Wendell Berry wrote rather famously, that “eating is an agricultural act”. Anyone paying attention to food these days must also acknowledge that it is a political one. The genesis of my own political eating came in an unlikely spot, with food the last thing on my mind. It was a late summer evening in a meadow in Yellowstone National Park. I was there 11 years ago to do a field study on the reintroduction of gray wolves to the region – a highly controversial program that began in 1995. Having lived in the hinterlands of Northwest Montana 3 years prior, I knew this issue to be an ideological tinderbox. I returned to the region to explore the cultural dimensions of the reintroduction program.

Little did I know this adventure would lead to my very last hamburger.

I spent several weeks learning about the greater Yellowstone ecosystem – an area which extends far beyond the boundaries of the park itself – and the many species who make it home. The most vocal objection to the reintroduction of wolves came from ranchers, who argued that the presence of this “vicious” species would decimate their herds and flocks. Needless to say, I came away from the experience convinced that ranching posed the greater risk to a healthy and viable West.

That summer, there were approximately 90 wolves in the park, including the spring litters of pups. The greater ecosystem is approximately the same size as the state of Maine, so my chances of seeing one were impossibly small and I tramped around for days, practicing wolf calls, seeing nothing canine. But on that hazy summer evening, I happened upon an adult wolf and two pups on the other side of the clearing– the adult teaching her wards the basics of hunting field mice. Feeling fundamentally that eating beef was incompatible to the future of these creatures, I promised them then and there that the burger I had had just days before was the last of its kind. From this moment on, I became more aware of the foods I chose and the impact they had on a healthy world.

Fast forward 11 years: Late last month, as they often do annually, buffalo from the park attempted to cross out of it and north into Montana. The impetus for this migration is that the snows in Yellowstone are incredibly deep, and any grazing to be had lies buried under feet of snow and ice. Breaking through such piles for a buffalo is an act of enormous caloric waste, especially for ones on the brink of starvation. Just north of the park are plains that the wind has swept bare and precious nutrition remains exposed. Access to this grazing is literally the difference between life and death for herds that have made it through a fierce Wyoming winter.

Regrettably, while there is no visible border for the buffalo to acknowledge, no fence to keep them in, their journey takes them across the state line and into Montana, where they are distinctly not wanted. Imagine a bunch of armed vigilantes waiting for you on the other side of the divide between winter and spring, armed with shotguns, ready to mow you down or herd you off to slaughter. This is essentially the fate that meets the buffalo.

One of the very first laws enacted in the newly formed Massachusetts Bay Colony in the early 1600’s was to put a price on the head of wolves. Through this bounty program, the species was shot out of the northeast. Vehemence against wolves eradicated them from every part of the lower 48. In the 19th century, enormous herds of buffalo were shot en masse from passing trains – a form of colonialist sport. (The second photo above depicts the aftermath of such a slaughter) The eradication of the species was also designed to impose cultural, spiritual, and economic genocide on Plains Indians who depended on them utterly.