We Homo sapiens learn by telling each other stories. Abstract theories and calculations are one thing, but those only come alive and change our lives when we hear it in a story.

I was camping on Catalina Island off the coast of Los Angeles. Back in the 1920 and 1930s buffalo were introduced to Catalina by a silent movie company and by the Wrigleys. They have been there ever since, and the herd size and health is managed by the Catalina Island Conservancy. A bit of a contradiction that, buffalo on Catalina are exotic, and prior to white men running things, there were no large grazers on Catalina. The Conservancy wants to keep the Island in its pure and natural state. Yeah, and they also need tourist money, and the romantic pastoral sight of buffalo herds is one of the things that bring the folks from the mainland.

Since their introduction the buffalo have evolved. The forage on Catalina is poor, the fresh water is scarce, and like many island-bound species, the Catalina buffaloes are runts compared to the majestic creatures of the plains.

I was camping on the west end of the island. There is a fence at the Two Harbors isthmus to keep the buffalo out of the west end. During the day I had duties, so my only real time to get out of camp and explore was very early in the morning, walking and running the hills and trails by myself. That year a couple of buffalo had hopped the fence, or somebody left a gate open, and were wandering around the west end. One had made it into the area where I was, because there is a small trickle of a stream in the canyon coming down from Silver Peak that mostly runs year-round.

If you know what to look for, and know what to smell for, there are plenty of signs buffalo are about. It’s sort of a sweet livestock smell, not unpleasant. And they make dust wallows along the trails and dirt roads, large and shallow craters of fine dust where they roll around on their backs and sides.

One morning I got up particularly early and headed up one of the steep truck trails towards the island crest, hoping to make a long loop and come down by another route. Ahh, such good times solo trail-running in the early morning twilight, the first glimmers of the coming day lighting the sky in the east, the west sky still dark, the early-rising birds beginning to chirp in the trees and brush, the world waking up.

In the canyon it was still dark. I had been on this trail before, I knew the way. No flashlight was needed. And suddenly, right in front of me as I turned a curve in the trail, there loomed a deep-black shadow that cut off views of the trail and the landscape ahead. The shadow was motionless. No one knew where I was, I had told no one about my plans and route for that morning.

Well, I stopped. Stared for a bit into the bottomless black, and then began to silently, as best I could, backtrack down the trail always keeping my eyes on the shadow. Backing down until the shadow was out of sight. Then turned and began trotting down the trail, still silently, and looking back often. I said to myself, “I think I’ll go another way today.” They may be runts, but when you are by yourself in the wide world, that was still an awfully big shadow.

And in all the times I’ve been to Catalina since, I have never gone out on the trails while it was still dark.