Humor

Not the Kind of Music You'd Expect When You're Deep in the Forest

BLLLLINKKKK... blllllinkkkk blllllinkkkk. "Whassat?" I ask blearily, eyes still closed and the hood of my sleeping bag wrapped around my ears.

It's 5 A.M. at our campsite in the Kaibab National Forest overlooking Marble Canyon near the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. I'm groggy, and my back feels like I've been hauling construction cinder blocks for two weeks straight. The tent door is zipped shut. My tentmate, Maija, sits bolt upright.

Blllllinkkkk... blllllinkkkk... blllllinkkkk. "I think there's something out there," Maija says, looking at my prone body, obviously hoping for some manly action on my part. Blllllinkkkk... blllllinkkkk. blllllinkkkk.

"Grghklk," I say as I sit up, blinking the sleep from my eyes. Maija looks alarmed. Next we hear clop, clop, clop. Then a tinny jangle, as though someone has dropped a small sack of aluminum cans to the hard ground.

I am sort of awake now, and slowly begin to unzip the tent door to investigate. The sun begins to rise, but the light remains dim. I roll to my side and cock my head to peek out the bottom left corner of the tent door. I can just make out a large, dark, furry mass in the middle of our campsite, not 10 feet from the tent.

It's a portly bison-steaming breath puffing from his nostrils-standing in the middle of our fire circle and our camping gear.

Hardly in a hurry, the bison strolls back over to Maija's guitar, leaning against a log. Blllllinkkkk... blllllinkkkk... blllllinkkkk. Not exactly "Smoke on the Water," but it seems our bison is playing a little ditty by licking the strings of the guitar, perhaps a buffalo version of "Home on the Range."

His tongue is bumpy, a little grayish and as big as an oven mitt. The bumpiness of his tongue probably is the closest thing the bison has to a pick.

I sit back up, look at Maija, and impart, "It's a bison. And he's playing your guitar with his tongue."

Maija gives me a look that expresses both "yuck" and "wow" at the same time.

I'm no bison expert, and Maija isn't either. We agree we aren't sure whether a bison would charge us with his substantial head, or worse, trample us in our tent in some out-of-control one-bison stampede. Despite the risk of getting stepped on, we decide it best to watch from the tent rather than climb out and greet our early morning guest.

As the sun rises, we grow braver and unzip the tent door entirely, leaving but a mosquito screen and 10 feet of red dirt between us and the woolly animal. Bored with the guitar, he sniffs around the site, perhaps looking for snacks, or possibly another musical instrument. Luckily, I have my harmonica in the tent; I imagine it would be difficult to expel bison spit from its tiny holes.

He ambles around the site, stands at the edge of the cliff to take in the view and pays absolutely no attention to the two gawking humans watching his every move for about an hour. Then he disappears from our triangle-shaped field of vision.

"I'm going out," I say boldly, trying to recall the karate moves I learned in high school. I consider my unzipping of the mosquito net an act of extreme bravery.

Poking my head above the tent and looking backward, I see him sniffing our car (which contains all of our food). The doors are locked, and I'm relieved, although I doubt even a bumpy tongue of that magnitude could lift a door handle.

I step outside, keeping one eye on the bison at all times. Maija follows me out, craning her neck to look at the guitar-licking, car-sniffing bison. We sit down on a log and simply watch, feeling awe for this enormous animal-now that we have a good 50 feet between us.

Slowly, sampling the grasses in the field behind the campsite along the way, he moves on to the gravel access road that had brought us here and heads off into the forest.

Maija picks up her guitar, which is moist. There's that look again, more "yuck" than "wow" this time.

It takes us an hour to pack up our site, and we hop into the car to drive the 20 or so miles to the Grand Canyon Lodge for breakfast. A mile down the road, there he is. The bison steps into the woods as we approach, and we drive slowly by, stretching our necks again for one last view of our morning visitor. He ignores us, and we drive on down the access rode, spitty guitar safely stowed in the trunk.