Story: Where the Buffalo loaf

We're in Montana, and we're working. After work, one of my colleagues, Chad, tells us that he "saw some buffalo" and recommends that we should go and check them out ourselves. We get directions "past the University of Montana, hit the interstate, and keep driving...and I do mean *keep driving* until you hit the Mountains..."

Being in Montana "until you hit the Mountains" isn't really much of a descriptor, but it'll do. About halfway out there, amongst the interstate signs written in both English and Blackfoot spellings, we see the sign "NATIONAL BISON REFUGE: 9 MILES"

Jackpot.

We enter the gate, go over the rumble strip-cattle corraller and make our way off the asphalt and up a dirty gravel road that is lined with what is more akin to small boulders than tiny rocks. A sign denotes that you have indeed entered the National Bison Refuge and that you aren't to shoot, ride bikes, ride motorcycles, or leave your vehicle for the duration of your ride through the twenty minute drive OR the two hour one.

The two hour one was closed, so we headed left up the fork in the road.

After a few minutes we were wondering if the Buffalo/Bison had decided that "Sure this place is nice, but we gotta roll on to greener pastures." We encountered a pronghorn antelope, and saw a few mule deer who were less than thrilled by our being there, but no buffalo.

There were big hills and hope in the distance. We went around the largest one in site, marveling that people actually lived ON the refuge, and saw something we'd never actually seen in person (being East Coasters) standing on the side of a hill majestically, chewing on some grass - the mighty buffalo!

I rolled the window of our rental down, and snapped a few shots of this huge, powerful beast, and he kept at his task, barely acknowledging our existence. Staring at him, I yelled jokingly "Hey! Are you the only one left?"

He responded with a guttural "MMMHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUURRRR" and went back to the much more interesting, well, grass.

We rolled on going up a steep grade hill and once going over the side realized he was just letting everyone know company was coming, because there were about 120 Buffalo all over the place. Blocking the roads, up the hill, down in the valley, one was even drinking out of a stream running through the area.

I was taking pictures, my friend was taking pictures. We were marveling at these animals we'd only read about before and they...they couldn't care less that we were actually there. A running theme, and possibly a commentary on our existences.

A magpie was following us throughout the trip, stopping when we stopped, flying off when we looked at it, only to whip around and continue guiding us on our one-way street trip of slack jawed tourism. Both of us being "road dogs" in the TV/Journalism world, there's not much that impresses our little black jaded cynical hearts, but this was one of those trips that you can't convey in words, and can't explain to those who just haven't been there. We were one with the Buffalo.

We made our way around the 16 mile loop in a little under an hour. Then we made our way back, each of us getting shots we couldn't get from the side of the car we'd previously been on.

Making our way to the hill that showed us so many buffalo previously, we encountered something we weren't quite ready for. They were in the road. Buffalo IN THE ROAD. They weren't moving. They didn't care we were there. We sat and watched, and snapped, and wondered what would make this standoff go away so we could get back to our hotel beds, to get some rest before the next day's flights home across the U.S.

My friend laid on the horn, and most of them slowly got up - all except for one. He stood, turned, and stared us down, chewing his cud, practically daring us to do something. We slowly moved forward, a few feet at a time and he deferred to us, moving to the side of the road.

My side of the road.

As we passed he started jogging alongside our car, staring me in the eye. I snapped photos while simultaneously worrying that he might push his might my way.

I yelled "Hey! What are you doing?" and he stopped in his tracks. We hit the brakes too. He replied "....BBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAARRUUUUUUUUURRRRRR" and then turned and went down the hill, having said his piece.

We rolled out, laughing and wondering how that could have turned out should he have wanted to engage. We would certainly have lost.

We hit asphalt, on the way back to beautiful Missoula, Montana. No more gravel, no more fear of buffalo crossing the street and maybe hating us. We're sure they're just not as a gracious with interlopers as your regular zoo-faring mammal. But they're fine, and so were we.

The unscheduled trip to the 100 year old (as of 2008!) National Bison Refuge was a success, a beauty, and you probably had to be there.

MRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRR!!!!!!