Tuesday, September 26, 2000
The airplane swept low over the Rocky Mountain Front, cleared the cloudy, snow-draped peaks and glided into sunlight gleaming off the autumn-colored plains. The mighty Missouri River's serpentine track revealed itself, bordered by golden cottonwoods, as the plane dropped for a landing at the Great Falls airport.

My destination was the Fort Belknap Agency, home to the Gros Ventre and Assiniboine tribes, located in northcentral Montana. The agency's land totals nearly 1 million acres and is bordered by the Milk River on the north and the Little Rocky Mountains to the south. Not a bad piece of property by today's standards, but when you think that at one time the boundaries of these nomadic people were truly limitless, you begin to feel and understand their loss.

Leaving the airport, our big Chevy 4x4 headed northeast, shadowing portions of the Lewis and Clark trail. Recalling passages of Ambrose's Undaunted Courage, I recognized the junction of the Maria's River outside Loma.

Lewis named the river for his cousin. When the Corps of Discovery reached this junction, many among them believed that the Maria's was the actual continuation of the Missouri. Lewis formed a scouting party and hiked up the Maria's for more than 30 miles on foot. Finally, its northern direction swayed him to believe that it was not the main branch of the Missouri.

I had come to hunt this fine country for antelope, buffalo, prairie dogs and coyotes--species first recorded by Lewis and Clark and representative of America's northwest wilderness. I had come to reap a high plains harvest.

Wednesday, September 27
The morning light was almost indescribable. Red and yellow, pink and blue, peach and violet, all spread across the eastern sky like a painter's palette. In fact, it was these very colors that first attracted Charles M. Russell to Montana over a century ago.

Called Nee-Toe-Nan by the Gros Ventre and Wah-Tonk-A by the Assiniboine, the agency's buffalo have returned. The tribe's 600 buffalo live today on 12,000 acres surrounding Snake Butte. They live much as they did in centuries past. And, as in centuries past, the Gros Ventre have come in the fall to hunt them, to put up meat for the long, cold winter. But this time the Gros Ventre have three white men as guests.

This day, two old buffalo bulls will fall. We find the first just below Snake Butte's cliffs. The hunting party belly-crawls into position. Joe lies prone, taking a steady rest from a lichen-covered rock. The vastness of the prairie seems to silence the sound of the shot from the Kimber Model 89 rifle, but there is no mistaking the dust displaced on the bull's flank as the .338-caliber Barnes X-Bullet hammers home.

The hunters approach the fallen bull and are awed by its immensity. This mountain of meat, hide, gut, bone and sinew has the potential to feed, house and clothe many. It is now easy to understand what their near extinction meant to the plains tribes, and the awful waste of those who once took only their humps, robes and tongues.

Between two rocky hills, two bulls are found. One is old and heavy-horned. His curly robe covers his massive shoulders like a woman's shawl. I decide that this old bull will be the only buffalo that I will kill. He will become my link to the past. My symbol of all those who have hunted these lands before me. My gift from those great plains ghosts.

Balancing my Kimber Model 89 rifle on the shooting stick, I pick a spot of hide behind the bull's shoulder and press the trigger. The shot hits home, but the bull remains standing. I fire again. This bullet almost touches the entrance of the first. Still the bull remains on his feet.

Wanting him dead, I angle to his front and close the distance between us to 20 yards. Looking into his eyes, I steady the crosshair between his horns and fire again.

My connection with the past is strong and complete. My regret is tempered by my reverence for the bull. In time-tunnel clarity, I am projected back to these plains and hills of yore, and I whoop for joy. Joy that these magnificent creatures have returned. Joy at the great gift bestowed upon me. Joy that I was able to look into his eyes and understand. The circle is complete. The bull is dead, but through his death his species might continue to live and thrive--once again helping to clothe and feed and house those who depend upon him.

Thursday, September 28
Together with Reno Shambo, my Gros Ventre guide, I cover miles of seemingly endless territory populated by vast numbers of pronghorns. What appears to be flat prairie isn't. Rather, the surface is scratched with countless coulees, some hundreds of feet deep where seasonal streams have cut their courses, others shallow yet deep enough to hide our prey.

Buck after buck we have turned down because he is not of the size we want. Pronghorns are difficult to judge, even for people who live their lives around them. A pronghorn trophy must have high horns, more than twice the length of his ears. He must also have long prongs or cutters. Finally, there must be mass throughout the length of the horns. Many antelope bucks have one of the three criteria. Fewer boast two of the three. Very few possess them all.

Toward dusk, we stop the truck to glass one last time. We spot two groups of feeding antelope a mile or more away. None meets our standard. I again put the binoculars to my eyes and scan the far horizon. A deep coulee can be seen two miles away. There, at its green bottom that conceals a hidden spring, eight pronghorn graze. One is worth a second look.

Switching to the spotting scopes, Reno and I determine that this is the buck. We make a plan to intercept him, but as it turns out, they intercept us.

On their own, the antelope have closed the gap between us. Catching a glimpse of their moving forms across the crest of a small hill, we stop the truck and crawl forward. The antelope move slowly toward us, though they are still about 500 yards away. We take cover behind an empty galvanized stock tank. While we wait impatiently for their approach, we steal quick glances from time to time and hope the wind remains in our favor.

The antelope stop 250 yards distant. The does sense that something isn't right, and they move slightly forward of the buck, working their eyes, noses and ears. Restless, they move off to our left, rather than continuing to come straight. The jig is up. It's time to shoot.

Taking a rest on a convenient fence post, I hold and wait. Finally, I see the buck, but just his back over the tall grass. At last, he comes into full view. The crosshair settles behind his shoulder, and the rifle's report surprises me. While I know the buck is hit hard, I still instinctively slide another round into the chamber as I swing the rifle two antelope-lengths ahead of the speeding buck. The shot goes off, and the buck noses into the tall grass.

A magnificent animal. The best of seven I have taken over the years. I could not be more pleased.

Friday, September 29
My big game taken, this day we hunt for others. Dwight took his buffalo yesterday, and both he and Joe now need to connect on antelope.

I drive for Dwight. About midmorning, we stop to glass. We are looking for a buck we've nicknamed Widebody, and we are as certain as you can get when glassing from a distance that this buck just might go Boone and Crockett. Movement in a coulee below alerts me to the presence of a prairie wolf--coyote. Grabbing my rifle, I throw a shot his way. One less varmint to prey upon young grouse and antelope fawns.

Widebody continues to give us the slip. Toward noon, I spy three shapes in the distance. The binoculars confirm that three coyotes are feeding on an antelope carcass 500 yards away. Moving to a small rise, I throw my Stetson down on a rock and go prone. I estimate holdover and fire. The bullet hits about two feet low, and the coyotes look up but don't move. Correcting for elevation, I hold about two feet above the back of the big dog to the left. The rifle goes off, and in what seems seconds later, I see the 'yote go down. The other two are still not worried. One runs over to its fallen comrade and sniffs. With the same hold, I lay him out too.

Number three has now backed away. I have lost my range, so I throw a sighter at him. It lands about two and a half feet low. As I chamber another round, I realize I am out of ammo.

After lunch, Dwight takes a nice buck with classic heart-shaped horns out of a huge piece of CRP. Joe manages to bag his buck just before dark. The sunset over Three Buttes is magnificent as we apply ourselves to the task of field-dressing the buck. In my imagination, I see smoke curling on the horizon from a ring of teepees in the distance.

Saturday, September 30
On this, our last day, we head out early to shoot gray grouse, sharptails, sage grouse and prairie dogs. The gray grouse, or Huns, are not native to these plains, but the sharptails and sage grouse are. Prairie dogs continue to live in huge underground communities where mounds of excavated soil ring their holes. At the end of two hours, we have taken eight Huns and a nice cock pheasant, all without the services of a bird dog. Unfortunately, the sage grouse had a tendency to flush out of range, and our efforts to bag a few proved fruitless.

Moving on to a prairie dog town, we set out with our Kimber 22 Classic and HS (Hunter Silhouette) .22 rifles and had a good run on these challenging targets until the wind picked up to storm levels. Looking west to the Bear Paws, we could see a front moving in. It was time to go.

Sunday, October 1
As my plane soared westward across the prairie and crossed the peaks of the Rockies, I thought about all I had experienced in the last six days. I had walked in the moccasin tracks of the Gros Ventre and Assiniboine ancestors and the spirits of Lewis and Clark. I had killed a buffalo, a great and spiritual beast that was almost extinct and has now returned.

I had hunted the pronghorn, grouse and prairie wolf. I had experienced the northern plains as few men of my time have done. All of what I was able to experience was real. This magical place, full of history, is there for you to enjoy too. Although I had to leave this "last, best place" I knew in my heart that someday I would return.