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		Dances With Buffalo Reprinted from February 2006 Issue -by RANDY BRICH Cresting the ridge, pedal strokes became fluid circles and warmth enveloped my body. Ahead, the road beckoned, snaking sinuously down a side canyon through broken stands of Ponderosa Pine. A couple more revolutions and gravity dictated the pace. I dropped into an aerodynamic shape, hunched over the handlebars, while a wonderland filled with wildlife unfolded before my eyes. With only the whirring sounds of knobbies on the pavement and wind in my ears, a herd of Whitetails flared their white flags, crossed the road and bounded effortlessly up the hillside. Descending several more miles made pedaling through the expansive scenery of Custer State Park effortless. Situated on the southeastern flank of the Black Hills, Custer State Park occupies the prairie-hills ecotone where the treeless Great Plains meet the forested hills, a transition zone where wildlife flourishes amidst temperate weather conditions. South Dakota’s Custer State Park—second only to New York’s Adirondack State Park in terms of sheer size—is an extraordinary mix of prairie and mountains. Featuring accessible recreation at its finest there are a dozen campgrounds, 3 lakes, 18 trailheads, world class rock climbing on graceful granite needles, and Harney Peak, the highest mountain east of the Rockies. The Park’s crown jewel, an 18-mile Wildlife Loop Road, arguably the North American equivalent of the Serengeti Plain in Africa which is normally bumper to bumper during the busy tourist season, offered a laid back March mountain bike ride. Serving up an abundance of charismatic megafauna, the Wildlife Loop Road is the US’s longest wildlife drive-through and caters to every appetite from ungulates to avids to canids. Whitetail and Mule Deer, Pronghorn Antelope, Bighorn Sheep, Elk, American Bison, wild burros, Coyotes, Mountain Lions and more range spectacularly across the 18,000 acres of grassland. With my wife, Michele, driving sag I am free to spin the Loop Road unencumbered by extra clothing, food and gear. Stripped down to the barest of minimums, my bike sailed through the Park seemingly powered by some unseen, unfelt force. Crossing yet another ridge, the prairie extended eastward in a panoramic vista—reminiscent of Costner’s Academy Award winning flick (which was filmed elsewhere in South Dakota) Dances With Wolves. Flowing down the winding lane, more Whitetails appeared near the road, in the draws, in the clearings and in the stands of pine. Feeling strong I picked up the pace and entered a broad valley. Gliding along, an unsuspecting herd of resting Pronghorns suddenly realized an intruder was approaching. Abruptly, the few closest to me jumped up and trotted away. Their movement triggered those in front and they incited the next and so on until the entire herd flowed across the clearing. Passing a friendly Park sign reminding me that “Buffalo are dangerous. Do not approach,” a gnawing question unsettled my psyche: Whitetails ostensibly everywhere; plenty of Pronghorns; some wild burros; and a few Bighorns; but no Buffalo. Where are the Buffalo? Numbering about sixty million until the late 19th century, the American Bison roamed the Great Plains from Texas to Canada. Native Americans, especially the Teton Sioux tribes, relied on the animal for practically everything—from food to utensils to clothing to shelter. With the onslaught of Europeans bent on realizing their Manifest Destiny a few short seasons brought near extermination by buffalo hunters and left only a couple small herds surviving their carnage. Obtaining a large male and female from the Yellowstone herd in the early 1900s, Custer State Park embarked on a reintroduction effort that testifies to the brilliance of early North American big game management programs. Today, the Custer State Park Buffalo herd, maintained at a winter carrying capacity of between 950 and 1,000 head, are rounded up annually, inoculated, tested and about 350 calves auctioned to the highest bidders. Boasting the purest DNA of any Buffalo in the world, the Park’s herd has founded thousands of private herds. During a recent Roundup, South Dakota’s Game, Fish and Parks Director John Cooper told me they don’t attempt to herd the big bulls as they are just too unpredictable. Tipping the scales at roughly a ton and capable of bursts of speed in excess of 40 mph these critters demand respect. In fact, a Park bull gored a motorcyclist a couple of years ago. While cruising the Wildlife Loop Road a herd of Buffalo separated a biker from his buddies. Intent on rejoining his friends and too impatient to wait for the herd to move on, he imprudently tried to ride his Harley through the herd. A large bull apparently decided the biker was challenging him and he charged, gored and threw the hapless biker (still attached to his 1,000-pound Harley) through the air. The seriously injured biker was whisked to a hospital where he later recovered. “Bison are dangerous and unpredictable,” warns the Park literature, exhorting everyone to “Please remember—Bison are wild animals. Practice safety. Do not approach.” At a solid 170 pounds riding a 30-pound mountain bike and averaging about 15 mph on the flats what chance would I have against an aggressive bull? Scarcely had the thought crossed my mind when the road dropped down a steep, thickly forested hillside. Gaining momentum and shifting adeptly I clicked through the rear cassette, quickly achieving top speed. A vague feeling of unease, for some unknown reason, however, pervaded my senses. As the driver of an oncoming minivan stared intently in his rear view mirror I wondered, “What is that guy looking at?” Instantaneously, a gigantic male Buffalo loomed ahead. Statuesque and majestic, the bull stood broadside in the shallow ditch on my right while panic-driven thoughts dashed through my head: at my current speed of 32-mph if I braked hard I’d come to a stop about 50 feet from the Buffalo and there’d be no way I could turn around and out run him back up the hill. Since he was standing in the ditch there was plenty of room to pass on the left side of the road, as long as he stayed in the ditch. Right then, the massive, monolithic, muscled assemblage of hair, hooves, head and horns decided to cross the road—but only halfway. With the distance between us closing fast his hulking bulk now occupied my entire lane. Still, he hadn’t yet indicated he was aware of my presence. Reducing my safe passageway by half (the left ditch was steep and timbered—an impossible escape route), he seemed to be thinking about continuing to cross the road. On reflex, I took a deep breath, spun as hard as a Tour de France leader trying to shake a wheel sucker, and feinted at the beast. He stopped; rotated his huge head toward me; whirled and lunged a couple of steps as my bike swerved far to the left and frantically sped past. Amped into hyper-drive, adrenaline coursed through my veins supplying fuel for flight. And fly I did for about a mile or so until the next hill reminded me that an aging 53-year old is not a Tour de France rider. After recovering slowly and spinning relaxingly up the last ridge Michele approached in the van. While loading my gear at the end of the ride, she informed me that back on the hillside “a big bull had charged the van” and she had gunned it to get away from him. “Really?” I replied. Freelancer Randy Brich lives, mountain bikes and writes on the Northern Great Plains.