Close Encounters of the Wild Kind

Sometimes survival is the story

I know what a buffalo's breath smells like.

It started out as one of those picture-perfect July mornings in North Dakota, the kind that makes you believe you could hike forever. I had a simple plan: walk eight miles in a big loop, break in my new camera, and soak in the scenery. Easy enough.

The trailhead dropped me straight into a bustling prairie dog town. As I walked, the prairie dogs scurried into their burrows, chattering away, popping in and out like little sentries, keeping their distance but always watching. They seemed as curious about me as I was about them.

A tall wooden post in the middle marked the trail's direction. I paused there to enjoy the prairie dogs for a few more minutes before continuing on my way.

At the top of the hill, the trail split into three narrow tracks, occasionally crossing each other, letting me switch back and forth as I went. Here and there, I spotted dried hoofprints and bison dung — evidence that I wasn't the only one who used this path. But today, I had the whole North Dakota wilderness to myself.

Or so I thought.

As I pressed on, I heard a strange sound behind me — a metallic noise, startlingly out of place, miles from civilization, like a megaphone at a prayer vigil. I stopped to check for a can or something shiny I might have stepped on. Nothing, so I kept walking.

When I hike, I might think about the trail ahead, a story I want to write, or dinner that evening. Sometimes, I pray, and sometimes, I ponder the meaning of life. That morning, my mind wandered back to that metallic sound, and I began to speculate on what it was. Surely, it wasn't just the wind. Then it hit me.

Rattlesnake. It might've been a rattlesnake. A little unnerved, I picked up the pace. Thankfully, I wouldn't be coming back that way.

A few people passed me on horseback, soaking in the North Dakota summer. Then, I met a young couple walking quickly back toward the prairie dogs, the first people on foot I'd encountered that morning. They looked frazzled.

"Have you seen a bobcat?" the woman asked as if that were a customary trail greeting.

I answered their question in the negative.

'We heard there's one on this side of the creek," she said breathlessly. "We saw something moving - so we're leaving."

And they did before I could warn them about the possibility of a rattlesnake. They were clearly spooked, but I hadn't seen anything myself. It was probably just nerves, I told myself. No need to cut my hike short over a rumor.

I soon passed an empty tent site - no one around, just some chairs and gear. I figured it must've been theirs. It made their story more plausible.

Imagination is a tricky thing, and mine began to jump around. As the trail dipped into shaded gullies, interrupting the sun-soaked open, I felt myself speeding up. I started scanning the woods in the low-lying areas ahead of me. I may have run through a few of them like an old man being chased by his own thoughts. Which I guess I was.

The trail rose back to higher ground, running above the creek bed. With a ten-foot ledge looming beside me, I kept an eye out for movement above me. Traversing that part of the trail, I was still alone. Probably.

The way ahead twisted, and from a higher vantage point, I saw a bison carcass on the bank below. All that was left were bones and hide, but unmistakably bison. My fears screamed, "Bobcat!"

But I had to keep going. Shaking off the feeling, I walked on.

Shortly, I hit a snag at the creek. No bridge. No steppingstones. Just muddy banks and eight feet of murky water that could be ankle-deep or knee-high. Crossing meant wet shoes and socks or muddy feet and, more importantly, risking that brand-new camera hanging around my neck. The potential costs outweighed the benefits of crossing the creek. I was still an accountant, even in the backcountry. And so, disappointed, I turned around and walked slowly back toward where I'd started.

Of course, that meant hiking back through bobcat territory and past the maybe rattlesnake spot. I moved cautiously, and when I reached the top of the hill overlooking the prairie dogs, I finally relaxed. I'd made it.

But I was wrong. So wrong.

That's when the real adventure began.

Off in the distance, down in the prairie dog town, stood a lone bison bull. My first thought was that I needed to get a good picture with my new camera. Now, a reasonable person might've observed from a distance, taken a quick photo with a zoom lens, and called it a day. But I had a brand-new camera and an unreasonable belief in my power to hide and stay safe.

So, I made my way to the trail marker in the middle of the prairie dog town and leaned against it, camera ready. Billy Bison wandered closer. When he looked my way, I ducked behind the post like a child playing hide-and-seek. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

It wasn't.

He kept ambling toward me—slowly, steadily, impressively. A bison can weigh up to 2,000 pounds and stand six feet tall. Yet, amazingly, he can run 35 mph when he wants to. I looked up all that stuff up afterward.

I urged him closer with my mind, hoping for the photographer's perfect shot. I never got it.

He was clearly heading for the marker - and me. It was time to move. There weren't any trees, and I wasn't supposed to wander off the trail where I might damage prairie dog burrows or twist an ankle. But it was either prairie dogs or buffalo.

You know which one I chose.

I tiptoed down into their territory, dodging burrows and watching my footing. I stood about 25 feet from the post in the open. I figured I could still get a decent shot and stay safe since buffaloes are nearsighted.

When he reached the post. I started my GoPro, amused as he used it to scratch his itches, first on the left side and then on the right. He was majestic and oddly endearing. Until he turned and looked at me. I felt him squinting, trying to figure out what I was.

It wasn't amusing anymore.

He took two slow steps in my direction, so I turned off my GoPro and began searching for a new spot to stand. Too late. I looked back, and he was already charging. I had no time to run. He was thundering toward me, and all I could do was plead, "Help me, Lord!" I twisted away at the last second with a spin move worthy of the NBA. He missed me. Barely.

He'd been close. Way too close. Reach-out-and-touch-him close. Smell-his-breath close.

His momentum carried him past me down the slope, but I wasn't just standing there waiting for him to turn around. I was already on my way out of there, and he let me go. Mr. Bison had made his point, and he knew it.

So did I.

And in case you were wondering, a buffalo's breath smells earthy, musty, like rotting hay.

Thinking back, I realized that that moment stripped everything down to who I really was. I had no time to pretend, no time to plan. I found out that I didn't freeze under stress. I didn't overanalyze. I called out to God, and I moved.

You might say, I didn't agonize; I prayed. I didn't analyze; I acted.

You can call it all instinct and adrenaline, or you can call it God answering my prayer. I say it's both. It was the natural and the supernatural colliding in that split second that the prairie dogs are still chattering about.

Back at the car, my heart rate had slowed, but one question still lingered: What was that metallic sound? I pulled out my phone and found audio of a prairie rattlesnake's rattle. Yeah, this city boy had definitely walked by a rattlesnake.

Now they tell me.

Later, I found a park ranger and told her my bison story. She nodded patiently, then said, "You're lucky there wasn't a female around. It could've been much worse for you."

And then she added the kicker: "You know it's 25 yards, not feet, right?"

Right. Yards. Well, live and learn, with a big emphasis on the "live."

So, let me ask you: Have you ever had a close encounter of the wild kind? How did you respond?