THE OKLAHOMA BAR JOURNAL 104 | AUGUST 2025 The Back Page WE ARRIVE AT THE Jackson Hole Airport in mid-afternoon, exiting the plane down narrow stairs directly onto the tarmac. We are greeted by the majestic Teton Range, snowcaps nestled high against a denim blue sky, a dramatic welcome sign. After collecting our luggage, we head to the rental car counter. We had reserved the cheapest economy car for our trip to explore the Tetons and Yellowstone National Park, reasoning that it was just the two of us, we wouldn’t need all-wheel drive in summer, and we weren’t planning any off-roading. “Would you like to purchase the extra insurance?” the agent probes. We look at each other. “No, that won’t be necessary,” my partner, Lauren, responds. The agent pauses dramatically, then states, “Just so you know, an angry buffalo can easily flip a small car. It happens out here.” We look at each other again. “We’ll be fine,” I say, with teetering confidence. I’ve read everything I can to prepare. Wake up early to beat the crowds. Don’t approach the buffalo. Be patient. Carry bear spray. These warnings make me feel terrified and exhilarated, as if we are embarking on a risky adventure or an extreme sport. We commit the advice to memory, dutifully purchasing bear spray as our first order of business. One afternoon, while driving north through Yellowstone, we notice the car ahead of us begin to slow down. And then we slow down. And then we stop. And then we see it. Slowly lumbering toward us down the center line of the road, as if it’s hugging a makeshift balance beam, is a giant, brown buffalo. “Oh my God,” I exclaim, starting to reach toward my feet. “Don’t do it,” Lauren commands from the driver’s seat. She knows exactly what I want to do, which is to retrieve my camera from the floorboard. “Seriously. Do not move,” she whispers sternly as the buffalo continues to stroll lazily toward our car. I scan my memory, but I can recall no advice for this moment. Almost instinctively, we both face the windshield as still and silent as stone statues, holding our breath. After what feels like an eternity, the buffalo approaches the driver’s side door and stops. My peripheral vision tells me the large creature is two inches away from the glass, maybe closer. It may as well be touching the car. It is as big as the car. I can see its left eye peering in at us, feel that coffee-colored orb penetrating the interior of the car with its gaze. Our hearts pounding, it feels like the once seemingly endless space all around us has been shrink-wrapped. I imagine the impact, imagine the car careening down the mountainside to the valley below. We might not make it out alive. “I love you,” we whisper. And then, just as it arrived, the buffalo lumbers slowly away, following the center line like an elephant walking a tightrope. We exhale in stunned silence. After a beat, I turn slowly to observe the buffalo approach the car behind us, cantankerous and calculating, stopping to conduct another eerily slow inspection of the inhabitants for signs of the slightest misdeed. As we begin to drive onward, I turn to Lauren with the few words I can muster and sigh, “We should have bought the extra insurance.” Ms. Gioletti works for a federal agency in Oklahoma City. The Buffalo By Amy Gioletti
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTk3MQ==