It struck me deepest while on a snowcoach in the frozen, white desert of Hayden Valley some years ago. It was March and arcing out across the pristine tableau of snow was a simple line carved through the flats–it ended in a herd of bison. Each animal followed in the steps of the one before it like so many unhitched rail cars, drawn by the hope of food in some distant, and assuredly, scantly vegetated thermal area. Walking single file allowed them to save energy and glean some measure of safety from predators. They pushed and jostled at times and intentionally or not, riding up alongside or even on top of one another as they went. Each one of operated on a cruelly thin margin—hoping against hope that they could bridge the divide between now and the initial greenery of April. As the lead bison tired of the plodding, post-holeing and plowing through the white, it would step aside and let the next-in-line resume the slog.
Yellowstone bison in deep winter snows (NPS photo)
That image of those bison, their hardiness, their resilience and yet, precarious state, consumed my thoughts for days and weeks afterward. This is how a sculpture is born. Out of these sometimes fleeting encounters, the mind has a way of seizing on things, looking for meaning, understanding. I find that art, for me, acts as an internal sounding board. Art allows one to sift out the substance of what life presents us and to distill it down into something meaningful in its own right. What a paradox really, to attempt something so meaningful but using a medium so crude as musical notes, paint on cloth or stuff dug out of the earth such as clay, to do it. This act forces the artist, the interpreter, to dig deep and come to terms with the central themes in life.
Sculpting “Those Who Remain” under the watchful eye of a wild model (Photo by Jim Halfpenny).
The gravity of that bison encounter hit home no more harshly than when juxtaposed against an experience a few days later. I was walking down Park Street in Gardiner, Montana as the first direct light of the day warmed the cold stones of the Roosevelt Arch. There was a horse trailer parked near the Yellowstone Association Headquarters–not an unusual thing in itself. The Park Service had been using mounted rangers to haze migrating bison off of private and public lands outside the Park, back in—except, this time when I walked gingerly across that icy road, something signaled that it was not horses in that trailer today—it was bison. Unlike the primal scene viewed just days before, these bison on their way to their death. It was not some twist of fate such as insufficient food or by wolf attack, they were, at this very moment, destined for some far-off, USDA-approved rendering plant as a result of a human decision. All the bison that would not stay inside the Park after these initial hazing efforts were captured at a facility near the Park’s northern border, just outside of town, and if the overall population size was high enough, these ‘extras,’ where shipped off to slaughter.
Yellowstone bison in deep winter snows (NPS photo).
I could see their eyes. From out of that perforated metal box came the looks of the hopelessly ensnared; they were destined for a plant somewhere in Montana, maybe Idaho, or who knows, maybe Colorado, in order to be rendered in to meat, hides and bones. There was fear in those eyes. They have known nothing but the open lands of Yellowstone Park for all their days: the sense of hopelessness was tidal. That experience infected me. For days the smell of bison and sound of hooves on metal drifted in and out of every idle thought. It wasn’t but a few days later when a routine trip to Livingston made it even worse. I became an unwilling participant, a mourner one could say, in a funeral procession of law enforcement vehicles and horse trailers. Myself and several other innocent motorists were stopped buy the outstretched palm of a Park employee in an orange safety vest at the intersection in Corwin Springs. It was another ‘moving day’. With lights flashing, bison cramped and kicking, radios chattering and officials on point, we all processed, single file, ‘no passing allowed,’ at 50mph all the way from there to Livingston where the trucks finally turned eastward on the highway. This was a blow, a punch to the guts that did not come as a swift jab, rather a long, protracted impact that let you feel every ounce of the crush–every organ squirming looking for space before it ruptures, each rib bowing to the point of being cracked, giving you plenty of time to contemplate the full range of mounting damage.
Virtually every winter since then has become a reminder of that emotional blow. Another bison gut pile, a consequence of the hunt (that is also a part of the bison ‘issue’) on the hill near the mailbox. There has been another bull killed near the road along our morning walk route, two more on “Z Hill” on the way to Gardiner and the neighbor reports five calves were killed yesterday morning up on Gumbo Hill. Some years are worse than others—dictated largely by the size of the herd and the winter’s severity. The more bison there are, and the deeper and icier the snow, the worse the exodus. I created that sculpture as a monument to those individuals so often seen as faceless, carbon-copies of a species. When we watch them tenderly nurse a wobbling calf to its feet, an old matriarch lead her family group to a new place of forage, a route that that learned of from her mother and in turn shares with her calves, you can’t help but start to see them as individuals not unlike ourselves. The sculpture “Those Who Remain,” aka “March to April” is a visual emblem to those non-human lives, that have affected my own. I chose the latter title based on that very first encounter of the single file herd in Hayden, an ecological story, and later, speaks to a societal one.
“Those Who Remain” in progress (Photo by Jim Halfpenny).
After these and other experiences around home here in Gardiner, there are so many mixed thoughts and contradictory feelings: the hunt versus the capture, the native hunters versus state hunters, hunting versus starvation, gut piles along the driveway and another ‘doomed’ herd occupying the high school football field. I am at a loss as to what to do, what to think or what to say, and so, can only make a sculpture.
In the end they persist; this is the light at the end of the tunnel. Bison are endowed with analogous physiology, nervous systems, sensory organs, emotions, memory, etc. to our own and so, are likely aware of many of the elements that affect their fate. But, there are always those who remain—they carry on nobly agains all odds amid all that the world throws at them. Bison gives us pause for reflection, they inspire us to be grateful for what we have, remind us of the joys we share with others and leave me with hope that we too will get through the troubled times. Life is full of so many things that we cannot influence and the bison of Yellowstone have taught me that there are always green days ahead and when it comes down to it, the most precious thing we possess, is our togetherness.
See the finished sculpture here. “Those who Remain” – Bison Herd in Snow measures 63.5″L x 10″W x 10.5″H, and is an edition of 12. To purchase one of these sculptures, please contact us. To view George’s other sculptures, visit his gallery.