Bison's Eye

Sometimes, you just have to get away. And not on some random airline. I'm talking about a good old fashioned, back of the station wagon kind of road trip. A good family vacation of this sort always produces stories that you can tell for years, or at least it should. Not wanting my kids to miss out on such an experience, last summer we loaded up the van and set forth on that utterly quintessential, cross-country family trip to the Grand Canyon. Holiday Road, anyone?

Long road trips are cathartic for me, especially if I'm driving. I am content to drive for hours in relative silence. While the occasional interlude of music or podcast isn't always unwelcome stimulation, I generally don't find it a necessity. Driving gives me time to process the perpetual jumble of thoughts inside my head. And this particular trip featured quite the collection of jumbled thoughts, as I was wrestling with the doubts not uncommon to a man in his mid-forties. Nothing dramatic, mind you, but the reevaluation of life's general trajectory at the proverbial half-way point seems to have become a frequent preoccupation of mine. After the first two days, I was feeling much better, much more settled in my spirit. But I digress.

The afternoon of the third day found us turning north on Hwy 89 from Flagstaff. The haze was heavy, muting the already earthen desert colors, but I was reveling in the alien landscape nonetheless. We came upon stretches of construction featuring one-lane alternating traffic that for the most part were tolerable, except for one where we found ourselves caught in a sudden, violent dust storm. I suppose there was a thunderstorm nearby, but we saw little rain from it. All traffic was stopped in both directions. As with any storm, sometimes you just have to wait it out until it passes. It always does.

From there, we swung over to 89A, filled up at Marble Canyon, rode along the base of the Vermillion Cliffs, and finally turned south on 67 across the Kaibab Plateau en route to the North Rim. The transformation of the landscape was startling, going from desert and haze to forest and blue sky in the late afternoon sun. Small meadows opened up on either side of the road. It was wonderfully picturesque, and my word don't do it justice. But my momentary reverie was about to be disrupted in a most startling way.

We were on approach to the small gatehouse marking the entrance to the North Rim, when I noticed a line of cars stopped in the opposing lane several hundred yards outside the park entrance. Further left, in an area of shallow meadow, was a herd of bison, about 30-head. That these people were stopped in the road alongside a herd of bison seemed to this traveler as not a wise thing to be doing. And then it happened.

As the gap closed between me and the line of paralyzed onlookers, from the herd came a beast, massive in size, with menace in his manner. He bounded along a path parallel to the road, and with a swiftness that defied his mass, turned toward us with head lowered, his visible eye wide and blazing. Like a movie cut in high definition clarity, slowed to half speed, I hit the brakes. Loose items suspended about me in mid-air, slave to Newton's equations, and slowly flew to the front of the cabin - GPS, phones, cups, snacks, and other various clutter that collects on a long cross-country family trip. But the van responded, nose dipped, and through a windshield that seemed much too close to my face, I watched as the beast passed mere meters in front of me, such that I could see the powerful flank rippling and glistening with sweat. And above all, the eye of my adversary glowering with an unveiled hostility. And then he was across the road, to my right. To my left, the standing line of onlookers, still not moving, jaws dropped in almost witless expressions and still clearly unaware of their imminent danger. As for me, I shifted my foot immediately from the brake to the accelerator, gently but deliberately leaving the scene lest the creature decide to take another shot at this mechanical beast that so threatened his herd. And in those moments after, as the passage of time returned to normal, as my pulse slowed and the nerve endings along my spine ceased to tingle, I could only express: Did that just happen? Did that really just happen? Even now, I can still remember with perfect clarity my close encounter with that thunderous beast. And his defiant, unforgiving eye.

In the year since these events, I have pondered and probed this experience for some deeper meaning, a way to turn what is merely a fun and thrilling tale into some sort of metaphor or allegory that illuminates some portion of this absurd existence. Alas, I have nothing. Nothing that isn't already painfully, ridiculously obvious. News flash: Bison are not tame, they are not cattle. They are fierce, powerful beasts that are highly protective of their herd, and will not shy from attacking anything or anyone they perceive to be a threat.

I have only this: A bison charging across the road always has the right of way. Always.

Words to live by, don't you think?