We’d just driven through the eastern park gates, armed with a map of Yellowstone and a hat tip from the attending ranger. A moment later, along the road that hugged the mountain, ambled a bison.
A real one.
Shaggy hide, horns and all.
Out for his morning stroll among the strange, boxy animals with animated internals that frequented his territory.
They kept stopping right in his path, darned inconvenient things.
He’d never get to his morning coffee at this rate.
Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming.