I bring a devastating update to you tonight. There are two tragic stories to share, one of the shipment of buffalo from the Yellowstone trap to the slaughterhouse, and another of the first killing of the season at the Beattie Gulch firing line. I tell you now of the Beattie Gulch “hunt”, and will share the tale of the ongoing slaughterhouse shipments tomorrow.
I told you in our last update of the big bull evading hunters and hazers alike on Friday night to graze peacefully on private land. He stayed in that area for three days – occasionally popping out to tease waiting hunters and give us a scare. We spent many hours sitting with that bull.
I also told you of the group of buffalo who had stopped just short of the Park boundary on Saturday. They crossed the river to spend a couple days in a field on the other side. Aside from occasionally getting too close to the highway, they were safe there.
This morning, Tuesday, the bull made his way back south just across the Yellowstone border. All of our buffalo allies here were happy he’d returned to the relative safety there. At the same time, the group had returned across the river, and started again nearing the border at Beattie Gulch. There was another bull spending time with that group, and upon seeing the lone bull, he ran to join him and one after the other they ran back into the danger zone. They seemed playful – chasing, wallowing, and enjoying each other’s company.
Unfortunately, their energy led them towards the killing fields. The rest of the group soon followed.
Remarkably, only one hunt party awaited them, a Blackfeet man who had spent days waiting for this chance to kill.
Slowly the group made their way into the kill zone. The man waited in the sagebrush, picked his target, and fired. It took him three shots to make the kill. The bull that had so recently joined his friend to run and wallow in the field had fallen. The grunts and grumbles he made as he died were heartbreaking. The entire group of buffalo gathered around their fallen brother, nosing and nudging him. Their grieving process is both tragic and beautiful. But the lone bull, robbed of his friend, was not content to grieve – he was very, very angry. Tail up he went towards the “hunter”, huffing in rage – but he turned, thankfully before the man shot again.
While tragic, I also realize, and reminded the press that was there to document, that this day is in no way representative of what usually happens on this killing field. There was only one shooter, he didn’t haze or push the buffalo, instead waiting for his chance. He picked one animal and killed him, not wounding any others in the process, and he chose to only fill one tag of the two he was allotted. I cannot say I am grateful to the “hunter”, but I am grateful it was not the disastrous and chaotic firing line that buffalo have met at Beattie Gulch so many times in the past.
The shooter did allow the buffalo a bit of time to grieve their fallen relative, but eventually chased them off. The group did not go far, and even two hours later I saw them return to the bloody scene to say another goodbye – one buffalo even nosing at the parts that lay in a game sled nearby.
After that final parting, the group turned and filed in a line south across the imaginary border and kept going, a mile or more, before coming to rest in a field. I can only hope they stay clear of the trap on their way back south.
The killing fields were empty of buffalo once again, and the ravens came in to have their fill. Just before sunset, however, I got another message – “there’s a bull in the Beattie Gulch parking lot”. I race out, wondering if any more “hunters” had heard the news and come to the area, but thankfully, no. And when I arrive, I see that the lone bull had returned, to be where he chose to be, danger be damned. I sensed a sadness in his face, as he stared me down with distrust. This wise old bull is safe for another day.
