What follows is a story about two non-native species—The American Bison and the American Homo Sapien—who clashed on Catalina Island, a place where neither had any business being. It’s also about two different men in two separate trucks who negotiated a truce between idiot and nature.

The bison arrived first, nearly a century ahead of us. In 1924 a herd of 14 bison was brought to

the rugged channel island 22 miles from the coast of Los Angeles. They were movie stars a long

way from home; a film crew had imported them to serve as living props for a film production.

The bison never left Catalina, and the beasts who once roamed the Great Plains in massive herds

came to conquer the island, with the herd swelling to more than 100 animals. Once hunted to

near extinction, they now found solace in their island paradise, and were keen to deny that

serenity to any visitors. We would soon learn firsthand that they were not the most gracious

hosts.

Sitting aboard a ferry on a brisk September morning, I watched the Pacific fog quickly envelop

Newport Harbor and huddled close to my girlfriend, Carolyn, for warmth. It was,

characteristically, my idea to forgo the cabin seating for the outdoor deck, insisting that the

subprime weather was worth enduring for the experience of sitting as seaside as possible. In

typical fashion, it didn’t take long for me to grow tired of the wind and drizzle and suggest that

we relocate, resulting in that “I told you so” look in her eyes I had grown so accustomed to.

Indeed, I never quite know what I’m getting myself into; this trip was no exception. An hour

later, a shore began to appear on the horizon, slowly morphing into a bustling town. Catalina

Island presented itself to us, the town of Avalon beaming at us, concealing a rugged backcountry

that would be our home for the next few days.

We clearly weren’t tourists, as we sported 50-pound backpacks and were 20-year-old college

students several tax brackets below everyone around us in Avalon. We made our way to the

Catalina Conservancy office, obtained our map and backcountry permits, and received a safety

sheet with information about the island’s wild bison herd. It informed us that they could run 35

miles per hour, jump six feet in the air, and very much enjoyed their distance from humans. I

thought, “wow—this is awesome!” and spent much of the day eagerly proclaiming that I really

wanted to see a bison, because how often do you encounter one of those in southern California?

Among the scenic panoramic photos, the tales from the trail, and tips about the best dehydrated

backpacking meals, the hiking blogs I’d read didn’t leave much room for certain warnings that

would have been nice to have throughout the trip. The first caveat was that the trailhead is a few

miles from the port, making the first day of backpacking some 17 miles. The other problem was

that it wasn’t exactly obvious which clearing was the formal trailhead, and the middle-aged men

in Hawaiian shirts driving rented golf carts around Avalon were shockingly bad backcountry

guides as far as providing directions. That said, we made it to the trailhead around lunchtime,

beginning a steep 14-mile ascent with short respites of slightly less-steep ascents. We reached a

maintenance site around golden hour, where we saw the sole other backcountry hiker on the trail

abandon hope for the day and set up camp. Being the staunch rule-followers and perfectionists

that we were, we refused to settle for anything short of Blackjack Campground (our destination

for the first night, which we had paid to reserve months in advance), and continued trudging

along, fueled by salami, stale baguettes, and cheddar cheese. We saw signs notifying us that we

were in a prime Bison grazing area, and I thought, “nice! We’ll finally get to see one!” and lo

and behold, we encountered one slowly grazing its way across the trail. Upon seeing it, I nearly

had a panic attack. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this was no zoo and he gave us a

death glare when we tried to go farther. We gave him his space and his time and continued

onward.

Then it got dark.

Another thing those pesky blogs conveniently omitted was the fact that the bison trample many

of the trail markers. In the dark, we were unable to determine exactly what constituted the trail,

and accidentally found ourselves on a bison grazing trail —in complete darkness, no less. I

shined my flashlight and jolted when it reflected off of a set of eyes a few feet away from me. By

some stroke of luck, we made it out of the bison’s buffet alive, and back onto an unmarked dirt

road—maybe the trail? Maybe not? Who the hell knows? We were frantic and without cellular

service, when one of maybe five licensed drivers in the Catalina backcountry happened to drive

by, one of those things that can only be attributed to a divine intervention of some sort. We

desperately flagged him down, and politely asked him how far we were from Blackjack,

speculating that it was about 2 miles, to which he sternly replied, “two miles as the crow flies.

You have no idea where the hell you are. You’re not going to make it.” Clearly amused by the

mortified expressions he elicited from us, he swiftly turned his frown upside-down, and told us,

“but I’m going to help you out!” He drove down the road, turned around, returned, helped us

load our packs into the bed of his truck, and handed us beers. He was sure to pop one open for

himself, too, which he nursed in one hand while the other attended to the steering wheel. Michael

assured us that it was fine to drink and drive out here due to the lack of police. Fair, I thought.

We were in the bison’s jurisdiction anyway, not LAPD’s.

Over the next hour, we learned that our new friend, Michael, used to work for the Conservancy,

where he wrangled bison, and now worked as a hunting and fishing guide.

“They fired me for having a ‘bad attitude,’” he said. “Can you believe that?”

“No way,” I replied to the man who was currently rescuing us. Pretty good attitude, if you ask

me.

He drove us to a gated-off maintenance road, at which point he informed us that we were only a

mile or two from the campground. “We’ve got to drink one for the road,” Michael said, our

chauffeur-bartender-guardian angel, as he handed us each another ice-cold beer. We saddled up

with our packs, and then Carolyn said, “shit! I forgot my phone!” Our knight in shining armor

then proceeded to drive us all the way back to where he initially picked us up, and sure enough,

her phone was still lying in the middle of the road. He then dropped us off at the gate again, and

we set off toward camp. This is where the fun (?) begins.

As we moved closer to the campground, that same Pacific fog from early that morning caught up

to us, and I could hardly see my own feet, let alone my next step with every stride I took. We

saw a sign that said, “Blackjack .3 mi,” and were overcome with a fleeting sigh of relief. We

walked a little farther, and then we heard it.

“HHHHHHHHHUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Like a 2,000-pound teenager grunting at his alarm.

I froze.

“It’s just the wind,” said a tired Carolyn.

Maybe.

We took another step, and the grunt was even louder. And they became louder, closer, and more

frequent. As far as I was concerned, our obituaries were headed to the presses the next morning.

I’m an Eagle Scout and a serial risk-taker. I’ve been on my fair share of rigorous backpacking

trips, encountered temperamental bears, and canoed through a hurricane-like storm, but this was

different. It was an angry bison. In the dark. And it was during mating season (in which the

female bison are shot with contraceptive darts for population control). On a narrow switchback.

On an island. With nobody to defer to but Carolyn. My whole life I was able to ask adults for

help, but now we were the adults. It was the closest I had ever felt to death.

I checked my phone and it miraculously had cellular service, so I did what the safety sheet told

us to do in case of emergency: I dialed 911. I explained the situation, and once the operator down

in Avalon realized what was happening, she urgently told me to start backing away and said

she’d dispatch a ranger, who would take anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour given the terrain

of the island’s backcountry. So, I did what I do best: I sat, cursed, and agonized over a situation I

had minimal control over. The bison’s grunts continued to draw nearer, and with every sound we

took another few paces back, our knees giving out after the long day. I began to lose faith. And

then, finally, faint headlights pierced the fog in the distance, and several minutes later a truck

arrived. The ranger kindly helped us load our gear into his truck, and gently brushed off our

heaping apologies and words of gratitude, assuring us that we made the right call. Carolyn was

still skeptical, claiming that I overreacted, and then, sure enough—only several yards ahead of

us—was the biggest damn bull we would see the entire trip. He rose in ire, and lowered and

shook his head, as if to let us know he had spared us while he threatened the truck, which would

have been no match for the muscular beast should he have attacked it.

The ranger dropped us off at our campsite and made sure we were safe. Despite running on a

caloric deficit, we were quite over this day, and called it a night sans dinner after setting up our

tent in the pouring rain that conveniently greeted us after the bison incident. I’m pretty sure I

heard grunting a few yards away while we were pitching the tent, as if the bison were taunting

us. We awoke the next morning, ate a delicious dehydrated breakfast scramble out of a bag, and

calmly watched a bison graze through our campsite. It turns out they’re quite docile and

nonthreatening when you catch them on their morning stroll as opposed to awaking a sleeping,

sexually-frustrated bull in the dark. Go figure.

I think there’s a lesson to be learned here, something along the lines of, “be careful if you say

you really want to see a bison, because you’ll see a bison, and then you’ll see another bison, and

another, and another, and one of those bison will be super pissed that you woke him up and

threaten to gore you in bison-grunting-language, and you’ll have to call 911 to rescue your

pathetic self after you already got lost and hitchhiked, and you’ll eat Oreos for dinner instead of

that dehydrated teriyaki chicken you had been looking forward to all day, and nothing is worse

than missing dinner after a near-death experience.”

But that doesn’t have a good ring to it, so maybe just the cliché, “be careful what you wish for.”