Bison Crossing the Cutthroat Trail

It's a sunny day in Yellowstone Park and I stand on a bluff, looking down at the Lamar River, which appears like a wide silver ribbon, speckled with giant boulders, and framed on both sides by rolling hills colored with silver sagebrush. The Lamar River meanders to the west, on a snaking course to the Yellowstone River, through rugged timbered mountains, and dark canyons.

Herds of buffalo, or bison, dot the Lamar valley, the Serengeti of the mountain West. Buffalo ground. On the drive up the Lamar we passed a couple of herds that were lingering near the road, the adults a dark brown color, with short curved horns, high shoulders, and odd shaggy patches of hair on a few of the animals. The bison calves, reddish-brown in color, are born in late April or May, and they shadow the sides of their moms, always on the lookout for sneaky Grizzly bears or packs of wolves.

Large bulls roam around giving out an occasional bellow, seemingly inspecting all they animals around them. They are close to entering breeding season, and the bulls will soon become very possessive of their herds and brawl and clash with other males in dusty head butting duels.

My wife Louise and I decided to hike into a quiet spot on the Lamar River in Yellowstone Park, in search of the elusive cutthroat trout. We parked the truck on the road and hiked up a bunch grass and sage covered knoll, following a sandy, well trodden buffalo trail, treading through a few recently tended wallows. The wallows were several feet across and formed a circular depression a couple of feet deep. The bison, or buff, had been busy at wallows, trundling, stirring and stomping the soil to a fine dust, then rolling in the powder, to tend their hides and scrape off pesky bugs and unkempt hairs.

Looking to the north I can see several patches of snags or dead trees, and probably half of them have fallen to the ground, spore of the fires of 1988. The woody boles of the downed trees, line up in a northeasterly direction, and apparently strong sou' wester winds have mowed them down, with unknown purpose. I wonder if it's natures design to have all snags fall to the east, as if the mountain gods must be appeased.

The standing snags are a silvery, gray color and many of the dead branches have fallen off, and they look like porcupine quills. Humongous quills, 60 feet tall. As if some giant porcupine swatted the hills with its tail, leaving swaths of quills stuck in the rock and sand, in hundred acre chunks.

We continued on the buffalo trail, following a low ridge to the north until we discovered a side path to the Lamar river, that wound its way through a wet meadow or cienaga, with tall, dense grass and hidden seeps of water. At the river the trace followed along the cut bank, the trail stomped in the tall grass, with a few deep footprints in the mud.

We came to a breach in the cut bank where there was a sandy beach with an easy access to the the waters edge, which was obviously a ford for the buff to cross the Lamar River, and on the opposite bank I could see a wide trail coursing up the steep bank. The river was very clear with a slight greenish tinge, lined with rocks and gravel and a sprinkle of large granite boulders with quiet deep eddies of water in their shadows. The hideout of lunker trout and the lair of the fly fisherman and an occasional grizzly bear, also known as a “silvertip”. This trace has probably been used for hundreds or thousands of years by herds of buffalo and elk, with its strategic geographic location.

There were a couple of large whitish colored bones laying in the sand, probably from a buffalo and nearby more bones buried a two feet deep in the rich dark loam soil, deposited by water over the eons. Historic bones of drowned or winter killed buff or elk, or the ancient kill of prairie warriors. Newly printed deer, buffalo, and sandpiper tracks marked the beach, a watering hole for thirsty animals, or birds in search of sneaky but tasty bugs.

I unlimbered my fishing rod, rigged up a bug, and soon had my fly line weaving with the blue sky in arching patterns, and delicately landed a dry fly on the rippled surface of the river. A series of large boulders, in the water, made for great trout habitat, with deep waters and eddies on their downstream side. The water was crystal clear and the winds were light which made it easy to watch the dry fly float down the stream, in a seemingly perfect ruse or deception, for a hungry fish looking for a meal of an insect. It doesn't get any better for fisherman.

I fished for a couple of hours, keeping an eye out for wandering buff and silvertips, to make sure there wouldn't be any accidental encounters, with stomping hooves and sharp teeth. My catch of cutthroat at the end of the day is slim, but the fishing was fine, and I snared a heap of memories, of silvery waters, mountains, herds of buffalo and a grand picnic on the banks of the Lamar.

Walking back to the truck at the end of the day, I stop at a buffalo wallow and mull over the existence of buffalo, and a couple of hikers, and wonder if perhaps there is something to a good roll in the dust. After all, look at the bison and how large and healthy they look and maybe all that powder does a body good. Pondering my gray beard, perhaps I qualify to get down on all fours, roll in the dust, and pulverize and pound some perfectly good soil into powder, and kick up a few dusty geysers. Maybe another day.

Buffalo Trace on The Chinook Prairie

I have always enjoyed trekking the prairie of eastern Montana. On on particular trip I drove north of Chinook, Montana, towards the Canadian border. The medicine line. I had a map showing federal lands and I was searching for undisturbed prairie. A chunk of bunch grass wilderness.

The road bed was gravel and my car kicked up a plume of chalky colored dust. I found a wide spot in the road to park and headed out on foot across the flat prairie, on no particular path, intent on exploring and wandering. To the south, about 30 miles away, I could see the high peaks of the Bears Paw Mountains at 5,000 to 6,000 feet. The summits are scarfed with black patches of timber; douglas fir, subalpine fir and ponderosa pine and the creek bottoms are lined with wild rose, chokecherry, service berry and willow.

The prairie I was hiking was about 2,600 feet in elevation, on a level plain, with an occasional shallow drainage, most of them dry, and a few stock ponds and small lakes, that shelter ducks and shorebirds. The prairie looks flat but it's quite deceiving because there are hidden arroyos which you can't see until you get out and start hiking. I continued my trek, wandering towards the east and my truck was soon out of sight. The sky was a dark indigo blue color and cloudless, and it was a fine day to be out.

The prairie seems trackless but there are a many over grown trails of buffalo and elk, Indians, cowboys and whiskery runners. The prairie is dominated by grasses, typically, buffalo grass, grama, wheatgrass, and needlegrass and the home of mule deer, pronghorn, jackrabbit, prairie dogs, coyotes, fox, 13-lined ground squirrel, badgers, sage grouse, sharp-tailed grouse, and greater prairie chickens. Long gone are the buffalo, wolves and grizzlies.

It's so quiet on the high plains you can almost hear yourself think. The limitless horizon is daunting, and it seems to swallows you alive. Some find it lonely on the prairie but I find it exhilarating. Often the only noise is the rustling of wind across the dry stalks of bunch grass, and the occasional screeching of a Red-Tailed Hawk, "keeeeer keeeer". Or the whistling sound made by the wings of a brace of teal, flying low headed for scarce water.

A Horned Lark landed on a nearby perch, and stared at me, as if I am disturbing his peace or invading forbidden territory. The lark, in his bandido like outfit (minus the sombrero) looked directly into my eyes, warning me to flee his prairie empire. The Horned Lark has very unique coloration with black like horns, a dark mask and a conspicuous black breast band under the throat like a bandanna. The Lark lingered for a few minutes, giving me the evil eye, and I decided to move on, and end my intrusion on it's nesting territory.

At night the vast prairie of eastern Montana is wall to wall stars, planets and meteors. The Milky Way dominates the sky from horizon to horizon and northern lights often dance the sky shimmering, shaking, waning and waxing. The Indians have a belief that the northern lights are our ancestors, coming back to visit.

I walked slowly through the short grass and kept one eye to the ground, looking for interesting rocks or other objects. Much of northern Montana was glaciated by continental glaciers, leaving a wide diversity of rocks and minerals, in its wake.

I spotted something on the ground, out of the corner of my eye that looked odd. The object had a curved shape and it was a horn. I thought perhaps it was from a domestic cow but it was a horn from a buffalo. A trace of the ancient herds. The outside surface of the horn was badly eroded and flaked but it retained its shape and heft. I decided to keep the buffalo horn put it in my pack.

13 million buffalo, once roamed Montana. By 1883 buffalo had been exterminated by hide hunters with one of the last massacres occurring in northern Montana in the Sweetgrass Hills. A few remnant herds were protected in Yellowstone Park and on the Flathead Reservation and exist to this day.

I crossed a shallow ravine, crawling through thick brush, and a few hours later turned and headed back to the west, towards my truck. I hesitated because the terrain looked very unfamiliar with no distinguishing landmarks, except for the Bears Paw Mountains, way off to the south. I knew I had to hike in a westerly direction but I wasn't sure where my vehicle was. It was a warm summer day and I had plenty of time to find my way, and to scout new territory. Ahhh, the life of the high plains drifter.