I backed away, until he lowered his head and resumed
the grass mission. I went to my knees in the grass, and opened my
sketchbook, and set to work with the pencil. The wind ruffled the
pages as I went. I laid out the animal and its environs, and went to
brushes and india ink. Once I was stationary, I became colder, and my
one leg started to go to sleep, with weight on the knee, mooshed into
the grass. I shifted my weight to the other knee, then stood upright
for a bit. This wasn't a temperature-regulated studio. Out here in
the field, I had to earn every line, and every stroke from dip pen or
brush. I marveled at how Conrad Martens, George Catlin, Mark Catesby,
and John William Lewin did it. Before cameras, this was how
scientists and journalists and documentarians made field records. It
still has its utility, although I had to acknowledge that one could
shoot more than a hundred pictures in the time it takes to draw one.
Today, I hear the debate over whether GPS will make people forget how
to use maps. The debate over whether calculators would make people
forget how to do math happened mostly before my time, but some of it
carried over into my young days. But whatever debate happened over
whether cameras would make people forget how to draw, it had ended
before my parents were born. While artists lost some jobs to cameras,
they also felt a new freedom, and took up abstract expressionism and
the like.
I completed my drawing while munching a
chocolate-flavored energy bar, which helped raise my body temperature
(and made for a luxury not shared with the artists of yore.) Then I
walked onward. A little further on, where I followed the trail dipped
down to meet the stream, I met a large bull. This one scared me more,
with his size. I shook a bit when he stared my direction, to make his
judgement. I was either significant (as threat or competitor) or not
significant. I backed away slowly, reducing my percieved level of
danger. I needed to forgo the trail and bridge, and find a different
place to cross the stream. Luckily, the bull lowered his head back to
the stream, and resumed his drink. And I found another stream
crossing, with only a little muck having penetrated my boot when I
arrived on the other side.
I walked onward down the path, until it
was time to turn around. As I came back, I walked behind the great
beast. He strode through the path hewn by the stream. His muscles
rippled as he walked. I had to admire the power of Tatanka—and try
to keep my distance. As he turned and veered, and I strove to
maintain a seperation of more than 100 feet, and so stayed well away
from the trail.
The bull, in confident strides,
approached the others. The three bison eyed each other, and stared
and held ground, but took to sharing the space of the field. As this
occurred, I continued efforts to keep far away, but also to get a few
pictures. I still shuddered when one bison or the next stared in my
direction. I looked to the forested areas and considered escape
routes from a charging buffalo—I had learned that putting a barrier between them and me was wise, but had also seen the video where bison
deftly went around the tree, to catch the man who had angered him,
scooped him up with head and horns, and threw him into the air, like
a rag doll. (Luckily, the man suffered only minor injuries.) Not
wanting to be the next one, I kept clear, and walked along the edge
of the fence, at the boundary of the field.
I passed by in peace, and back to the
vehicle. Upon returning to my residence, I felt some weariness from
the thrills of dodging bison, I ate some bean soup but fell into a
short nap before I finished my tea.
It is glorious to be able to go for a
walk near “home” and encounter the bison, the buffalo, the
American icons, in their natural habitat leading their natural lives,
and dodge them in one place then the next. It made me feel alive. And
glad to be where I am, and to have experienced perhaps my last
immersion in the grand prairies of Wind Cave. My next destination is
Timpanogos Cave National Monument. A new cave, with new mountains,
new forests, new territory, new people, and a new city nearby. I am
not sure how long I can keep up the uncertain and unstable life of
the vagabond ranger, but I must acknowledge that it has its moments
of joy. I walked with Tatanka.
