Most days, Clyde does what he does best. He stands. He watches. He moves only when there's a reason worth moving for, and even then slowly, like the world is the one in a hurry.
Today, the ranch marks another year for him. Ten of them now.
Ten years is a long time to be a fixture anywhere. A lot has passed through this place since he arrived. Crews have come and gone. Weddings have come and gone. Calves have been born and grown into their own lives. The fields have greened and gone gold and greened again. Through all of it, he's been here. Steady. Watching the gates.
We don't make a fuss of it. Buffalo don't seem to care for fuss. But the date passes, and we notice him. Familiar. Unbothered. Older than the noise around him.
He's been part of this place long enough that it's hard to picture it without him. Guests ask about him before they ask about anything else. Brides have moved ceremony spots to be closer to him. Film crews have spent more time photographing him than the actors they were paid to follow. Kids go quiet when they see him. Their parents do too.
Most buffalo would rather be left alone. Clyde is not most buffalo. He'll walk toward the fence to see what you're doing. He'll stand for a camera as if he knows what the camera is for. He's a working part of this ranch in his own way. A guide. A greeter. A reminder of what was here before any of us.
This year, he stood for David Yarrow's camera in Silverton. He loved it. Clyde always does. He's the rare buffalo who comes toward the lens instead of away from it, who seems to know exactly what's being asked of him and would just as soon be doing it as anything else. By the end of the day, he had earned his keep three times over. It was one of the good ones.
There's a reason people slow down around him. A buffalo on open land does something to you. Two thousand pounds of presence, looking right back at you. We almost lost them in this country, the buffalo. Sixty million down to a few hundred in a single generation. The fact that any of them are still here is a small miracle. Standing near one is standing near that miracle. You feel slower. Less impressed with yourself. More aware of the wind.
Some places have a sign at the gate. We have Clyde. He's done more for first impressions than any marketing we've ever paid for. People meet him once and remember him. They tell their friends. They come back. Ten years on, he's still the one most of them remember.
He'll get his usual today. A wide patch of grass, a long stretch of afternoon, the company of whoever wanders by to say hello, and extra cookies because it's his birthday. That's the gift he seems to want, and the one we're glad to give.
Happy birthday, Clyde.
The Mortenson Family
