Return of the Wild: More Stories of Some of America’s Greatest Rewilding Triumphs
Part 2 looks at how black-footed ferrets and bison returned from the brink to reshape the American landscape.
Here's the second part of my post that dives into a bit more detail on rewilding projects that have been implemented in the US. Yesterday, I covered Yellowstone wolves and Californian condors, looking at how the reintroduction of a keystone species helped to reinvigorate a landscape. Today it’s the turn of two more iconic species, the black-footed ferret and the bison, and the story of how two captive populations were returned to the wild almost one hundred years apart.
Black-Footed Ferrets: A Second Chance in the Prairie Night
On a late September night in 1981, a ranch dog named Shep trotted up to a farmhouse door in Meeteetse, Wyoming, with an odd trophy clamped in his jaws. The sleepy rancher took one look and couldn’t believe it: the limp, mink-like creature was a black-footed ferret—an animal widely believed to be extinct. Biologists rushed in and soon discovered a tiny population of ferrets clinging to existence on that ranch’s prairie dog towns. It was as if a ghost had stepped out of history.
Black-footed ferrets are slender, masked carnivores that depend entirely on prairie dogs for food and shelter, inhabiting their burrows and preying on them at night. Once, thousands of these ferrets prowled the Great Plains, but by the 1970s, none could be found. Relentless prairie dog eradication (through poisoning and plague) had destroyed the ferrets’ prey base, and the ferrets vanished as a result. A small remnant was found in South Dakota in the 1960s but it quickly died out, and the species was declared gone.
The Meeteetse discovery in 1981 was thus a miracle—a last lifeline. Wildlife officials descended on the ranch, determined to save the species. For a few years they left the Wyoming ferrets in place, breeding and studying them in the wild. But fate took a cruel turn when an epidemic of canine distemper and sylvatic plague swept through the area, knocking the fragile ferret population back to the brink. By 1987, only 18 ferrets remained, and in a desperate bid, they were all captured for a do-or-die captive breeding program.
Thus began the ferret’s road to redemption. At several zoos and a specialized facility in Colorado, those 18 ferrets—descended from just seven breeding females—multiplied under the careful watch of conservationists. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service coordinated a Black-Footed Ferret Recovery Program that brought together federal agencies, state wildlife departments, tribes, and private landowners. By the early 1990s, litters of wriggling ferret kits born in captivity signalled that the species still had a fighting chance.
In 1991, the first captive-bred ferrets were reintroduced to the wild in Wyoming’s Shirley Basin. It was a tense moment: biologists in headlights and headlamps released ferret after ferret into abandoned prairie dog burrows at dusk, hoping these crepuscular predators would instinctively know what to do. They did. The little carnivores slipped underground and soon began hunting prairie dogs on their own.
Over the ensuing years, reintroduction sites proliferated: Montana’s sprawling UL Bend, South Dakota’s Badlands, Arizona’s Aubrey Valley, and beyond. Each site needed an abundance of prairie dogs (a sometimes contentious requirement, given that ranchers often view prairie dog colonies as competition for cattle forage). But gradually, attitudes shifted toward coexistence. The key players in the ferret saga included scientists like John Forrest and conservation stalwarts at the Turner Endangered Species Fund, who provided lands for releases, and countless field techs who braved cold prairie midnights to conduct nocturnal spotlight surveys (the primary method of detecting the green eye-shine of ferrets in the dark).
On the ground, the ferret recovery yielded plenty of memorable anecdotes. One ferret, given the nickname “Scarface” by researchers for a distinctive facial mark, became a legend at Arizona’s release site—eluding predators and roaming far beyond his release burrow to establish territory, siring kits year after year. In South Dakota, a school class “adopted” a ferret and gave it the endearing name Lucky, following updates from biologists as Lucky raised her first litter in the wild.
Perhaps the most sci-fi twist came in 2020, when scientists cloned a black-footed ferret from 30-year-old frozen cells—producing a female named Elizabeth Ann to inject some genetic diversity into the tight-knit ferret gene pool. It was the first clone of an endangered American species, a testament to how far we’ll go to sustain this little predator. But perhaps the most powerful measure of success is the simple fact that on dozens of prairies across North America, black-footed ferrets are once again sleeping through the day in prairie dog burrows and slipping out under the stars to stalk their prey—just as they had done for millennia.
As of the mid-2020s, about 400 ferrets live in the wild across 15 reintroduction sites in Wyoming, South Dakota, Montana, Arizona, Colorado, Utah, Kansas, and even northern Mexico. Another 250 or so remain in breeding centers as a safety net and source for future releases. The species has a long way to full recovery—the goal is at least 3,000 breeding adults in nature—but the trajectory is hopeful. Each successful wild-born litter (and they are happening each year now) is cheered by the recovery team.
Ecologically, the ferrets’ return is a boon for the prairie ecosystem. Prairie dogs are a keystone species, and their towns, when occupied by ferrets, are often left intact (ferrets keep prairie dog numbers in check, reducing the need for ranchers to poison the colonies). Those same prairie dog towns provide habitat for burrowing owls, badgers, swift foxes, and others. In short, restoring ferrets helps restore the entire community of the Great Plains. From the brink of oblivion—indeed being declared extinct not once but twice—the black-footed ferret has crept back, one burrow at a time, proving that even the most elusive night dwellers can get a second chance.
Bison: Thunder on the Plains Once More
The dust of the Great Plains once rose in swirling clouds beneath the hooves of millions of American bison. For millennia these shaggy, hump-shouldered herbivores roamed from Canada to Mexico, shaping the prairie as they grazed and wallowed. By the late 1800s, however, that thunder had all but faded to silence. In one of the darkest chapters of American ecological history, market hunters and U.S. cavalrymen carried out a slaughter that drove bison from an estimated 25–60 million strong to the brink of extinction.
By 1889, only a few hundred wild bison remained, huddled in remote pockets of Montana and the Texas Panhandle. Piles of sun-bleached skulls and prairies emptied of buffalo testified to an ecological and cultural catastrophe (the decimation of bison was a deliberate strategy to subjugate the Plains Indigenous peoples who depended on them).
Against these odds, a handful of visionaries set out to save the species. In the early 20th century, figures like zoologist William Hornaday and President Theodore Roosevelt helped establish captive herds and wildlife refuges as sanctuaries for the last bison. On the Montana prairie in 1902, ranchers Charles and Dan Iliff sold some of their bison to the New York Zoological Society, which then sent those animals west to seed new herds. Thanks to these efforts, a nucleus of bison endured in protected areas like Yellowstone (where 23 wild bison famously survived) and the Wichita Mountains Refuge in Oklahoma.
Fast forward to today, and the bison’s rebound stands as a monumental conservation success. From a nadir of a few hundred, bison numbers have climbed to roughly half a million across North America. Only a fraction of these (perhaps 20–30 thousand) are in wild or semi-wild conservation herds—the rest live on commercial ranches—but even that fraction represents an enormous victory. More than 60 conservation herds now exist, from the windswept Badlands of the Dakotas to the tallgrass prairies of Kansas.
The ecological effects of restoring bison are profound. Bison are often called “ecosystem engineers,” and for good reason. As they graze selectively, constantly on the move, they create a patchwork of different grass heights that benefit a variety of other species. Pronghorn antelope and prairie chickens, for instance, thrive in landscapes where bison, unlike cattle, don’t overgraze down to the dirt. Bison also love to roll and wallow in dust baths, which carves shallow depressions in the earth. When it rains, these wallows fill with water and become temporary ponds — oases on the dry plains that many animals use as watering holes. Even in death, a bison’s influence continues: a fallen bison’s carcass, rich in nutrients and carrying seeds in its fur from far travels, can spawn an eruption of wildflowers and grasses where it decays. Biologists observing rewilded prairies have noted that bison carcasses often lead to vibrant prairie blooms, attracting pollinators like butterflies and bees. This cycle of life was largely absent during the bison’s long absence, and its restoration is helping to heal the plains.
The story of bison rewilding is not just one of numbers, but of relationships—between people and nature, and between past and present. Key players span generations. In 1905, Theodore Roosevelt co-founded the American Bison Society to rally support for bison preservation, and by 1907 the Society had shipped 15 bison by train to Wichita Reserve, jump-starting that herd. In recent decades, leadership has increasingly come from Native American tribes, for whom the bison (Tatanka, Iinnii, Kuts) is a central part of culture and spirituality. Tribal coalitions like the InterTribal Buffalo Council, representing dozens of tribes, have been instrumental in restoring bison to tribal lands.
In one iconic scene in 2014, members of various First Nations gathered on the Montana plains to welcome a herd of bison repatriated from Yellowstone into the Fort Peck Reservation’s new cultural herd. As the trailer gates swung open, the bison thundered out onto ancestral land that hadn’t felt their hooves in over 100 years, while tribal leaders drummed and sang songs of welcome. Such moments underscore that rewilding is about more than biology; it is about healing old wounds and renewing ancient bonds.
Today more than 30,000 pure bison live in conservation-focused herds (many fenced, but wild in behaviour), and several thousand of those roam truly unfenced, like the herds in Yellowstone and Badlands. Every new calf wobbling to its feet in spring on these plains is both a fuzzy symbol of hope and a real boost to the ecosystem it will help shape. The sight of a great bison bull silhouetted against a sunset, mane shaggy and face coated in dust from a recent wallow, is no longer a relic of the past. Thanks to over a century of concerted effort and a recent surge of rewilding initiatives, the buffalo indeed roam again. The prairies have their gardeners back, and with them comes the resurgence of a whole community of life that accompanies the bison’s return.
Wild Revival: A New Chapter for America’s Ecological Heritage
From the howl of wolves in Yellowstone to the wingbeats of condors over California, from furtive ferrets blinking in prairie dawns to bison herds shaking the ground, these rewilding triumphs share a common thread: nature’s capacity for renewal when given our humility and help. The measurable outcomes are clear—degraded valleys rejuvenated with foliage and fauna, species pulled back from extinction’s edge into self-sustaining populations, and keystone actors restored to their roles as ecosystem engineers.
Yet the numbers tell only part of the story. Just as powerful are the on-the-ground moments: a Yellowstone ranger hearing the first wild wolf lullaby in decades and knowing it heralds a healed land; a biologist watching a young condor catch a swirl of wind and soar, carrying hopes of an entire species on its wings; a rancher-turned-conservationist kneeling by a ferret’s release burrow at midnight, crossing fingers that the little predator will survive till morning; or a tribal elder shedding tears of joy as beloved buffalo thunder back onto ancestral soil. These narratives weave into a larger tapestry of restoration across America. They show that ecological success is not an abstract concept but a living, breathing reality—one embodied in packs and flocks and herds that once again find welcome on their home ranges.
Truly inspiring. Thank you.
May the so-called 'white' homo sapiens sapiens currently inhabiting middle swath of this continent retain the knowledge and broaden the impact of returning Nature to her full glory. Amen.