Bison Revival as Indigenous Tribes Embrace Stewardship

Standing atop a fence at Badlands National Park, Troy Heinert looked out from beneath his wide-brimmed hat at a corral filled with 100 wild bison ready for relocation to the Rosebud Indian Reservation.

Descendants of the bison that once roamed the Great Plains of North America in the millions, these animals were about to thunder up a chute, take a truck ride across South Dakota, and join one of the many growing herds Heinert has helped restore on Native American lands.

Heinert smiled in approval at a park service worker as the bison stomped and kicked up dust in the chilly wind. He briefly spoke with someone in Iowa about another herd moving to tribes in Minnesota and Oklahoma, then chatted with a fellow trucker about additional bison heading to Wisconsin.

By nightfall, the final American buffalo from Badlands were being unloaded at the Rosebud reservation, where Heinert resides. The following day, he was back on the road to Badlands to load 200 bison for the Cheyenne River Sioux tribe.

In North America, most bison exist in commercial herds, treated similarly to cattle.

Heinert remarked, "Buffalo exist in two realms. Are they livestock or wildlife? From a tribal viewpoint, they’ve always been seen as wildlife, or even as relatives."

Currently, over 82 tribes across the U.S.—from New York to Alaska—manage more than 20,000 bison in 65 herds. This number has increased as Native Americans seek to reclaim their connection to this vital animal their ancestors relied on for thousands of years.

The balance was disrupted when European settlers decimated the vast bison populations. Almost extinct, bison were saved by conservationists, including Teddy Roosevelt, who helped restore small herds primarily on federal land. Native Americans were often excluded from these early conservation efforts.

Recently, these conservation groups have begun collaborating with tribes, and some are even stepping back. Many Native Americans dream of reestablishing bison herds on a scale that echoes the immense populations that once roamed the continent, shaping its landscape.

Heinert, a 50-year-old state senator from South Dakota and the director of the InterTribal Buffalo Council, approaches his role with a practical mindset: deliver bison to tribes that seek them, whether it's 2 animals or 200. He aids them in restoring long-lost cultural ties, enhancing food security, reclaiming sovereignty, and improving land stewardship. This fall, his organization relocated 2,041 bison to 22 tribes across 10 states.

He stated, "All these tribes depended on bison at various points, whether for nourishment, shelter, or ceremonies. The stories from these tribes are distinct to them. They are striving to reconnect with that once-strong bond."

For centuries, bison dictated the rhythms of life for the Lakota Sioux and many other nomadic tribes that trailed their seasonal migrations. Bison provided hides for clothing and tepees, bones for tools and weapons, horns for ladles, and hair for rope—a consistent supply of bison was essential.

At buffalo jumps, herds were driven off cliffs and then processed over several days and weeks. Archaeological discoveries of vast quantities of bones at certain sites indicate that this was a large-scale operation.

The arrival of European settlers and firearms introduced a new level of commercialization, as hunters, U.S. troops, and tourists hunted bison, with a growing market utilizing their remains for machinery, fertilizer, and clothing. By 1889, the population had dwindled drastically: only 10 bison were left in central Montana, 20 each in central Colorado and southern Wyoming, 200 in Yellowstone National Park, about 550 in northern Alberta, and roughly 250 in zoos and private collections.

Images of stacked buffalo skulls from that period starkly depict an ecological and cultural tragedy.

In an interview, U.S. Interior Secretary Deb Haaland, the first Native American cabinet member, remarked, "We aimed to populate the western half of the United States due to the dense population in the East. The goal was to eliminate all Indians to seize their land."

She noted that the prevailing belief was, "If we wipe out the buffalo, the Indians will perish. They will have nothing to sustain themselves."

The day following the bison transfer from the Badlands, Heinert’s son T.J. lay flat on the ground, his rifle scope aimed at a large bull bison at the Wolakota Buffalo Range. In just two years, the tribal initiative has successfully restored around 1,000 bison to 28,000 acres of rolling, scrub-covered terrain near the Nebraska–South Dakota border.

Heinert paused to remove a cactus thorn from the back of his hand, then looked back through the scope. The 28-year-old had spent the morning discussing the importance of a precise shot amid the challenges posed by 40-mile-per-hour winds. The first shot struck the animal’s ear, but it staggered away a couple of hundred yards to join a larger herd, with the hunter pursuing it in an all-terrain vehicle.

After two more shots, once the animal finally collapsed, Heinert moved in closer and delivered a final shot behind its ear to stop its thrashing. "This is definitely not how it should go," he kept saying, disappointed it wasn’t an instant kill. "But we got him down, and that’s what matters now."

Alongside the widespread extermination of bison, tribes like the Lakota were stripped of their land through broken treaties, which by 1889 reduced the once expansive "Great Sioux Reservation" established in 1851 to several much smaller ones scattered across the Dakotas. Lacking bison, tribal members had to rely on government "beef stations" that provided meat sourced from cattle ranches.

This program significantly benefited white ranchers. Today, Cherry County, Nebraska—located along the southern border of the Rosebud reservation—has more cattle than any other county in the United States.

While removing the fences that divide ranches and opening the land to bison seems unlikely, the Rosebud Sioux are determined to grow the reservation's herds as a dependable food source.

Some tribes have even bigger aspirations: the Blackfeet of Montana and tribes in Alberta aim to create a "transboundary herd" that spans the Canadian border near Glacier National Park. Other tribes are advocating for a "buffalo commons" on federal lands in central Montana, where regional tribes could harvest the animals.

Cristina Mormorunni, a Métis Indian who has collaborated with the Blackfeet on bison restoration, posed the question, "What would it be like to see 30 million buffalo roaming North America again?"

Given the extensive development of homes, people, and fences today, Haaland noted that a complete return to the past isn’t feasible. However, her agency has become a key source for bison, transferring over 20,000 to tribes and tribal organizations in the past 20 years, usually from government-controlled herds to prevent overpopulation.

Haaland expressed, "It’s fantastic to see tribes collaborating on such a crucial initiative regarding bison, which were nearly lost to us."

The transfers sometimes face opposition from cattle ranchers concerned that bison might spread disease and compete for grazing land. These concerns have historically hindered efforts to relocate bison from Yellowstone National Park.

Officials from the Interior work alongside state representatives to ensure that relocated bison comply with local veterinary health regulations. However, they typically do not vaccinate the animals and minimize handling as much as possible.

Demand for bison among the tribes is on the rise, and Haaland stated that transfers will proceed, including the transportation of up to 1,000 bison this year from locations like the Badlands, Grand Canyon National Park, and various national wildlife refuges. Additional bison are sourced from conservation groups and tribes that have excess animals.

At the Wolakota range, Daniel Eagle Road approached the bison that T.J. Heinert had shot. Eagle Road placed a hand on the animal's head, while Heinert took out some chewing tobacco, placed a bit behind his lip, and shared the tin with Eagle Road, who followed suit. Heinert then sprinkled tobacco on the bison’s back and offered a prayer.

With chains secured around its front and hind legs, the half-ton bison was lifted onto a flatbed truck for the jarring journey back to the ranch headquarters. Approximately 20 adults and children gathered as the bison was carefully lowered onto a tarp, listening attentively to tribal elder Duane Hollow Horn Bear.

Horn Bear remarked, "This relative sacrificed itself for us, for our sustenance and our way of life."

Before long, the tarp was stained with bloody footprints from those butchering the animal. They quartered it, sawing through the bones, and then carved meat from the legs, rump, and large hump. Children, some as young as six, were handed knives to help remove skin and fat.

The adults took turns dipping chunks of kidney into the animal’s gall bladder bile. "It’s like salsa!" someone joked, prompting laughter from the others.

The stomach was cleaned for use in soup, while the pelt was scraped and laid out on a railing to dry. The skull was also cleaned, and the tongue, considered a delicacy, was removed.

Next came an assembly line for slicing, grinding, and packaging the meat, which was distributed to families through a food program managed by the tribal agency operating the ranch. The work continued into the night.

For many, this was a first experience, highlighting a challenge faced by the Rosebud Sioux and other tribes: a lack of butchering skills and cultural knowledge to forge a personal connection with bison.

Katrina Fuller, who assisted with the butchering, envisions training others so that the 20 communities on the reservation can come to Wolakota for their own harvest. "Maybe not right now, but during my lifetime," she expressed. "That’s what I hope for everyone."

Horn Bear, 73, recalled that when he was young, his grandparents shared creation stories centered on bison. However, he was forcibly enrolled in an Indian boarding school—government-run institutions designed to erase tribal traditions through harsh punishment and cruelty. By then, the bison had already vanished, and the schools aimed to eliminate the stories associated with them as well.

Standing on the blood-stained tarp, Horn Bear reflected that the harvest restores what was nearly entirely stripped away—his people’s culture, economy, and social structure.

"It feels like returning to a way of life," he remarked.