Food Feature: Wild about Utah

Antelope Island might well be the last place in America (not owned by Ted Turner) where the buffalo still roam and the antelope still play. The barren-looking island is a mystery surrounded by an enigma known as the Great Salt Lake in Utah and is so large that it is visible from most any vantage point in the Salt Lake Valley and beyond. Most Utah citizens who live within viewing distance of Antelope Island have never even ventured across the seven-and-a-half-mile causeway that links the island to the “mainland,” even though the island has been considered for National Park/Monument status at least three times.

Since 1981, the 28,000 acres that make up Antelope Island, complete with 6,300-foot mountain peaks, rolling pastures, white sand beaches and an abundance of wildlife, has remained a Utah State Park. Accessibility by humans is limited to a 2,000-acre spread on the northern end of the island and a few trails in the backcountry where only horses, bikes and hikes are allowed. The rest of the island is reserved for wildlife, or, I should say, all of the island is reserved for, and home to, wildlife — humans are merely visitors.

To best understand Antelope Island, you must first understand the Great Salt Lake. It all began a few thousand centuries ago. The thinning and stretching of the Earth’s crust due to plate movement created something known today as the Great Basin in Utah and Nevada. No rivers flow from this basin; they either evaporate or end up in the Great Salt Lake, which itself evaporates because it has no drainage, leaving salts and minerals behind. It is nothing more than the backwash of an ancient ocean called Lake Bonneville, which used to cover most of Utah, along with parts of Nevada and Idaho. The old shoreline of Lake Bonneville is still visible halfway up the slopes of Frary Peak on Antelope Island. Back then, Frary Peak was the entire island; the waters then subsided and left us with what is known today as the Great Salt Lake and Antelope Island.

Seagulls are everywhere on the island. Mother Nature has them fooled. They actually think they’re at the ocean, but it’s just a huge dead lake and lots of salty air. Three to nine times saltier than the ocean, this is not a lake to play in. And, yes, you do float, just like your sixth-grade science teacher told you.

At the end of the 19th century, bison were on the brink of extinction in North America — only 800 were left. (Bison, by the way, is the correct term; buffalo only exist, technically, in Asia and Africa.) Someone bought 12 of those bison from a ranch in Texas and placed them on Antelope Island. Today there are almost 800 bison on Antelope Island alone and almost 300,000 across the continent (see Ted Turner).

The herd on Antelope Island is considered to be unique because it contains the original gene pool from that near-extinct herd of 800 from the 19th century and has remained isolated since then, thereby making it the purest bison herd in North America. Recently the state of Utah has taken great strides to ensure the health of the herd with the annual bison roundup. Beginning at the southern end of the island, helicopters and cowboys on horseback move the herd into corrals on the northern end. They then funnel the bison, one-by-one, into tiny pens where inoculations and examinations are performed. It may seem like torture for the bison, but it’s done for their own good; infections and/or disease could wipe out any isolated herd quickly. Each year, hundreds of people attend the roundup, which usually takes place in October.

Bison are docile creatures by nature, but they can weigh up to 1,000 pounds each and become very aggressive when they feel threatened. While riding my mountain bike along the White Rock Bay loop trail, I saw three huge figures ahead on the trail I assumed to be riders on horseback. The closer I got, the more unsure I was until, finally, I slammed on the brakes, realizing I was interrupting a mating attempt by two bulls in competition for a cow. The three of them were right in the middle of the trail and none of them were too happy to see me. One of the bulls began his mount but stopped soon after I took out my camera. He stared me down. I put the camera back in the bag. There was a snort and a stomping of the hoof. I decided to take leave, very slowly. The only thing between me and the enormous, angry creature was my puny bike, which may as well have been made out of aluminum foil. It occurred to me at this point that I had never seen a creature like this up close without some kind of barrier between us, like at the zoo. Sure, it wasn’t a tiger or anything like that, but if one of those bison had decided he’d like to see me dead, it wouldn’t have taken much doing on his part. In a weird way it was actually kinda thrilling knowing that. Still, I didn’t stick around too long. I made a long detour through the sagebrush and eventually found my way back, much farther up the trail.??