Another Tuesday night and thirty cyclists pedal to another group training ride in Jackson Hole. The group wears a colorful mix of team jerseys, dominated by the orange and green shamrock of our local shop. We mount and ride north out of Jackson towards Kelly and the long, straight roads of northwest Wyoming
“Looks like we’re coming up to a herd” Doc says to the group,“Buckle your lids lads. These ones are right along the road.”
I look and see the rounded backs and broad woolly heads of two dozen bison. Of all the large mammals found here in Jackson Hole, bison seem to burden bicyclists the most. Six feet in height, eleven feet in length, 1500 pounds, and tipped with horns - Bison bison. For reasons unknown these grass-eating ungulates ignore vehicles, give runners a few moments of pause, but make it clear to cyclists that they are not welcome near their herds. The bison runs at thirty-five miles per hour and can leap a five foot fence – surprising for such a massive beast. Even on my racing bike, I could not ride from a full-speed bison.
We ride within one hundred yards. A few large males stop chewing and glare as we approach. A thick, black nose rises and grunts.
From the front, a rider yells back, “I don’t think this one wants us to pass. Let’s pick up the speed.” The bison grunts again and steps forward, now within twenty feet of the road. The peloton surges ahead, but the surge startles the beasts. A large male lowers his horns and charges.
Our peloton splits in half. Those in front sprint hard to slip by the beast. Those in the rear hit their breaks and drop their jaws as the episode unfolds before them. The cyclists bunch tightly. The bison, with lowered horns, advances. Their courses will collide. The cyclists see this and demand all their legs will give. They group more tightly and accelerate. Within three yards, the bison charges, then suddenly veers away. He leaves the riders to their journey and, standing in the middle of the road, turns towards us. His wooly head swings like a barn door on thick hinges. We stare at one another, on an empty Wyoming road, fifteen yards apart.
Half of our riders slipped by, but I don’t think the rest of us will win this battle. Some riders turn bikes and proceed to Jackson with a wave. I suggest to others that we wait a few minutes and try again. A half dozen agree and we circle a little to provide space. During those minutes the bison return to nibbling grass. Finally we approach again, and this time three wooly heads lift. Within moments, a dozen hooves – the three largest males of the herd – charge onto the roadway.
Being the leader, I stop. My shoes click down on the pavement. The bison continue to advance. I hop off my bike and lift it, holding it as a shield, quickly realizing I’d be better off on top than behind it. The rest of the group immediately turns and flees, except Doc and one of his pals. I look quickly to the two men for help, but instead find two ol’ timers chuckling in their tights.
“WHOA” I shout at the bison, sounding as tough as possible. “WHOA now – Huuh”
They advance.
“Hmpph”, I say, pumping my shield.
It works. The bison stop their run, two yards from my shield. I’m frozen. They, five thousand pounds, all horns and snouts, walk forward. I click backwards. I consider leaping onto my saddle and racing away, but fear they’ll trample me in the two seconds it takes to mount. Finally I’ve retreated enough for the bison to relax.
The two ol’ timers are still chuckling. Everyone else has pedaled away. “You call yourselves Wyoming cyclists don’t you?” Doc hollers over his shoulder at the fleeing riders, but they are long gone. I am left to answer.
“Um, yeah, er”, still startled from three charging bison, “I think so, yes.”
“Well?” he said.
I could only think of three places where it would be possible to cycle with bison on a regular basis – the Tetons, Yellowstone- our national park neighbor to the north, and the Badlands of South Dakota. Bison once roamed throughout our nation, numbering 30 – 60 million, but now wild bison herds have shrunk to 20,000, with the largest herd being in Yellowstone. (cit. Wildlife Conservation Society) Outside of National Parks, they are often killed for fear of transmitting disease to cattle, or are limited in range by fences and private land.
“I don’t think I’m gonna get by these boys” I say, “do you want to try?”
“Sure son, we still got half a ride left. Let’s head into the sagebrush flats, alongside the Gros Ventre River , making a big loop around them and back to the road.” Doc tells me and his pal. “If he charges again, we’ll leap from the bank and into the river”
Leap into the river? While riding our speedy road bikes through sage singletrack? He’s serious. The vertical drop to the whitewater below is fifteen feet, and the Gros Ventre is swollen with snowmelt.
“I wouldn’t touch that with a whitewater kayak, never mind on my bike.” I say, “Aren’t bison pretty good swimmers”
“Yeah” Doc confirms, “you should throw your bike first. Keeps it dry and it distracts the stampede while you swim for it”
“Oh.”
I take another look at the bison. They chew silently, but had not moved. I scan the road for an approaching truck, one that I could hop in the back of and be transported to safety. Or if a car arrives – I could ride close to its bumper, coasting through the herd, with the car as my shield. I’ve used these techniques many times to ride through herds. Today, no vehicles approach.
“Come on son – you ain’t gonna win that fight” They say, riding off together into the dirt and sage.
“Yeah, I’m coming right behind you. I just gotta spin around.”
They leave the road and began bumping along the dirt trails. I see their calves pumping smoothly over the rough ground. I thrash through shrubs of sage. My skinny wheels rattle over potato-sized stones. I find a remnant of a trail, probably made by deer and elk, and I follow it alongside the river. I loop half way around them; the bison are parallel to me. The Gros Ventre River flows below me. I look up to see Doc and his pal reaching the pavement, and then suddenly I hit a badger hole.
Down I tumble, though not too hard. I stand up, lift my bike, brush dirt from my side and get ready to go. Then the bison come, one last time. I can’t pedal very fast in the dirt. “Whoa” I say, but they still charge. “Whoa!” I shout again. “WHOA” one more time but they keep on running. I toss my bike and jump.
