Jocko

Northern Montana offers an unforgiving climate. His ranch, sitting on the Canadian border, abutting Glacier National Park, in the shadow of Chief Mountain had been used to raise Angus cattle, but each year winter death loss had taken its toll. A decade ago, he turned to raising bison. He has never regretted the decision. The long nights in the calving barn replaced by playing card games with his kids or coaching them in youth hockey. He misses the science of employing state-of-the art animal husbandry versus the happenstance of natural breeding. However, he has come down squarely on accepting what nature offers, which has been extraordinary breeding and weaning rates each year. When dealing with a new employee, unexperienced with bison, that worker might ask about artificial insemination or calving barn procedures. The rancher quips, “Piss me off and I will put you in charge of bison AI.” Or, “Don’t get on my wrong side. The last guy who did was sent out to the pasture to help a bison cow deliver her calf. God rest his soul.”

Maybe his animals are a bit smaller, fewer pounds at the processing plant, but they walk into the slaughterhouse alive. Too often, an Angus carcass would end up in a snow-covered ditch until the Chinooks of spring revealed its bones. Whenever he considers what he gave up in pounds of meat per animal, he reflects on the twice or thrice dollars he receives per pound. Net-net, he is way ahead. Less work, same cost for feed, less death loss, more revenue per animal. If he sees a downside to bison ranching, it is the simple and indisputable fact that bison are wild animals. They cannot be domesticated, except to the extent that they are smart enough to know who feeds them in the winter. They are not, by nature, violent. It is their docility, calmness in so many situations that dupes the casual observer to think “tamed cattle” when they should be thinking “stay clear”. A bison can cover 100 feet in two seconds. An agitated bison intent on teaching a careless human a lesson will win the day. The only saving grace is they are not interested in killing people. The rancher cautions employees and visitors alike, “Be calm, be respectful, keep your distance. Failing that, make sure you can outrun the person next to you, because you will not outrun a bison.”

There is similar wisdom most new bison ranchers learn the hard way. For bison, fences are suggestions. There is not a fence that can hold a bison herd intent on being somewhere else. During his first year of bison ranching, a US border patrol helicopter, flying too low, spooked the herd. Imagine 200 animals each weighing at least a half ton, hitting a piece of wire at 30 mph. They broke through three fences before settling down for a grazing party in a neighbor’s pasture three miles away.

A typical herd raised on a ranch for breeding purposes is comprised mostly of moms and calves and then a few bulls. During summer breeding season, one bull can take care of 30 cows. Not only does one bull service many cows, but a cow is likely to copulate with many different bulls. Hard to know who the dad is. The bison do not care, and neither should the rancher. The goal is to produce healthy calves.

His kids like to name certain calves that catch their fancy. Dad always discourages them, “Someday Annabelle will be on the supper table.” A few years ago, he made an exception for Jocko. Jocko was a huge male calf, a bit clumsy, a twinkle in his large brown eyes, and always frolicking with his pasture mates. Jocko’s naming was a family affair. “How would you describe him?”, the rancher queried his children. “He is always making merry.”, replied the youngest. “He in not only the most fun, but he is always provoking the others to join in his games.”, said another. The rancher’s oldest daughter observed, “He reminds me of a court jester, always stirring things up.” “Yes, exactly”, thought the rancher. “He is a jocular”. Never failing to miss an opportunity to expand his kids’ knowledge, he proceeds to explain the purpose of minstrels and jesters in medieval courts. He then repeats, but this time aloud, “He is a jocular. We should call him Jocko.”

There was little doubt that if Jocko’s semen tested positively, he would be a breeding bull. Then it is unlikely he would ever end up in a grocery store cooler. As Jocko matures, he becomes increasingly stoic, a common trait in all bison bulls. What is exceptional is his general good nature and lack of stubbornness. He is never quite a family pet the way one might think of a dog, but he knows the humans in his life, treats them kindly, and they reciprocate. When it is time for his annual vaccination and delousing, he requires little cajoling. He saunters through the chutes and squeeze. He then ambles back to the pasture. During breeding season, Jocko is an enthusiastic participant with the stamina of many of the younger teenage bulls. Every spring, fifty or so of the calves are noticeably larger than the rest. During weaning, the rancher draws blood on some of those larger calves, and sure enough, the genetics match up with the sample he has on file for Jocko. He estimates that in the past five years Jocko has sired at least 300 calves.

In Jocko’s eighth year, the rancher, astride his ATV, finds him leaning on the page wire fence at the edge of the pasture. The fence is bowed from the animal’s sheer mass. The twinkle that has been Jocko’s badge is faint. The rancher knows too well what has transpired. He has seen it all before. This breeding season, the young bulls join forces and push Jocko out of the herd. They would no longer have to compete with him for favors from the ladies. Jocko snorts at the rancher but shows no other signs of aggression. They look at each other with the wisdom of the ages. They have been “friends” for a long time. The rancher pulls the bale strapped on to the back of the ATV and using the bale string as a handle, hurls it towards Jocko. He then pulls the knife from his belt and cuts the strings. “You gave me a boatload of calves. The least I can do.” The rancher jumps back on the four-wheeler and continues “walking the fence”.

June becomes July and July turns into August. The rancher declares an end to breeding season, which is just as well. The bulls are gaunt but sexually sated. The pasture is beginning to look like a middle school dance – girls in one corner, boys in the other. Throughout the summer, each day, the rancher drives until he finds Jocko and leaves him a bale. He is certain he sees a glimmer of appreciation, or maybe he imagines what he needs to see. The rancher has always been careful to avoid the arrogance of anthropomorphism. Bison are more noble, more courageous, more resilient than any human. It would be disrespectful to ascribe homo sapiens characteristics to bison, especially to Jocko.

The rancher can feel the bite in the air. There is always at least one day in September when a snowstorm arrives. His arthritis tells him it will be soon. The animals know better than he. The elk have started to descend from the park, as have the giant brown bears. The rancher needs to continually check the security along the western perimeter. Invariably, the elk will tear through the fences, and crews must be vigilant making repairs.

His search for Jocko takes a bit longer than usual as Jocko has wandered into the aspens near the lake on the most western reaches of the ranch. The meetings have become ritual. Jocko gives a snort and the rancher rewards that “hello” with an alfalfa bale and sometime an added salt lick. Today, he doesn’t jump right back on the ATV because nature calls. The aspens are a well-shrouded place to respond. The rancher, hearing a rustle, looks up. Staring back, 100 feet away, standing on its hind legs, is the largest grizzly he has ever seen. It is not an inch less than seven feet and must weigh 1500 pounds. This is no sow with her cubs. He knows what he supposed to do. Make yourself small. Make no sudden “threatening” moves. He doubts this bruin has felt any threat from anything for a long time. All this matters not because the bear is now charging towards him. As if on a dime it stops. The rancher feels a sudden wind on his neck and then sees the rump of Jocko, the bison storming past him towards the grizzly. Jocko is all snort and spittle. It is the fastest of action scenes playing out in the slowest of motion. The rancher has time to think that the grizzly must be as startled as him, neither having experienced this ever. Jocko is closing too fast, and the grizzly has no time to turn and run. All that is left is facing the opponent. The rancher sees them as two Sumo wrestlers, two tons of mammalian collision. Jocko’s occipital bone hits the grizzly square in the gut. With an ever so subtle turn of the head his horn buries deep into the grizzly’s torso. Jocko’s neck muscles torque and extend. The grizzly has an airborne experience unlike any ever experienced by a bear. When he hits the ground, the rancher can feel the quake through his boots. The grizzly is lifeless. Jocko is spent and breathing hard. The rancher walks over and looking into Jocko’s face sees a twinkle in his eye. At that same moment, the bison collapses on his side. The exposed side reveals the cause. From the hindleg to the fore, the bison has been ripped open by the grizzly’s four-inch-long claws. The twinkle slowly fades away. Breathing is strained. The rancher finds what he could not a minute ago, his holster strap clasp. He engages the pistol and pulls the trigger for the most difficult shot he has ever fired.

On his walkie-talkie, he tells the ranch hand where he is, and to bring a backhoe. Next is a text to his daughter, “Go to the barn, find a Kevlar sheet and a permanent magic marker. Randy is getting the backhoe. Meet up with him.” Fifteen minutes later, Randy and the rancher are dumping the grizzly into a shallow grave. The rancher walks the fence line until he finds a section bowed. “Jocko must have slept here last night.” A dozen feet in, the backhoe digs a deeper grave and carefully moves Jocko to his final resting place. The rancher directs Randy and his daughter to gather some stones. Meantime, he writes on the Kevlar, “Here lies Jocko, the most honorable creature I have ever known. He never failed to bring joy into the lives of all he met. He sacrificed his life for mine, a debt I will never be able to repay.” The dirt returned to the grave; the Kevlar laid on top of the dirt. Randy, the rancher, and his daughter construct a cairn on top of the Kevlar.

That evening, dinner is a quiet affair. Finally, the rancher breaks the silence. “Jocko lived the best life a bison can live. For five years, he did those he loved “. For effect he cleared his throat and feigned a correction. “I mean, what he loved.” Even the youngest knows the intent of a breeding ranch and so all at the table laughed. “Jocko, to the end, lived his life with purpose. He is the closest we are likely to ever have as a pet bison. We will all miss him.”