It's a steep climb up a narrow track to get to an enticing petrified forest protruding from the hillside scrabble, but my partner and I will first have to span a short stretch of prairie between two small buffalo herds, all heads down and moving slowly north. We gauge the grazers while gearing up with hiking boots, day packs, binoculars, and water bottles. Preoccupied with nibbling, the bison appear placid enough on this cool June morning for us to chance a crossing through the hundred-yards of grassland between the two herds.
We're halfway across when a bull at the front of the rear herd glares up at my red tee shirt, stems hanging from his suddenly closed mouth. We freeze until another bull at the rear of the front group turns to fix a fiery eye on the two skinny creatures crossing his pasture.
Our West Virginia home is in black bear country so we know what to do when stumbling between a mama and her cubs - stand still, raise your arms to look larger, and slowly back away when she's not charging. This strategy seems ridiculous in the face of these two massive buffalo.
One of the bulls snorts and paws the dusty earth. Shannon whispers oh shit, and we take off, binoculars clacking in our race for the path up the ridge. Breathlessly topping a first hill, we turn to see that the bulls are back to grazing, their shaggy heads bent to the little bluestem.
As the day heats up at the top of the next rise, we pause for water and glance back to see what we should have known from the start. The two groups of bison have merged into the single herd they'd been all along.
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