When I was just twelve years old, almost exactly eight years ago from the present, my parents took my brother and me to Yellowstone National Park. Now as a twenty-year old in my junior year of college I still remember that trip as one of the most magical in my entire life, and one of the most real experiences I’ve ever had. Part of this magic was when during the trip I fell in love with the American bison. Once we reached the depths of Yellowstone it felt like the creature was everywhere. While we drove through the park’s dust paved roads there there would be field upon field on either side with the bison herds grazing in the distance. Each time we spotted them we would stop and ponder them from the safe length away. At one point they were even close enough to the road that we got out of the car, and I could look into their eyes. Entranced by one in particular, I kept inching myself closer looking into the blackness of its pupils amidst a clump of brown fur while it looked straight on at me entirely non-perplexed. Then suddenly my mom snapped at me out of fear to halt in my tracks, for with no fence between us I felt as if I was truly amid the herd, but she felt that the bison’s loud huffing and nostril-flaring was a sign it felt threatened and was going to charge at my small non-sinister body. Although I stepped back, I continued to gaze at the amazing beauty of the large muscled beast, and when we drove away, the herd crossed the road behind us. Turning around, I managed to spot a tiny baby buffalo in the middle of the road stretching its hind leg up to its head scratching its fur for a solid moment before following its family once again.

As my mom had felt terror for me encountering the buffalo, the bad taste that was left in my mouth after this venture came later when we stopped for lunch at a diner just outside the park’s border. I clearly remember sitting in the booth across from my brother and listening with horror when he decided that since the menu offered buffalo meat burgers he was going to try one. I was devastated, but despite my protests he ordered it. All I could picture while he gorged on his food was that baby buffalo innocently scratching its head. Was it just going to grow older only to someday find itself in a slaughter house? Thoughts such as this panicked through my young mind. And now, even knowing that the Yellowstone herds are protected, there are another approximately 61,300 buffalo in the United States that are slaughtered per year. Having known them to be such wildly freeing creatures I can’t bear to know they are bred like this. Watching my brother eat that burger broke my heart, so all I could do at that time was hope that the baby would never meet such a fate. Now all I can do is avoid encouraging the buffalo meat industry and support the growing herds that live among our national wonders.