Bighorn Bison

The question was posed to me by Deano Yarlott in the spring of 2007: "How would you like to go buffalo hunting?" Hunting has been in my blood from early childhood. As a young boy, I stalked nearby wood lots and farmlands, alone, in search of small game. Since those days I have been fortunate enough to live my youthful dreams of hunting and collecting numerous North American big-game animals as well as several African species, including Cape buffalo. But I'd never seriously considered hunting bison until Deano suggested the possibility.

Deano Yarlott, a member of the Crow tribe, lives in Hardin, Montana, with his wife, Marie and their three children. Our hunt was to take place in the middle of October on tribal land located in a beautiful, rugged, mountainous region southwest of Hardin, where the Crow Nation maintains a substantial herd of wild North American bison.

These majestic animals, at one time numbering in the millions, were once the main source of food, clothing and shelter for many Native American tribes, including the Crow. Today, buffalo number only in the thousands. A herd of three to four thousand live within the boundaries of Yellowstone National Park. Thousands of others still exist in several federal and state parks within western North America. These herds are closely managed and protected to ensure their continued survival. In addition, there are many privately owned herds throughout the U.S. and Canada. Bison are impressive and imposing animals. Large bulls can stand well over six feet tall, weigh nearly 2,000 pounds and run thirty miles per hour. Their disposition can be nasty and unpredictable. Every year one or more unsuspecting, naïve tourist(s) are injured by these placid-looking bovines.

After months of anticipation, I met Deano in Hardin and headed for the mountains to rendezvous with the other member of our hunting party. I have hunted alone for deer, antelope and elk, but buffalo hunting requires team effort.

Our journey took us past the site of the Little Bighorn Battlefield where General George Armstrong Custer and his men engaged in mortal combat with Native Americans over control of this very land. I thought it ironic that now, a little more than a century later, a white man and an Indian traveling together hardly took notice of the monument erected to commemorate the events of that fateful day.

A drizzle turned to wet snow when we reached the foothills of the mountains and began our ascent. Pavement soon gave way to clay, turned slimy by the rain and snow. Deano shifted into 4-wheel-drive. For the next two hours the pick-up churned its way through mud and bounced over rocks toward Windy Point at over 9,000 feet in elevation. We stopped there to rearrange our gear. Horizontal sleet and snow blasted our faces and hands as gale-force winds clawed at our clothing. I remembered hunting elk from horseback in weather like that and breathed a sigh of relief at the warmth and comfort of the truck.

Thirty minutes later we arrived at camp, a one-room log cabin. "It isn't fancy," Deano remarked, "but it's better than nothing." We lighted a lantern, spread out our bedrolls and heated chili on a propane stove. The quality of a hunting camp is not determined by the accommodations; it depends on the company you're keeping. Many times I have camped in uncomfortable conditions and enjoyed it because I had great companions. As I slid into my sleeping bag that first night, I knew that the next few days were going to be fantastic.