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"We love you," Sanchez calls out to the beasts.
On the heels of the animals are six "bubbles," as the BFC volunteers identify snowmobiles over their radios. The machines skid across the highway asphalt and then onto the dirt of the shoulder as the buffalo exhaustedly trot down to the Madison and across the imaginary line that means they're back inside the national park.
The county sheriff's deputy, Rob Burns, drives toward us to reprimand Sanchez for getting so close to the animals. Other BFC volunteers - more than a dozen of them - emerge from other surveillance posts, seemingly materializing from the woods and earth. They converge not 50 feet from the agents, ready to conduct their own haze of sorts, harassing the government employees who are harassing the buffalo they're here to defend.
"We don't really get this close to these guys in this capacity," Sanchez admits to me after the deputy walks off. For a moment, I wonder if she's talking about the massive buffalo or the government agents, but it's obvious which ones she thinks are more dangerous.
Psychological Warfare
"Y'all should get a real job," shouts Stephany Seay, who along with Sanchez is one of two media coordinators for the campaign. She's wearing a silver buffalo pendant around her neck, a green military jacket and a brown wool skullcap. Her eyes are a fierce blue. Like several other volunteers, she has a camcorder tightly trained on the government officials as she wages psychological warfare on them.
"Where's all your cows, livestock inspectors?" demands Seay, who then goes into a mocking redneck drawl. "'Let's go chase the buffalo, guh.'" Her comrades snicker and keep the cameras rolling.
The officials, who actually represent a variety of government agencies including the DOL; Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks; the U.S. Forest Service; and the National Park Service, don't respond. They gather with the county deputy and look under the hoods of a few of the snowmobiles, the motors apparently overworked from skidding through the dirt.
Together, these agencies implement the Interagency Bison Management Plan, a cooperative scheme finalized in 2000. The plan upholds the DOL's right to control and kill wandering buffalo in the name of disease control for cattle, yet also outlines steps for increasing tolerance for bison roaming along rivers outside the park.
Steve Torbit, a Boulder-based senior scientist with the National Wildlife Federation, calls the plan a "small but significant step" because, without the agreement, any bison that left the park would be killed on sight.
"On the other hand," says Torbit, "Montana still continues to harass bison on the western side of the park where there are no cattle."
Five years into the plan, tolerance for the buffalo hasn't increased much. Animals that leave the park are still hazed, captured and slaughtered. Buffalo calves are sometimes vaccinated for brucellosis and quarantined for up to four years, although the vaccine isn't entirely successful and the effects of enclosed isolation on the animals' natural behavior are unclear. The BFC and other critics argue that the engine driving the management plan isn't working properly either.
Deputy Burns now approaches the BFC volunteers, mostly twenty-something-year-old kids with unruly beards, bandannas tied around their heads and faces, and ragtag clothing. My nose is stuffed, but one of my newspaper colleagues tells me they have "enough hippie B.O. to choke a horse." Here's a band of eco-Zapatistas and, as the cop approaches, the mountain air stings even through my clogged nasal passages like a riot might erupt.
Buffalo on the Badge
"Sir, I'm going to need to talk to you about a federal investigation about assaulting an officer," Deputy Burns says to Roman Sanchez, Justine's husband. A black fleece ski mask covers most of Roman's head; wraparound sunglasses hide his eyes.
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