In the Presence of Buffalo by Daniel Brister

Author:Daniel Brister
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: West Margin Press

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Cattle and Control: A History of Western Violence

The past is never dead. It is not even past.

—William Faulkner

I videotape the operation from the upper limbs of a lodgepole pine on the park side of the property owner’s fence. Five buffalo—a bull, a cow, and three calves—are in the trap. The bull and the cow are locked in two pens, and the three calves share another. A DOL agent rides a bobcat tractor into the first pen and lunges at the bull, pushing him toward the long corridor on the far side of the pen. The bull runs from the machine through the open doorway and down the chute toward the back of the trap. A different agent reaches over the wall from his perch on a platform and prods the buffalo with a long stick as the tractor backs off. He pounds on the bull with the cattle prod, shouting “CHAO! CHAO!” as he jerks the animal through the trap. Each touch of the prod ignites an explosion of horn or hoof against steel.

The bull has nowhere to go. At the end of the narrowing chute, he is confined by his desire to be free. The harder he pushes, the tighter his body is wedged. A steel door slams closed behind him, cutting off all chance of retreat. Pressed by hard steel from all sides, he moves the only way he can—up—and slams his head against a metal grate. Other agents work the controls of a stockade-like clamp that closes around the buffalo’s neck from each side, and 2,000 pounds of pure wildness heave and thrust against the trap’s jaws. The arm of one of the agents emerges from a small opening in the wall and plunges a needle into the buffalo’s flesh. The bull is strong and determined, bucking and kicking until the tranquilizer hits his brain. After his final twitch, the agents smile and congratulate one another, triumphant in their mastery over the bull’s wild strength.

I’ve witnessed scenes like these more times than I care to remember. The agents’ mistreatment of the bison sparks in me the urge to run out and interfere or to hurl hurtful words across the space between us. But my work requires control. No matter how hot the flare of anger, how deep the sadness, or how infuriating the frustration, I try to hold my composure. If we act out of spite or insult, the agents will only make it harder on the buffalo and erode our efforts to gain public support for their protection. Knowing this intellectually is one thing. Holding my tongue as I watch gloating men malign buffalo is another.

Winters with the buffalo provide a lesson in extremes. Peaceful days of basking in Yellowstone’s winter beauty suddenly dissolve into fierce and ugly violence. When my patience is all but spent, the only hope of refuge is to remember days when the DOL agents are not around. I conjure quiet mornings and picture myself as calm and unconcerned with revenge as the buffalo are, whose silhouettes in the sunrise resemble mountains against the sky.

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