Dear HCN:
A few days ago I
witnessed something that challenged my concept of the person I
thought surely I was. At 46, I have lived in Montana over half my
life, most of that time in the rugged area near Cooke City. I have
lived the life of the “manly man.” Hunter, logger, log cabin
builder: manly things, rugged stuff. I have killed large animals
and conveyed them long distances on foot, no horse or fourwheeler
for me. I’m tough. I’m not squeamish or
sentimental.
But a few days ago, I saw a field of
dead bison near Gardiner, teams of men hacking on the huge beasts.
The sight of the men working on the dead animals in itself did not
disturb me as much as the entire scene. A five-acre pasture strewn
with a dozen or so bison in a meticulous randomness, as though
dropped without disturbing the grazing of their neighbors. No
visible signs of pursuit. Perhaps they were all dropped at once. I
didn’t stop to ask for details.
For me, the scene
triggered a disturbing sense of archetypal atavism. In the seconds
it took to drive past, I was overcome with compassion – with a
painful recollection of what it means to be a Westerner. The
origins of a seemingly interminable conflict were symbolized by
these magnificent creatures lying down, as though asleep. Their
huge muscular bodies incapable of sensational death postures, they
lay down with a dignity befitting their ancient status. They lay
down without a struggle, content to leave the struggle to us. To
let us agonize over their fate and our own. To confront ourselves
and labor for answers to questions we won’t
ask.
I am not who I thought I was. I will not
forget the slaughtered hulks and the men
hacking.
Jim
Barrett
Cooke City,
Montana
This article appeared in the print edition of the magazine with the headline ‘Slaughtered hulks’.
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