LITMIR.BIZ

      An American Bison or “buffalo” herd, maintained by the City of Denver, wanders a snowy field in Genesee, Colorado. (Photo by Ian Neligh)

      “Bison were a huge part of the American West, and so I think the two strongest motivations [for the park to take action] were conservation and also making sure that people had that tangible connection to the Old West and Denver’s identity,” Dennison says.

      Matthew Brown, the bison caretaker for the Genesee herd, pulls up in his pickup and Dennison and I climb into the cab. Brown, in a worn Carhartt jacket and blue jeans, lives in a home with his family on the 580 acres that house the bison herd. He navigates the truck up a snow-clogged dirt road to a gate, hops out to open it, and drives through, then goes out and closes it behind us.

      “We had five calves [born] yesterday and possibly more last night—but I haven’t gotten a full count on them,” Brown says, climbing back up into the truck. The herd is one of two the city maintains. The other, a smaller group, is located at Daniels Park about thirty-four miles away. When the city was gathering the original herd of bison, it was collected from a variety of locations, including from the bison herd then living near Yellowstone National Park. DNA tests reveals the Genesee herd is directly connected to the rare original American Bison herds.

      “They were almost gone, they were almost extinct,” Brown says as we drive past the animals. “[Denver] wanted to help preserve a piece of the American Wild West and help save this species of animal.”

      Brown would be the first to admit that bison are a little “ornery.” The much larger Yellowstone Buffalo herd, which roughly numbers about five thousand, sees visitors gored every year after getting too close. However, since Yellowstone was founded in 1872 only two people have ever been killed.

      “We keep a close eye on these fences. That’s always an issue we have with the public and the animals,” Brown says. “The public just doesn’t know to stay three feet away from the fence, because that fence will stretch three to five feet before it snaps.”

      While incidents at the Genesee herd are almost unheard of, people do occasionally get too close to the fence to grab a selfie, causing a few nonlethal close encounters.

      “You keep ’em fed, keep ’em watered, and you keep ’em happy, and they’ll stay in,” Brown says. “These fences here are merely to keep people away from them, and if [the bison] wanted to leave they could open these fences up like a wet paper bag and they’d be in the next county by sunset.”

      Then after a second Brown adds, “They can push through almost anything—they can push over a truck like this without even thinking about it.”

      I think about this with growing apprehension as we drive by a few more of the bison regarding us idly from the side of the small road cutting through the property.

      “People often think that they’re much like cattle and the cow can move quickly if it wants to—but these animals will start to charge like that,” Dennison says, snapping her fingers. “And they can really surprise you if you are not prepared.”

      Brown says despite being in captivity, the bison hold onto their wild nature to where they could be dropped off in the wild and would have no issue surviving on their own. For example, the herd will form into circles with the bulls protecting from the outside when there’s a threat from a coyote. Interestingly, if one is cut and bleeding, the others will roll in the blood, likely to confuse potential predators about which one is actually wounded.