When I found out I would get to go with my husband to a conference in Jackson Hole, I quickly made a list of goals for the trip. They were: see some buffalo, ride a horse, and enjoy kid-free time. By the end of day 2, I had achieved all of these goals, and given the sheer number of buffalo we saw, started to wonder if I should have set the bar a little higher. It was like setting a goal to see a pigeon in NYC.
For those not familiar with where this blog got its weird name, as a toddler, around the age Etta and Claire are now, I informed my parents that my name was no longer Sarah, but Ernie Bufflo. Best we can tell, it was a mashup of Ernie from Sesame Street and a love of buffalo that may have resulted from a PBS nature documentary. When I started blogging, my old alias seemed a natural nom de plume.
Getting super close to wild buffalo made me a little giddy. They’re beautiful in their own big shaggy way, and they seem super chill, just munching their grass, rarely looking up at the weirdos gawking at them with cameras. But that chill feels a little ominous, because you know they could trample you at the drop of a hat.
On our trip, my sweet sweet husband was musing as to why the bufflos and I are soul mates: “you think everything is calm, everything is fine, and then in an instant, they can just FLIP OUT.” Thanks, love.
I can’t disagree with him, really, if I’m being honest. Sometimes my strong reactions are a mystery to me too. The good news is, though, this little bufflo is always back to chill soon enough.