Roundup: On Buffalo Time – Part 1

Once a year, the Wild Idea family and a handful of close friends gather on the ranch.

Not for a holiday. Not for a celebration.

We gather for roundup.

No one looks forward to the work itself, but we all look forward to the people. Year after year, this demanding task pulls together a crew of family, friends, ranchers, harvest workers, and buffalo folks who understand the responsibility that comes with caring for these animals.

Because our buffalo graze federal grasslands, every animal must carry identification. Most cattlemen accomplish this with a brand and an ear tag applied shortly after birth. Buffalo, however, tend to have strong opinions about human plans.

Walking up to a newborn buffalo calf with an ear tag isn't a realistic option, unless your goal is to meet an angry mother and the rest of her family. Instead, we gather the herd every October and tag the calves born the previous spring.

Each tag provides a unique identification number, records the animal's birth year, and fulfills the traceability requirements necessary for our regenerative, grass-fed, and animal welfare certifications.

Roundup also gives us something equally important: information.

We count mature cows, yearlings, bulls, and calves. We evaluate herd ratios, estimate forage needs, and make difficult decisions about how many animals the ranch can responsibly support through the coming year. In a country where rainfall is increasingly uncertain, that information can mean the difference between staying ahead of a drought or being caught by one.

The data helps guide nearly every decision we make on the ranch.

That's the extent of what we're there to do. Tag the spring calves and gather information on the herd.

We don't administer vaccines or medications such as dewormers or insecticides. We don't perform pregnancy checks or other routine medical assessments.

No inoculations. No pregnancy checking. In and out as fast as possible.

I suppose you could say our approach is gentler and less traumatic, but the reality is that we're still putting a wild animal through a system it never evolved to experience.

It's traumatic. They hate it, and honestly, so do we.

We do our best to minimize the stress, but even with the gentlest approach, it's still a difficult experience for the animals.

If we had a choice, we wouldn't do it at all.

Roundup itself takes weeks of preparation.

Every year we make small adjustments based on what the buffalo taught us the year before. We move a gate. Add a panel. Eliminate a shadow that causes hesitation. Replace ropes. Oil hinges. Clean out stock tanks. Prep meals for the loyal souls willing to spend a long October day helping us work buffalo.

I've been organizing roundup for fourteen years now, and despite all that experience, I still haven't figured out how to keep my stress level at a reasonable setting.

In the days leading up to it, my mind runs nonstop. Checklists. Gates. Water. Safety. Equipment.

The goal is always the same: keep both people and buffalo safe.

Part of that stress comes from knowing these animals have been through roundup before. Buffalo are remarkably intelligent. They remember. They recognize patterns. After enough years, they know exactly what time of year it is and what we may be planning.

Over the years I've had to get increasingly creative about how to actually catch them.

That's usually when I call Dan.

Dan has a calming effect on me. His experience and steady demeanor help quiet the noise in my head when things start feeling overwhelming.

In the weeks before roundup, I leave the corrals open and place hay throughout the working system. The buffalo are free to come and go as they please. The idea is to make the corrals feel ordinary rather than threatening.

This year I noticed something interesting.

The buffalo were using the corrals regularly, but mostly under the cover of darkness.

When Dan and I set out to catch the herd, our first plan fell apart almost immediately. An old cow intercepted the movement and redirected the entire herd only yards from the entrance.

Plan two failed.

So did plan three.

We had a fourth plan in mind, but I could tell the buffalo had about reached the end of their patience.

One more attempt and I suspected they would give us the buffalo equivalent of a middle finger and disappear onto the prairie.

I suggested we step back and give everyone, humans included, a break.

Dan agreed.

As I drove back toward the house, the weight I'd been carrying all week settled a little heavier on my shoulders.

I was already fighting off the annual roundup cold that seems to arrive every October, courtesy of stress and too little sleep. Running my hand through my hair, I noticed strands coming with it.

The internal struggle is always the same.

Part of me gets angry that we have to subject the buffalo to this process at all. Another part of me keeps searching for a better way, a gentler way, if we're going to coexist with these animals while stewarding the prairie together.

Normally, when ranch problems grow complicated, my comfort comes from gathering more good people around me.

This felt different.

For the first time, I wasn't convinced more people were the answer.

When I got back to the house, a wild idea crept into my head.

And there was only one person I trusted enough to tell it to.

To be continued...