Bison roam prairie at renowned physics laboratory

Chicago Tribune (MCT) - The herd appeared docile, grazing quietly on the lush prairie and flicking away flies with their tails.

But John Plese knew better. He dared not get out of his truck, parked just feet from a 1,500-pound bull. If there's one thing he's learned as Fermilab's chief herdsman, it's this: Never let your guard down around a bison.

"You can't give him a hug or he might say, 'What are you doing?' and try to gore you," he said.

For nearly 40 years, a small herd of bison has roamed at Fermilab, the renowned physics laboratory in west suburban Batavia, Ill.

For some, this is their permanent home on the range, where they eventually will die of old age and will be buried at a bison cemetery on the property.

But for others, this is just the beginning of a journey that will take them to commercial ranches and ultimately, the dinner tables of health-conscious consumers.

Currently, 11 bison at Fermilab are on the auction block, Plese said. By the end of October, they'll be sold _ sometimes for as much as $1,000 each _ to ranchers such as Ron Lester, owner of Lester's Bison Farm in Salem, Wis.

At a farmers market in Grayslake, Ill., Lester sells a variety of bison products, including burgers, hot dogs, bratwurst, jerky, filet mignon, rib eye, sirloin, and New York strip steaks. A pound of ground bison goes for $5.50, while a pound of fillet costs $30, he said.

The bison meat industry has seen double-digit growth in each of the last four years, with 15 percent growth to date this year, said Dave Carter, executive director of the National Bison Association.

The demand reflects consumer desire for healthier, more natural meat, he said. Bison are not given hormones or antibiotics, and the meat is low in fat and cholesterol and high in iron and protein.

"I sell a lot of tenderloin to bodybuilders," Lester said.

There are about 270,000 bison in the United States, mostly on private ranches out West, according to the National Bison Association, which has about 1,000 active members, including 80 from Illinois.

Centuries ago, bison roamed freely across the state, but now they're largely confined to avoid civilization. In August, four were shot and killed in Braidwood, Ill., about 60 miles southwest of Chicago, after escaping from a farm and blocking morning traffic on Interstate Highway 55, police said.

In the Chicago suburbs, these shaggy symbols of Big Sky Country might seem out of place. But they've been at Fermilab since 1969 because of Robert Wilson, the laboratory's first director, who wanted a lasting reminder of Illinois' prairie heritage.

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Two years after Wilson brought a bull and four cows, what was then the Illinois Department of Conservation donated 21 more buffalo. By the 1990s, the herd had grown to 160 head, Plese said. Today, there are just 28, many of which are descendants of the first bison at Fermilab.

The animals at Fermilab are plains bison, different from woods bison from Canada, which often have smaller heads and humps. They are contained by an electric fence and an outer fence high enough to thwart their 6-foot vertical leap.

For the last 21 years, Plese, 42, has been responsible for mending those fences, feeding the bison, refilling their water tanks and checking them for injuries, all from a safe distance.

Plese, who has long brown hair, a goatee and a bison tattoo on his right shoulder, has bonded with the buffalo. He said one bison, whom he called Buddy, was so docile that Plese could touch his nose and hand-feed him pellets, which contain 14 percent dairy protein.

"He'd leave the herd and walk up to the fence to get close to people," Plese said.

But Plese always kept a fence between himself and the 2,400-pound bull. Although he has never been gored, a bison once took four or five jumps toward him with its head down, "basically telling me to back off," he said.

"When they're calving they get superprotective," he said. "They're still wild animals. You've still got to respect them."

Plese pays that respect even after death. Occasionally a bison dies at Fermilab _ usually from old age _ and Plese buries the animal on the property.

Using a backhoe, he digs the grave and lowers the carcass into the ground with a harness, then fills the hole and marks it with a piece of wood or stone.

"I try to make the graves at least 6-feet deep so the coyotes can't get them," Plese said.

His favorite time with the bison is in the morning, shortly after they've eaten. That's when the bison come alive: The bulls lock horns and push each other back and forth; the calves hop like puppies.

Then suddenly, the seemingly tranquil beasts turn into a thundering herd, taking off in unison across the pasture.

"They're interesting to watch," Plese said, "but they're not your domesticated pet."

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