A Restoration Story
Preface
In the fall of 2019, I was approached by my good friend Christian Winn, Boise author, Idaho Writer in Residence, and director of Storyfort. Falling under the umbrella of the Treefort Music Festival, Storyfort showcases authors, journalists, and members of organizations or the public, and gives them stage time to share their story with an audience.
Feeling the political landscape, Chris wanted Storyfort to showcase the environment. He had engaged Idaho Conservation League (ICL), and they proposed several story events that advocated for salmon in Idaho. Salmon run hundreds of miles from the Pacific, up the Columbia River, Snake River, and then the Salmon River to spawn in the Idaho high country, and in doing so, they provide critical ecological, economic, recreational, and spiritual elements to the people of Idaho. Many factors have influenced the abrupt decline in Salmon populations in the last forty years, but the most blunt is the four dams on the lower Snake River. The reservoirs these dams create drastically increase salmon’s migration while leaving them extremely vulnerable to predators. At this point, salmon runs have dropped disastrously low, and ICL is at the forefront of advocacy for the endangered species.
Knowing he had ICL on board and a venue set, Chris thought my photography could supplement the experience of the audience, and I was brought into the conversation. Obviously, ICL’s representative wanted pictures of Idaho’s rivers and salmon. I said that if it was critical, then I was not the right artist for this project. Although I loved salmon, I did not have the capacity to capture quality images in time for the event. However, I proposed that I could provide images from another conservation success, and hopefully that would provide a counterbalance to show that no matter how dire the situation was, a positive outcome was possible. I offered to add written narrative to provide context and hope.
It was all set to go in late March 2020. We all know what happened next. As the world stopped, I was afforded more time to go outside and as I was living in Bozeman, Montana, I could easily escape to Yellowstone and follow the bison to see if I could catch a glimpse for what they had been through to get to this point in time. Just maybe I could get a feel for how their rejuvenation could inspire a similar result for salmon in Idaho.
When I guided in Yellowstone, I would tell this story:
It’s estimated that between 30-60 million bison once roamed the North American continent from the arctic to the desert and within almost every U.S. state. The species was hunted to near extinction because of the usefulness of its hide in the production of belts for the factories of the Industrial Revolution. Also, the federal government realized they could solve the “Indian problem” by exterminating their main food source- the American Bison.
Yellowstone National Park, established in 1870, became a refuge for the remaining wild bison because of its remoteness and the protection provided. However, Congress did not allocate funding, staffing, or regulations for the park, which allowed poachers to continue harvesting wildlife within its borders. As the herds of the Great Plains disappeared, Yellowstone’s bison remained a lucrative target for poachers.
George Bird Grinnell spent much of his twenties traveling the Western frontier of the 1870’s and he experienced the great bison herds while joining a hunt with the Pawnee tribe. Later, Grinnell saw the bison’s rapid decline and used his platform as editor of a hunting magazine to advocate for conservation efforts to protect them. (He also became an advocate for the native tribes that he spent much time with, especially the Blackfeet and the Cheyenne). He organized a group of respected men called the Boone and Crockett Club, which included a young Theodore Roosevelt. Realizing the critical importance of Yellowstone’s bison, the Boone and Crockett Club spent years seeking legislation to stop wildlife poaching in the national park.
If you look at Grinnell’s journals, he was about to give up hope. He felt he was up against too many powerful interests. He could also see that bison were disappearing too fast. However, he persisted. He trusted his vision, no matter how dark the future appeared, and eventually laws were enacted to provide protection for the last remaining bison until they could build the capacity to restore the species. Even as the Lacey Act was passed, the species declined. Around the turn of the century, as little as about 25 wild bison remained in Yellowstone.
The Lamar River is the major tributary of the Yellowstone River within the national park and the Buffalo Ranch in Lamar Valley became the center for restoration efforts for the bison. Today there are over 4,500 wild bison in Yellowstone National Park, about 80% of which graze in the Lamar River watershed. Although Grinnell never lived to see their recovery, his vision for Yellowstone bison came true.
When guiding in National Parks, you can’t not talk about what we’re facing in environmental issues on the local landscape. You can’t not talk about climate change. And you can’t not talk about lack of funding, increased visitation, invasive species, extinction, drought, and fire. I always told Grinnell’s story, sometimes first thing in the morning, sometimes later in the day, but no matter when I told it, I’d see a head nod, narrowing of the eyes, or a subtle smile that revealed they were having that aha moment. I’d see them realizing what it means to persist, especially against forces seemingly greater than yourself.
I’d see them realizing what we can do when we’re visionary.
Much like salmon, the American Bison is an icon, a symbol of place. Just as Idaho would not be Idaho without salmon, Yellowstone isn’t Yellowstone without bison. Bison once roamed most of the North American continent because they’re a resilient species. They can shed fur to survive in 100-degree weather and regrow it to stay warm in below freezing temperatures. They can run fast, they can run far, and they can jump high. The massive hump of muscle on their shoulder can swing a massive head and toss a wolf twenty yards. They’re the largest animal in the landscape, and they know it.
However bison were no match for guns
just as salmon are no match for dams.
One hazy, summer evening in 2020 while leaning against my truck on the side of a dirt road that abuts Ted Turner’s Diamond D ranch outside Bozeman, I watched dozens of bison stroll along the valley. Mothers, juveniles, and calves marched along in the direction of the fading sun on their own migration. Then, way behind the herd, a bull hobbled along on three legs, the lower half of a hind leg missing. Being rut season, I was not surprised to see an injured bull, but to be missing a lower half of a leg seemed particularly gruesome. It didn’t seem right that the was no blood or apparent wound. I wondered had it been a few days and healed already? As I watched this bull hobble, I couldn’t help but contemplate how this may be his last migration. I tried to admire this strong animal limping along while it still could, but I became overcome with sadness at what I believed to be its last steps. As he limped into the distant valley and towards the setting sun, on his own and left behind at this point, I felt too sad to stay.
When I got into service I texted my close friend, a botanist on the ranch, to notify her about the injured bison. “Tripod!” she replied. She told me he’d been injured, and they’d amputated the leg, not knowing how long he’d last. It’s been several years now. I’ve always admired the resiliency of the wild world when it’s given a chance.
Yet no matter how strong, smart, or adaptable a species, no resilient wild animal can overcome a bar that is set too high.
Salmon are on the brink in Idaho, and in serious danger of going extinct in the Salmon River. I fell in love with the iconic fish as a teenager in the 90’s, and I’m heartbroken to see them struggling on “with only three legs.” At this point it seems as if we as a society have cut off all their metaphorical legs and said good luck as we kick them out the passenger door of the car onto the curb while suggesting they walk home on their own.
I’ve been blessed to see many magical days of salmon spawning in the Secesh River near McCall or in creeks by Stanley. I’ve seen them flash out of the river below Dagger Falls like shooting stars as they disappear into pools in the falls. I desperately yearn for salmon to have their own restoration story. I hope these aren’t their final migrations.
