On the buffalo trail at Antelope Island

After about two hours of riding, we gave the herd a much-needed break at a watering trough. This is where I got my first close look at Antelope Island's bison. These were plains bison, the shorter relative of the wood bison. Still, I marveled at the sheer size. The males weigh up to 2,100 pounds and stand as tall as 6 feet at the shoulders, lumpy mounds of muscle covered in black woolly fur. The heads were enormous but the torsos ended in narrow, almost delicate, hips. The calves stayed close to the adults, never straying from the protection of the herd.

When the break ended, we mounted up and pushed the herd over the ridgeline that bisects the island like a spine. Once we cleared the crest, our herd trotted downhill, joining up with bison that had been grazing on the other side. Now our herd numbered nearly 600 -- a rolling expanse of dust and black humpbacks. The scene couldn't compare to the one Lewis and Clark encountered but, for a greenhorn city slicker like me, it was truly, well, awesome.

Our final destination lay at the bottom of the hill: a large corral and several stalls where the bison would be held for medical tests.

The buffaloes sped down the mountainside, with our horses trotting to keep up. But when the herd reached the open gates, the bison stopped cold. They wouldn't enter the corrals, unwilling to exchange free-range grazing for fences and gates. We shouted. The bullwhip cracked, but the bison wouldn't budge.

The standoff lasted several minutes until a few reluctant buffaloes marched through the gates and the rest followed.

Once the gates slammed shut, the riders celebrated with shouts of glee. It had taken us about four hours to move the bison more than 15 miles. We were saddle-sore, hungry and thirsty. I accepted an invitation to join several other wranglers who were riding to a small concession restaurant on the north end of the island.

"What's for lunch?" I asked.

"Buffalo burgers," came the reply.

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When the sun set that night, the Utah sky glowed with the colors of vanilla and strawberry ice cream.

I wandered through the trailer village, watching my fellow wranglers as they prepared hamburgers and chili on barbecue grills and gas stoves.

Blanche Smith and Trena Andolsek, two friends from a nearby Utah suburb, tried to stay warm by a campfire. They had attended previous roundups in the 1990s, but were turned off by the use of helicopters to herd the bison. The old-school method -- volunteers on horseback -- was a much better experience, they told me.