Where We Used to Roam

by Jenn Bishop

  Visitors are required to stay a ways back from Old Faithful. Too close and you’ll get sprayed, Brian the park ranger tells us. And you do not want to get sprayed by boiling-hot water.

  Point taken.

  Brian’s wearing one of those cool ranger hats. Well, maybe not cool cool, but still, they’re special. You can’t get those hats just anywhere.

  I’ll be honest: it’s hard to believe anything substantial is about to burst out over there. White smoke puffs out of a hole in the ground, but not much more than you’d see from a campfire. Is Brian sure this thing’s going to spew scalding water more than a hundred feet into the air?

  A little spurt shoots up, and an older woman with curly white hair and a cowboy hat in front of me yelps. Her husband shushes her. “That’s not the real thing, Sally. We’ve still got another minute.”

  A moment ago Brian gave the forty of us gathered here his whole spiel about Old Faithful. Sadie could barely put down her phone to listen, but I did. On the drive out, Chris said people travel from all over the world to see Old Faithful, and it’s one of his and Delia’s favorite attractions in all of Yellowstone.

  I’m not so sure yet. What can top seeing bison everywhere for the next few days? But I’m trying to keep an open mind.

  I adjust my Red Sox cap and check my shoulders for sunburn, and then all of a sudden there’s less smoke pouring out and I know it’s about to happen. I mean, true, Brian did tell us the whole reason it’s called Old Faithful in the first place is because it’s so predictable. But it’s another thing to wait all this time, watching, watching, watching. Water begins spewing out—but not hundreds of feet yet, more like that splash park my parents took me to when I was little.

  But then it’s shooting up into the air. The thickest blast of water I’ve ever seen, spraying several stories high into the sky. “Now, that’s an eruption,” Chris says. Everyone gathered around us lets out a cheer.

  I can’t take my eyes off it. Not even for a second. The shock of white against the crisp blue sky. Smoke—or maybe it’s actually mist—wafts off it, eventually evaporating.

  Old Faithful continues to spray, though no longer to the highest heights, and then it slowly lowers until only the smoke remains.

  Delia twists the top off her water bottle and takes a swig from it. “Wasn’t that something?” She offers me some water, but I pass.

  The thing is, it was. Words can’t capture it, exactly. How something can simmer under the surface like that, only the faintest trace of it, and then explode.

  Sure, we can predict it now. Scientists studied it so we’d know all about how it works and why.

  But how weird—how strange, unsettling, terrifying, really—must it have been to see it for the first time. To not understand what the smoke was signaling. To not know the rhythms. To watch something so ferocious explode right out of the earth.

  * * *

  By the time we’re checking in to the Old Faithful Inn, my stomach is growling for dinner. Chris hands me and Sadie keys for the room we’ll share the first two nights before moving on to explore other parts of the park.

  As we head up the staircase, it’s like I’ve stepped back in time to the early twentieth century. Hand-carved wood covers every inch of the place. A hundred years ago there was probably some woman in a hoop skirt grabbing the same gnarled railing I am now. “This place is amazing,” I say to Sadie.

  Sadie shrugs, but then, I’m not sure how much of the place she’s really seen, given how she’s been glued to her phone the whole day.

  We enter our room, and Sadie shuts the door behind us with a triumphant thump. She drops her suitcase by the bed closest to the door while I head for the one under the window and set my duffel on the floor.

  My phone buzzes with a text from my mom. About time! I’ve only been checking my phone all afternoon for updates. Finally home. Cape traffic was so bad we stopped for dinner after the bridge.

  How’s Austin? I type.

  It feels like the dot-dot-dot is there forever, but finally the message from Mom comes through.

  He seems good, she writes. Looking forward to FaceTime tomorrow. Pics? XO.

  I send her a few shots I got of Old Faithful. Heading to dinner soon. See you tomorrow! Give Austin a hug from me.

  Even though the long car ride here was exhausting, I’ve got this strange burst of energy right now. Not Sadie, though. She’s stretched out on the bed with her eyes closed, taking a nap. We’ve got a half hour till our dinner reservation, so I grab my sketchbook and head out to the balcony that wraps around the whole upstairs like an indoor porch.

  Wooden rocking chairs face the lobby below. I spot an empty one and settle in, waiting for Chris and Delia to pop out. The texture of the wood here is incredible: knotted and whorled. It would be amazing to get my hands on something this special for a box someday.

  I sketch the lines and patterns for a while, but then my hand starts to ache and I walk over to the large window that faces Old Faithful. The crowd in the lookout area now is at least as big as it was not even an hour ago when we were there. It’s smoking still, the mist wafting our way.

  It’s different, watching it without Brian this time. I no longer know exactly when it’s going to go. There’s even more anticipation. Will it gush now?

  No.

  How about now?

  My fingers rub the edges of the sketchbook, flipping one way and then the other.

  Until it blows.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I blink my eyes open in the dark room, wondering why I’m awake. It takes a few seconds to remember where I am. Across the way I can just make out the little Sadie-sized hump beneath the quilt.

  Did my phone wake me? Could it have been Austin? Did he text me? I reach for where I left it on the nightstand, but there are no new messages—from Austin or anyone—only the time: 2:03 a.m.

  Back home it’s two hours later. Not quite morning, even for an early riser like Mom. I like to think of all of them tucked into their beds, like in that book Austin used to read me around Christmas when I was little. All those little mice, tucked into their little mouse beds, fast asleep.

  I set my phone back on the bedside table and try to be like one of those mice. I close my eyes. I flip onto my side.

  I flip onto my other side, patting down the pillow.

  I lie on my back.

  I lie on my stomach.

  I check my phone again—it’s been more than half an hour. And the thing is, I don’t feel tired at all. Not really.

  I slip out of bed, careful not to make a sound that would wake Sadie. I try to unzip my backpack to get my sketchbook, but the zipping feels too loud, so I just take the whole thing into the hallway, easing the door shut behind me.

  No one’s in the rocking chairs now. No night owls, I guess, except for me. Well, me and the guy working the front desk. But to be honest he looks pretty zoned out as he stares into the computer screen, every now and then clicking the mouse.

  I’m about to settle into a rocking chair and sketch for a bit when it hits me: how eerie Old Faithful must look under the light of the moon. With bare feet, I pad over to the window. For now all that’s out there is stillness. No shock of white. If there’s smoky mist wafting out of the geyser, I can’t tell in the dark.

  But then something breaks the stillness. Out of the corner of my eye I catch movement beneath the bright lights of the parking lot. Stumbling forward out of the shadows on spindly legs—a baby buffalo.

  * * *

  The guy at the front desk doesn’t even look up as the automatic doors part with barely a sound, and then I’m outside. The night air is cool, the concrete scratchy on the soles of my feet.

  It’s calm outside. No bustling crowds of tourists now. Nothing to see but the starry night sky. There must be a million stars, twinkling up above me. More than I ever saw back home with the light of the city so close.

  It’s all alone, just standing there, the bright lights of the parking lot like a spotl
ight. Without its mom or its dad or its herd.

  Kind of like me.

  My eyes are still adjusting to the dark as I come to a stop several yards away from it. The buffalo turns its head toward me, staring back with big cow eyes, and it feels like the whole summer has been leading to this moment since the drive out to Wyoming.

  “It’s okay,” I say softly. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  There’s no reason for me to be afraid. I’m not about to be gored to death. He—or she—is too small to do any damage. Still, I’m cautious. The mom could be lurking out there somewhere in the dark, waiting to charge me.

  Instinctively, I almost reach out, but stop myself when I remember what I read. Human contact can make buffalo moms reject their babies. I can’t touch it. Can’t get too close. I don’t want to ruin its chance of getting accepted back into the herd.

  I circle around, maintaining a safe distance while trying to see if it’s hurt. The buffalo is holding its back leg kind of funny, but I can’t tell if that’s just how it’s standing or if it’s injured.

  “Are you hurt?”

  The buffalo cocks its head to the side. I’ve almost finished circling when it takes a step forward and I see his you know. Okay, he’s definitely a boy.

  A small boy. Seventy or eighty pounds? Maybe a little more? I don’t know how buffalo carry their weight, but he’s smaller than me, that much I can tell for sure. His fur looks soft. I can see how the wrong person might try to pet him, treat him like some kind of oversized stuffed animal.

  “Hey,” I say, still keeping a safe distance. I don’t think he’s going to charge me, especially if it turns out he’s injured.

  His big brown eyes look almost sad as he stares back at me. Can a buffalo feel sadness?

  “Did you get separated from your mom and dad?”

  No answer, of course.

  “My mom and dad are far away, but yours are close by, I bet. I’ll help you find them.” How, Emma?

  His nostrils flare as he takes in a breath, but his tail still hangs limp. He’s not afraid of me.

  Behind me, the inn’s lobby is all lit up. I could go inside and have that guy at the front desk call the rangers. But what if the buffalo leaves in the meantime? What if this little guy’s really lost and he wanders off? What if he wanders into a geyser?

  I pull out my phone, thankful for the internet even if it is just LTE, and search for the number for the front desk. Will anyone even answer the phone in the middle of the night?

  “Old Faithful Inn—”

  “Hello?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry—I’m staying at the inn. I’m outside in the parking lot and there’s a baby buffalo. I think he’s hurt. Can you radio one of the rangers? I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

  “You say you’re right outside?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me put you on hold.”

  “He’s going to help,” I tell the buffalo. “I think. Well, I hope.”

  The automatic door slides open and the man from the front desk walks toward me. “Let’s see what’s up with this dude.” He approaches the buffalo.

  “Don’t get too close,” I warn him. “I think he might be hurt. And he’s separated from his parents.”

  “Happens every now and then,” he says, “especially in the more populated areas of the park. Let me radio the ranger station and see if they can send someone over.” He removes the walkie-talkie from his hip, speaks some code into it, and waits for a response. “Pretty late to be outside.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “You’re not… going anywhere?” He gestures to my backpack.

  “You mean, like, running away?” I laugh. “No. All I’ve got in here is my sketchbook.”

  “So you’re an artist, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Static and then another voice blares from the walkie-talkie. He gives her our location. “Look, I’ve got to head back inside to cover the desk. You never know when someone in Singapore might want to make a reservation. A ranger should be over shortly.” He reattaches his walkie-talkie. “You should probably be heading back to your room, given the hour and all. Wouldn’t want your folks to think you’d gone missing.”

  I pat my pocket. “I have my phone. Plus, they’re asleep. Can I just stay with him till the ranger gets here?”

  He hesitates. “Well, I guess…”

  “I’ll let you know when I go back upstairs. So you’ll know I didn’t get kidnapped or gored to death.” I smile.

  “Deal.” He offers up a fist bump, and we crash knuckles. He walks back over to the inn, and then it’s just me and the buffalo again.

  He lifts up his nose a bit. Is he signaling something? I whip around fast, afraid his thousand-pound mom or dad might be behind me, lurking in the dark. But there’s nothing there. Just a vast emptiness that goes on forever.

  “Sorry,” I say, my heartbeat slowing back down. “I’m not afraid of you. Promise.”

  We stand there in silence, each eyeing the other for several minutes until a ranger truck pulls in. A woman—her name tag says SUSAN—steps out.

  “That was quick,” I say.

  “I was in the neighborhood. Now, let’s take a look at this fella.” She crouches down to examine the buffalo’s back leg. “Poor kid got hit by something.”

  “A car?” A lump swells in my throat.

  “Oh, he’ll be all right. Not to worry. I’ll radio one of our vets.” As she pulls out her walkie-talkie, I lock eyes with the buffalo once more. Our time together is almost over.

  Susan clips the walkie-talkie back to her waist. “You did the right thing, letting us know. Had this family last week, they treated the animals like they were the family dog. This fella might be small, but he’s far from domesticated.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I say.

  “They are something else, aren’t they?”

  “You have the best job. Living out here, seeing buffalo every day like this.”

  “Eh, you obviously haven’t been here through the winter.”

  “True.” But I’ve seen postcards of herds roaming across the snow-covered plains, geysers spraying into the harsh, cold air. It must be even more beautiful then, if a little lonely.

  “Think we’ll be forever making amends after what we did to them. Buffalo used to roam these plains by the million. How times have changed. Well, I’ve got things covered from here. Appreciate your help—sorry, what’s your name again?”

  “Emma. Emma O’Malley.”

  She reaches out a hand. Her grip is firm, the skin tough and leathery. “Nice to meet you, Emma O’Malley. Sue Clarendon.”

  “He’ll be okay?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Sue says. “He’s a resilient one. I can see it in his eyes. Can’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. I wish I could take his picture, to remember him—remember this moment—forever. But it’s too dark, and the flash would only startle him. Maybe it’s better this way. I stare at him hard one last time, taking a picture in my mind.

  “Bye, buddy.” I give him a little wave and head back to the inn.

  As I pass through the lobby, I yell out, “Night!” to the receptionist and head up the stairs. When I sneak back into my room, Sadie’s still deep asleep.

  I climb under the covers. With my eyes closed, I can still see him: the buffalo I helped save. It doesn’t fix all the mistakes I made, but it’s one thing, one thing I got right.

  And then I really do sleep.

  * * *

  The next thing I know, there’s a hand on my shoulder gently shaking me awake. “Emma?” I crack open my eyes. Sadie’s bed is empty, the room sunny and bright. What time is it? Did I sleep in? Did I miss the FaceTime call from Austin?

  Chris is fully dressed, holding out a cell phone to me. “It’s your mom,” he says, his voice breaking.

  The picture of Austin that flashes in my head when I take the phone from him and press it
to my ear isn’t the one from last summer. It’s Austin in the hallway, blasting his fist into the wall.

  My mouth goes dry as I take the phone from Chris. “Mom?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  For the flight out of Jackson Hole, the seat next to me is empty. Not that I want to talk to some stranger right now. I text the one person I can trust with the truth: Austin overdosed, but the EMTs revived him in time. He’s stable. Heading home.

  My throat tightens as I text the last bit. Sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.

  Any minute now I’ll have to switch on airplane mode, but until then I stare at the screen, grateful Tyler gave me his number before we left for Yellowstone. Grateful for Tyler, period. But then the flight attendant says we’re pulling back from the gate, and I have to turn airplane mode on before Tyler has a chance to respond.

  A few minutes later we’re up in the air, crossing over the park on our way to Chicago, where I’ll switch to a plane for Boston. Another two-and-a-half-hour flight, plus a twenty-minute drive, and then I’ll be home. Home.

  I stare out the window at acres and acres of grassy plains, the sharp angles of the mountains in the distance, and the one thing I’ve been looking forward to seeing most of all. A whole herd of them. Dozens upon dozens of bison.

  That’s what it used to look like—not just Yellowstone, but all of the plains. What did my book say? Sixty million.

  Sixty million bison used to roam the plains, but by 1900 there were only six hundred. Sixty million to six hundred. They were almost wiped out completely by people who cared only about money, who were so greedy that they killed nearly all of them until they were practically extinct. Strong and fast and powerful, but that wasn’t enough to keep them alive.

  That scary headline I saw online comes back to me. “Opioids could kill nearly 500,000 in the US in the next decade.” Hundreds. Of thousands.

  Could Austin be one of them?