boys and buffalo

Just over a week ago Daren went biking with a couple friends from the fire department. He was supposed to meet us at Brenda's for haircuts that afternoon, but that afternoon he sent me a text, "Hey I won't be making it to Brenda's. Wow do I have a story for you! But I'll wait to tell you later when I get home." After we heard the story, my mom talked him into writing it down, and so, in his own words...

On Saturday, March 20, the first day of spring, I went mountain biking on Antelope Island with Scott and Billy, two of my good friends from the fire department. It was one of the first warm days of the year and we were really enjoying being outside in the sunshine with the clean air, beautiful scenery and snow capped mountains in all directions. We rode for a few hours until we got to the large valley east of White Rock Bay. The valley has a three mile loop trail that follows about a mile up the bottom of the valley, cuts across a large meadow at the top and then runs back out along the side of the mountain just below the ridge line. About half way up the trail we came upon an out of breath jogger, a really short and squatty guy, who wondered which direction to go to get back to the parking lot. The jogger said he had been chased by some buffalo and ended up way off the trail. He said the buffalo had chased him until he was able to get to an outcropping of large rocks to hide in. We pointed him in the right direction and off he went. The guy was dressed in white from head to toe and was acting pretty dramatic so it was difficult to take him too seriously. Once he was out of earshot, we joked and laughed at the idea of a jogger being chased by a buffalo and hiding behind a rock, as if a buffalo would care that much about a jogger.

After a short break to eat some lunch, we continued along the trail. As we crossed the large open meadow (about a mile across or more), we noticed a herd of about twenty-five buffalo grazing in the meadow a few hundred yards ahead of us. They were on both sides of the trail, but seemed to be slowly heading away from the trail and up over the ridge line. Now we began to wonder if the jogger's story had any truth to it. Because we were a little nervous, we stopped to make a plan. Since the trail going past the buffalo was a little downhill and looked pretty smooth, we decided we would get some speed on our bikes, stay close together, try to hustle past the herd, and make as much noise and ruckus as possible in hopes of encouraging the buffalo to keep their distance. We started down the trail with me in the middle and each of my buddies directly in front and behind me. About the time we had covered half the distance between our starting point and the buffalo, my rear bike tire blew out and immediately went flat. We stopped and watched the buffalo to see what their reaction would be. They didn't seem to mind at all and went on grazing in the meadow.

The three of us talked among ourselves and decided we would stay right there and fix the tire as quickly as possible. The nearest cover was a bunch of large boulders that were at least a hundred yards away and uphill from where we were standing, and we figured we could fix the bike in less time than it would take for us to move behind the rocks for cover. I pulled the rear wheel off the bike, then Scott broke the tire off the rim and pulled the old tube out while I was digging my spare tube out of my bag. Billy kept a close eye on the Buffalo, who were still just grazing along and not taking much notice of us. We put the new tube in and Scott hooked his small hand pump to the stem. Scott had made just a few quick pumps with the air pump when Billy said, "oh $#&%." We looked up and there was a large Buffalo running in our direction. Our packs and tools were spread out all over the ground, and my rear wheel was off the bike and basically empty of air. Scott said, "Should we take the bikes or just run." About the time the buffalo was a hundred feet or so from us, he stopped running and seemed to lose interest.

By this time we were completely pumped with adrenaline and unsure of how to handle such a completely unfamiliar situation. We hastily gathered our tools and decided to retreat up into the rocks with our bikes and parts to regroup. We turned around and started walking away slowly, being careful not to make any quick moves or noise. After we had taken a couple of steps, Scott said: "I sure hate the idea of turning my back on a wild animal." No sooner had he spoken those words than Billy again said, "oh $#&%!" I turned to look over my shoulder and two other buffalo were running full speed at us, even more intently than the first buffalo had been. At that point, we started running for the rocks as fast as we could. I was carrying my bike (because it still had no back wheel) and the others were pushing theirs on the ground. Scott had my bike wheel in his other hand. We ran for what seemed like forever but was probably five seconds. I looked back and they were still coming, probably fifty feet away. Then forty. Then thirty. I broke away and headed uphill from the group in hopes that my running a different direction might confuse the buffalo or make us look bigger and more threatening to them, but they didn't care. Twenty feet. Fifteen feet. The closer they got, the louder their their gallop became until it sounded like a thunderstorm. The ground shook when their massive hooves made contact with the dirt, like the feeling of standing by the tracks when a train is passing. We were still at least a hundred feet from the rocks.

Having grown up Colorado, Billy understands the importance of running faster than the next guy when being pursued by wild animals. Consequently, he was several steps ahead of us as the buffalo got close. The thought occurred to me and Scott at about the same time that we were never going to get away. Out of sheer panic and desperation, we both stopped abruptly and turned around. Scott swung my bike wheel in the direction of the buffalo, nearly hitting the closest one in the head. I threw my bike to the ground and began flailing my arms and yelling like a cowboy as loud as I could. Luckily, at the last second the buffalo dug in their hooves and stopped just short of Scott. Hunched down on his front legs, the closest buffalo lowered his huge head as if he were going to ram into Scott and his bike, then he let out a loud snort, turned his head to the side, and started back toward the herd. The second buffalo soon followed and they ended up about fifty feet away from us. We kept running until we got up into the rocks, never taking our eyes off the buffalo again. They went back to grazing and seemed uninterested in us from that point on. Once we were hidden in the rocks, hearts pounding and completely out of breath, we sat down to collect ourselves. Scott mumbled something about messing his pants. It took about ten minutes before we could gain enough composure to laugh at the situation. It was crazy. By the time we fixed the bike and rested up, the herd had moved beyond the ridge and away from the trail. We gathered our gear and made a hasty ride down the trail and off the mountain. On the way home, we went a few miles out of our way for a stop at the Burger Bar in Roy so we could eat buffalo burgers in celebration of having survived the ordeal.

So fortunately we still have a husband and dad. Crazy deal!! (I did ask if he got any pictures--sadly, no)