Be Tatanka

    When I got rolling yesterday morning, I saw a smidge of wet frosting like snow had fallen overnight, but the snowfall had ended. The skies were a heavy gray that clipped off the tops of the eastern mountains giving promise that the forecast for another inch of snow predicted to fall later in the morning would prove accurate. I had an early appointment in town that had me on the road to town just after 8 AM. Light snow began to fall as I pulled out of the driveway. I was surprised by the need to shift into the all-wheel drive to navigate the streets up to the highway. The light flurry ginned up into a full-throated snow squall by the time Highway 93, where I turned north to drive into the town. The giant flag flying at the bank was stretched out so tightly that it looked to have been nailed to an invisible wall. Only the trailing edges of the flag flickered a bit with the breeze. The old sailor in me pegged the wind to have gusted up to the 15-20 mph range with brief gusts up to 30. Driven by the wind, the snow blew horizontally across the road from my left to my right. Visibility dropped dramatically in a blink.

    There is a herd of buffalo living on a ranch along the Bitterroot River between Lolo and Missoula. I find their presence a daily gift whenever I drive by. Unless I am distracted, I always look to see where the Buffalo are located and what they are doing as I pass by. They usually hang around doing buffalo things like grazing, standing around or even just lying down. There is an implicit dignity and strength to buffalo that belies the reality that this herd is captive, surrounded by so-called buffalo-proof and is managed as a meat herd. There is no expectation this herd could be turned loose on an open range to live as fully wild critters. As I passed by this morning, I looked at the herd and was startled to see they were all facing the highway and were either standing or walking directly into the wind. All of them. Every single one, from the yearling calves to the most massive bulls, was united in their resolve to conquer the storm. 

    Snow squalls this time of year don't have the same teeth as squalls occurring earlier in the winter. Even a storm as intense as yesterday did not feel threatening or evoke a sense of doom, as do storms in December or January. It was 30 degrees already, and temperatures into the high 30s were coming later in the day. Still, the buffalo remind me of their instinct to face adversity head-on with strength.

    Thousands of years of life on the great plains were great winter storms, and smashing summer thousand storms were a regular and routine experience. Buffalo gained an instinctive awareness that walking into the wind would bring them out of the storm quicker than trying to escape by heading downwind. Some of the buffalo had reached the fence on the west side of the feel and stood motionless, facing the snow. They travel no further. If they were in their natural environment, they would have just continued across the highway and up the side of the foothills until some obstacles halted them. 

    If I had passed by a herd of Angus, there would have been no unity of response. Some cows would be hoofing it to shelter the cottonwoods along the river. Others would just be standing in place facing all directions. I suspect those facing into the teeth of the storm would be doing so only by happenstance. 

    It occurred to me that we have four pieces of artwork featuring buffalo hanging in our home. There is no art featuring cattle. My favorite painting is named Titonka Challenges the Wind. It is a watercolor print from a Canadian artist whose day job was that of a large animal vet in rural Alberta. There is no coincidence that the piece looks down on me as I write this reflection.

    Continuing my trip into town, I considered the differences between cattle and buffalo. That led to me looking at how I have been living my life recently and wondering if I had been responding to life like a buffalo or herd bull. 

    It is a sad truth that I have endured one of the most significant storms I have experienced. The storm came on with a sudden fury and with absolutely no warning. It was the kind of storm I had never dreamed I would experience, but suddenly, there was a double-barreled shotgun pointed directly at my face, and I heard the first and second hammers being pulled back and clicked into place. I expected the blast might come at any moment, so I kept my eyes closed because I could not look at the shotgun or, even more horrifying, accept the reality of who was pointing the weapon at me.  

    Now that storm has passed, I see is the fading grayness of the towering clouds disappearing to the east. A few lightning flashes pierce the sky, and sometimes, a quiet thunderclap comes to me. Now it is time to look around and see what remains to use for reconstructing. 

    Thinking of the differences between cattle and buffalo, I ask myself how I reacted to the storm. Was I a buffalo or was I a Hereford? The answer is both. Sometimes I was buffalo, or I would not have passed through the storm. Still, there were far too many times when I turned my back against the wind as if I  could hide from it all and still survive. Was it fatigue? Cowardice? Hopelessness? A sense of being abandoned or forgotten? Yes, yes, yes to all these challenges and more. Still, consciously or not, I turned into the storm with the strength of faith and courage from the creator, just enough to be here and grateful.

   The name of the storm is not essential although it is normal to be curious about what happened. It is never necessary because to give storm the name robs me, robs us, of the ability to have compassion for others and the storms they face of their own regardless of whether the storm landed on them or if they blew the bumps and bruises of life into a cyclone of sorrow. 

    Today I am choosing to follow the path of Tatanka. I hope others will challenge the storm with me. Redemption and salvation are just ahead. 

    I offer this piece to my new friend and writing companion Paul Olson. It was comforting to see someone else cut from the same bolt of cloth as I. Thank you for your service, your vocation, and for sharing your faith with a stranger. Oh yes, one more thing…. Welcome home. I hope we meet again. I will buy a cup.