Roundup: On Buffalo Time – Part 2

Jilian has listened to a lot of ranch ideas over the years.

Most start out sounding reasonable and end somewhere between questionable and completely absurd.

So when I walked into the house after another failed attempt at catching the buffalo and told her I was thinking about hauling our camper out to the corrals and sleeping beside the gates, she didn't seem nearly as surprised as she probably should have.

My plan was simple.

Sleep in the camper. Leave the windows open. Set alarms every couple of hours. Watch and wait for the buffalo to wander into the corrals under cover of darkness like they had been doing for weeks. And if, by some miracle, the entire herd filed in at once, I'd quietly slip outside, close the gates, and go back to bed.

At least that was the theory.

There were a few flaws.

I wasn't entirely sure the buffalo were coming in all together. For all I knew they could have been drifting in and out all night long. I also wasn't sure how six hundred buffalo would react to finding a suspicious two-legged creature lurking around in the dark.

Still, it was the best idea I had.

After I finished explaining the plan, I waited for Jilian's response.

"Yes," she said. "That's exactly what you should do."

I stared at her.

Usually there's a follow up.

A disclaimer.

A warning.

A reminder that I may have finally lost my mind.

But there wasn't one.

Just confidence.

The kind borrowed from somebody who believes in you even when you're not entirely sure you believe in yourself.

So she packed me food and bedding while I hooked onto the camper.

As the sun dropped toward the horizon, I hauled it across the ranch and parked beside the corrals. She gave me a hug, kissed me on the forehead, and sent me on my way.

The look she gave me carried no trace of doubt.

Just that beautiful smile and those Cheyenne River blue eyes.

It was enough to make me believe the plan might actually work.

Or at least feel a little less crazy.

By the time I finished setting up, darkness was settling over the prairie.

For dinner, I ate buffalo stroganoff Jilian had packed for me while watching the last orange light disappear behind Black Elk Peak.

My only company that evening was Luna.

Luna arrived at the ranch a few years ago as part of an unofficial pest-control program and quickly established herself as management. Seeing as I was about as lonely as a man can get sitting in a camper beside a buffalo corral, I invited her inside.

She accepted without hesitation.

After supper, I stepped outside one last time to look for the herd.

Nothing.

The prairie had disappeared into darkness.

The buffalo were nowhere to be seen.

There was nothing left to do but crawl into bed and trust the process.

Luna settled onto a pile of pillows beside the window while I stretched out under the blankets.

Before long I was drifting off while watching some forgettable true-crime documentary on my phone.

Then Luna sat up.

Her attention sharpened instantly.

I paused the show.

For a moment I heard nothing.

Then it came again.

A faint sound in the distance.

At first I thought rain.

But living on the prairie teaches a person not to get optimistic about rain, especially during a drought.

The sound grew louder.

More steady.

More deliberate.

Then I recognized it.

Hooves.

Hundreds of hooves.

The drive leading into the corrals is covered in pea gravel, and what I was hearing was buffalo moving across it.

Lots of buffalo.

I slipped outside and eased the camper door shut behind me.

From the corner of the pole barn, I waited for my eyes to adjust.

Slowly, dark shapes began to materialize.

Buffalo.

Dozens of them.

Filing through the gates.

Then dozens more.

A steady stream of animals flowed into the corrals.

For ten or fifteen minutes they just kept coming.

I could hear the gravel crunching beneath their feet.

Smell the dust hanging in the cool night air.

I stood there hardly believing what I was witnessing.

The entire herd was coming in.

Not a few at a time.

Not in small groups.

All of them.

Eventually the stream began to thin.

The sounds grew quieter.

Then two massive silhouettes appeared at the rear.

The herd bulls.

Of course.

The old gatekeepers.

The final opinion holders.

The two of them stopped near the entrance and stared into the darkness.

In my direction.

I wasn't about to march out there in my underwear and test whether they approved of the arrangement.

So we sat.

The bulls and I.

Three stubborn creatures staring at one another in the dark prairie night.

Finally, one stepped forward.

The second followed.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

Now it was my turn.

This was the moment.

The part of the plan where things either worked or unraveled completely.

If the herd noticed me closing the gates, panic could spread through hundreds of animals at once. If six hundred buffalo suddenly decided they all wanted through the same opening, I wasn't particularly interested in being part of that conversation.

So I moved slowly.

One careful step at a time.

Listening more than looking.

The herd sounded relaxed.

Calves grunted softly.

Cows answered.

Water sloshed in the stock tanks.

They sounded the same as they do out on the prairie.

Comfortable.

Undisturbed.

I reached the first gate and removed the chain.

Holding every link in my hand so it wouldn't clink against the steel.

The hinges creaked.

The buffalo fell silent.

My heart nearly stopped.

I pulled the gate closed and secured it.

Nothing happened.

A few seconds later the herd resumed their conversation.

I repeated the process on the second gate.

The quieter of the two.

When the final chain settled into place and the herd remained calm, the relief washed over me all at once.

It had worked.

Somehow, unbelievably, it had worked.

I stood there in the darkness listening to the buffalo breathe.

Then I felt something brush against my leg.

I looked down.

Nothing.

The darkness was complete.

The sensation came again.

It was Luna.

Apparently my roommate had slipped out of the camper and followed me on my midnight adventure.

While I was worrying about six hundred buffalo, she was busy weaving figure eights through my legs looking for attention.

Her complete lack of concern made me feel a little ridiculous.

The two of us headed back to the camper.

That night we fell asleep listening to the muffled grunts of buffalo and the distant songs of coyotes drifting across the prairie.

Morning arrived quickly.

Soon trucks started rolling in.

Family.

Friends.

Buffalo producers.

Wild Idea crew members.

Some had been helping us so long they were now bringing their own children.

Every one of them understood the responsibility of working animals.

Every one of them placed the well-being of those buffalo ahead of their own comfort.

As daylight filled the corrals, human conversation blended with buffalo conversation.

The herd was certainly less pleased than they had been the night before. Discovering closed gates at sunrise tends to have that effect.

But I wasn't worried anymore.

The people I trust most were standing beside me.

And from that point forward, everything went smoothly.

Almost as if the buffalo were rewarding us for finally slowing down and doing things their way.

That's what I've come to appreciate most about buffalo.

For generations we've engineered livestock to fit neatly into our expectations. Easier to manage. Easier to control. Easier to predict.

Buffalo never signed up for that arrangement.

They still ask us to pay attention.

To adapt.

To listen.

To humble ourselves now and then.

Roundup would certainly be easier if the buffalo behaved exactly the way we wanted them to.