The afternoon sun bears down relentlessly as Terry and I pedal up the steep, dusty grade from Little Harbor. The coastline of Santa Catalina Island may be balmy, but here in the rugged hills of the interior, it is hot. There is no sea breeze. Sweat rolls pervasively down my temples, and I draw another swig from my Camelback’s water tube. Cool, life-giving water. I estimate I’ve got less than a liter remaining.
When the dirt road levels out at Little Buffalo Reservoir—nothing more than a muddy pond—we shift up through the gears and pedal along at a brisk, steady clip. Terry rides three lengths ahead of me, setting the pace. We have covered fifteen miles since leaving Two Harbors this morning. All that remains is a one-mile grind up to West Summit, 900 feet above the sea, and then an exhilarating, two-mile dash down to Two Harbors, where we will subsequently return to our room at the Banning House; get cleaned up; relax on the veranda with a bottle of wine; enjoy the sea breeze and watch the sun set…
I’m lost in my daydream when Terry suddenly says: “Whoa!” and slams on the brakes. I nearly plow into her rear derailleur, but somehow avoid it. However, any attempt to complain about her erratic maneuver is quickly extinguished, for she is pointing up ahead and I immediately see what the fuss is about. A herd of bison, maybe 40 head, is standing in the road, blocking our way.
* * * *
It has been estimated that 60 million bison roamed North America’s prairies in the 18th century. But ultimately their reign was doomed by America’s westward expansion, for their migratory roaming on the Great Plains was an impediment to new settlers that were anxious to build farms and cattle ranches. Another impediment was the Native Americans who were already living on the Great Plains. And it wasn’t long after Custer’s Last Stupid Blunder (known as “Custer’s Last Stand” in revisionist American history) that the conventional wisdom became: “If you get rid of the buffalo problem, you’ll get rid of the Indian problem.” And so the slaughter began. Buffalo Bill Cody once bragged that he personally killed 4,200 bison in seventeen months to feed railroad construction crews (I did the math: Assuming he took Sundays off for church, Mr. Bill shot 9/day for 17 mo’s). And once the railroads were operational, engineers would slow their locomotives so that passengers could shoot at them from the train windows, just for the sport of it. The carcasses were left to rot where they fell. By 1900, only 800 remained.
My fascination with the American bison is an ancestral affair. My great grandfather, Oscar Starbuck, was a master horseman, learning to ride before he was weaned from the breast. He spent his childhood years in South Dakota where his father worked as a maintenance foreman for the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy Railroad. According to family lore, when Oscar was 10-11 years old, he would get into horse races with the Sioux kids. Sometimes for kicks, they would all chase after a herd of bison, whooping and hollering, driving the thundering beasts across the prairie. Now, 118 years later, I would have a chance to relive that experience of riding with the bison—though not on a horse, but a Specialized Stumpjumper.
* * * *
Slowly we ride up the road, contemplating our next move, while the herd stands firm 100 yards ahead of us. Terry is not a happy camper.
“Don’t worry,” I assure her. “They’ll move out of our way.”
“Hmmm. They’ll gore us, more likely.”
But before we can test whose theory is correct, up ahead, a tour bus rambles around the corner in an eddy of dust and the herd parts like the Red Sea. The vehicle slows to a crawl. Tourists snap photos from the windows. Then the driver guns the engine, lumbers past us in another eddy of diesel fumes and dust and fades away behind us.
For the most part, the bison remain divided along each side of the road, and as we approach, I formulate a plan: Close-up shots first, and then we ride through the herd. I brake to stop, just fifty feet from the nearest animal; dismount; lay my bike on the side of the road. All the while, Terry is trying to talk me out of it. But I assure her not to fear, because Renaldo has an exit strategy. Bison may have good senses of smell and hearing, but they can’t see worth squat.
“Hmm. Well you certainly picked the right shirt for today, Gramps.”
Looking down, I suddenly remember that my riding jersey is bright crimson red.
“Okay, I knew that," I explain. "But my strategy is to pull my shirt off if he charges. I’ll wave and toss it to one side, and he’ll aim for that instead of me. Like a matador. Ole!”
“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Well then, just cover me. If you see one of those fellas starting to get aggressive, let me know and I’ll jump on my bike and bail.”
“You can’t out-ride them.”
She had a point. A pissed-off bison can reach speeds of 30-35 mph. Nevertheless, I accuse her of being a pessimist.
By now I have the camera out, and ever so slowly I approach a magnificent specimen. He watches me warily as he grazes on parched grass. Behind me, on the other side of the road, a large bull begins to snort and growl. He stands almost six feet tall; thick, shaggy beard and mane; piercing eyes; probably weighs close to a ton. He also looks to be the largest of the herd, which means he’s probably Head Honcho and might feel compelled to challenge me.
“Watch that big guy over there,” I tell my loving spouse. “If he so much as takes one step in this direction, give a shout.”
Terry objects, proclaiming that if buffalo chips start hitting the fan, the only butt she’s saving is her own.
“And I don’t have to out-ride him,” she points out. “I only have to out-ride YOU.”
You gotta love her.
Raising the camera to my eye, I snap the first shot. Sweet! I take more. Somewhere behind me, Head Honcho is snorting in an inhospitable manner. Again, I reiterate to Terry to keep an eye on him, and then creep closer to a group of cows and calves; snap more shots. I can hear Head Honcho snorting again.
“Is that big guy staying put?” I call out as I take another shot.
The only response I get is more snorts and growls from Honcho.
“Terry?”
Finally I turn around to see what’s going on. My wife is nowhere to be found. Honcho is across the road, staring me down, tail swishing back and forth. What the heck? Where’s my back-up? I look up and down the road... Oh, there she is—two hundred yards up the way, safe on the far side of the herd. She is standing there with her bike, waving hello to me.
It’s funny how my shirt now seems to be a brighter shade of red. With that in mind, and under Honcho’s vigilant eye, I carefully tip-toe back to my bike. Upon reaching it, and feeling brave again, I raise my camera to take a picture of him. But before I can snap the shot, he turns and struts away. Damn! My only photo of the omnipotent Head Honcho and it’s a butt shot.
By now the herd has wandered onto the road again. I clip into my pedals and start up the road. Their heads turn; they see me coming, bright red shirt and all. YEEHAW! In a surprising burst of power, they charge across the road and into a grassy field to get away from me. I accelerate, closing in on a couple of stragglers until they are no more than ten feet away. Then they, too, suddenly leap and surge ahead, escaping into the field. But for that brief moment in time, I am Oscar Starbuck, riding with the last bison herd on the planet.
When I ride up to Terry, grinning like a Cheshire Cat, she just shakes her head and says: “I worry about you.”
* * * *
The next day we ride out to Parson’s Landing on the West End, a scenic ride along the coast, past emerald coves, cherry orchards and Boy Scout summer camps. Late afternoon, we kick it in Two Harbors’ town square, eating ice cream while we wait for the ferry. It has been a nice romantic getaway for our one-year anniversary. There was “down time” to relax, and still we managed to log 35 miles on the bikes. But most memorable of all—behind spending a weekend on an island with my sweetie, of course—was our ride with the bison.
Not everyone shares my ardor of these creatures (Terry comes to mind). Many biologists and conservationists want them deported yesterday, contending—and rightly so—that the non-indigenous bovinae have overwhelmed the island's ecosystem by devouring the slow-growing grasses that cover the steep hillsides. The soil in over-grazed areas then becomes crumbly and exposed, leading to serious erosion problems. Even worse, as the grass becomes scarce due to the erosion problems, the bison then turn to eating 
prickly pear cactus and other native plants. The Catalina Island Conservancy, the non-profit organization in charge of protecting and administrating the island, has been dragging its feet for decades on the issue. This is because merchants enjoy tourists who come to the island to spend money, and tourists enjoy coming to the island to see the “buffalo”. In short, the bison problem has been a political third rail.
As a compromise, the Conservancy removed over half the herd in 2004, shipping them off to a preserve in South Dakota (near where my great-grandpa harassed their ancestors over a century ago). Around 250 head remain on the island. This seems to keep the tourists happy, and consequently the merchants as well.
When the ferry puts in, we roll our bikes down the gangway and stow them aft. We secure two seats on the main deck, up forward near the bar, and then settle in for the 90-minute cruise back to San Pedro. Halfway across the channel, the sun goes down. I drift off for a short nap. And for a brief moment in time, I’m back on the prairie, riding with the buffalo.
* * * *
Soon following our return, I happened to read online that a Canadian man was gored and killed by a bison in Alberta, just three days before we departed for Santa Catalina Island. It goes without saying that I probably won’t be able to persuade Terry to ride with the herd anytime soon.
For more photos from our Santa Catalina Island trip…
http://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/sets/72157622059497034/
