Oh baby, stay away from those bison

I couldn’t immediately figure out why it was with some interest that I’ve read the recent stories about bison vs. tourist encounters.

I believe the score is bison 5 – tourists 0.

And then it hit me in the middle of the night: a memory of a time nearly 30 years ago where I outran a tiny bison named Baby as its owner stood idly by without a hint of remorse.

I am standing in a barnyard just west of Toledo, Ohio. It’s sometime in the early ’80s.

For some reason this farmer outside the tiny town of Delta has decided to toss some bison into the mix of his barnyard menagerie.

I’m in my early 20s and editor of a small-town weekly who struggles to fill his paper. These animals interest me. I don’t think there are a lot of bison in Ohio. And I think this will make a great story, complete with photos.

One of the smaller and younger of the specimens in his collection is named “Baby.” And the farmer is rambling on and on about them. I’ve got a notepad in my hand and my camera bag slung over my shoulder and repeating “uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh” as he jabbers on.

We are standing in a fenced barnyard with Baby and my car is parked way to the side.

The farmer — apparently no relation to Einstein, but perhaps kin to Dr. Evil — then says “Whatever you do, don’t smack them on the head, ’cause they hate that.”

And, honest to God, he brings his hand down and smacks Baby on the head.

To this day I wonder why he did it. People ask me if I asked the farmer and I don’t think I did.

All I can remember is that my eyes grew the size of saucers and Baby snorted and pawed the ground and I think somewhere in the background I heard the “ping, ping, ping” sounds of a heat-seeking missile. Baby knocks me into the dirt and rubs her forehead into me as I keep thwacking her on the forehead.

Yes, the village idiot who was just told to never hit a bison on the forehead decides that his one chance to live is to smack the noble beast on the noggin. I can still feel the coarse, Brillo-type hair.

I scrambled to my feet. I was younger and stronger back then, with much more of a desire to live. So I tucked my camera bag under my arm, turned and sprinted so fast that I’d bet I’d leave Jesse Owens in the dust.

As time goes on, I swear I could hear Baby’s snorts and feel her hot breath under my collar as I raced across the barnyard (and as time goes on, my memory has convinced me that this bison was much bigger and the threat was much more severe). With everything I had I left my feet and scooted across the hood of my Ford LTD, where I rested and, where fortunately, Baby came to a halt.

I sat on the roof of my car clutching my reporter’s notepad, put a pen into my shaking hand and kept asking questions.

In all honesty, I don’t think Baby was going to hurt me, I think she wanted to play. And since I was about her size and had thick, bushy hair, she likely considered me the perfect playmate.

But I do have a healthy respect for Mother Nature and all her creatures — great and small.

So my advice to all park tourists is to keep your distance, and, whatever you do, don’t smack them on the forehead.

Trust me, nobody wins.

Email Phil Drake at pdrake@greatfallstribune.com or call him at 406-791-6547.