Before I arrived, Utah state park officials told me most bison wranglers camp on the island during the three-day event. Clearly, I didn't understand their definition of "camping."
As I pitched my tent, I watched a caravan of expensive RVs, campers and trailers roll onto the island to form a makeshift village. That night I listened to the rumble of gas generators and neighing horses. In the distance, the shimmering lights of Salt Lake City reflected on the Great Salt Lake.
The roundup began early the next morning with a mandatory briefing. An assistant park ranger warned us that bison are not as docile as their bovine cousins. When buffaloes get angry, they lift their tails straight up and charge. Among the island's bison, the ranger told us, are several lone bulls -- mean, stubborn beasts that won't associate with the herd. Those rebels that don't get corralled on the first two days will be herded later by helicopter. At the end of the briefing, each rider signed a liability waiver, an indication of what was to come.
Atop my rented steed, an undersized quarter horse named Shorty, I followed other riders to an open field where about 250 bison had been grazing all night.
The riders formed a semicircle about half a mile long and advanced on the bison, herding them north. The experienced riders took the lead, riding only a few yards from the trotting animals. I stayed back and watched them move without protest. The sky was crystalline blue, and the breath from the animals dissipated like steam in the chilly morning air.
For several miles, I rode alongside Massie Tillman, a retired federal judge from Fort Worth who learned about the roundup during a previous visit to the island. Like Tillman, I was awestruck by the assembly of hulking, wedge-shaped animals.
"The most overused adjective in the English language is 'awesome,' " Tillman said as we rode. "But there is no other way to describe this."
Up to that point, the ride was easy. Maybe too easy.
Within an hour, the bison began to rebel. Every few minutes, a random buffalo charged out of the herd, apparently frustrated by being pushed too far, too fast. Horses and riders dodged the horned attacks in a cloud of dust.
The lead riders continued to whoop and holler. A bullwhip cracked like a rifle.
Amid the commotion, I saw an ambulance, its cherry-top lights flashing, speed along a road in the distance. I learned later that several riders had been thrown from their horses and one had broken a wrist. The ambulance took the injured rider away via a causeway on the north end of the island.
