A Backcountry Bison Hunt For The Ages

The massive patriarch raised his head and stared holes through our diminutive hunting party, seemingly perturbed at the afternoon interruption. Furtive whispers cupped in hands confirmed the bull was the one we’d been hoping for. The ancient bison, unaware of the four hearts beating a staccato rhythm nearby, dropped his shaggy head and took a bite of sedge grass, grinding the feed against his decaying teeth. Hank, the blessed recipient of the rare tag, slipped the rifle from its scabbard and ran a cartridge into the waiting chamber.

Icon of the West

Dubbed the national mammal of the United States in 2016, no other North American animal has captured the hearts and minds of humankind as wholly as the bison. A conservation success story, people travel the world over to lay eyes on the West’s most iconic animal in their natural habitat.

First called “buffalo” by early explorers in the 1620’s, the term “bison” was coined in the late 1600’s and has become fodder for an ongoing argument over which term is correct ever since. Research shows both terms, used informally, are correct in American English while British English uses “bison” exclusively, reserving the term “buffalo” for African game. The moniker notwithstanding, hunting free ranging bison (or buffalo) is a hunt very few have the opportunity to partake in, fewer still in the deep backcountry of a bull’s home range.

Bison tags are heavily regulated to allow for a few to be taken each year and keep the herd numbers at or near the carrying capacity of their range. This enables biologists to maintain healthy levels of genetic diversity and feed to ensure the herds continue into perpetuity. The popularity of the animal and the few tags allocated each year mean a hopeful bison hunter can wait a lifetime to see their own name on a tag.

The Yellowstone herd, which we had the good fortune to hunt, is steeped in history and is a story unto itself. Numbered at just under thirty head in the early 1900’s, it was brought back from the brink and now enjoys the status of being the largest bison herd on public land in the world. After genetic testing and establishing new herds that are still thriving today, the Yellowstone area is thought to be the only place where a population of wild bison has existed since prehistoric times. Biologists strive to maintain the herd population at around six thousand head, a staggering number when considering the sum total could have fit into a single corral just last century.

Our hunting party consisted of four friends—Hank, Jaden, Carl and me—tightly bound by a shared love of mountains and mountain hunting. When the call came from Hank it didn’t take much convincing to get a full roster of willing participants. All accomplished hunters, we knew the logistics of such an endeavor needed to be ironed out well before a bison was taken due to the sheer amount of weight we would be required to pack out if successful. Mules and horses were legged up ahead of time and with several of us making our living as hunting guides, schedules were organized to allow for a week of our own spent deep in the woods.

September found the bison rut over and the bulls bunched up together, traveling tremendous amounts of country to forage. Our plan was to find a large food source and, using that as the epicenter of our range, hunt out from there if needed. With our e-scouting done and water and prime feed located, all that was left was to load up and put some miles under us and the hayburners.

Saddle Up

Our first night was spent in the stock trailer; horse and mule apples were kicked aside to make room for cots, sleeping bags and hopeful bison hunters. A light rain on the trailer roof picked up, drowning out the conversation as our bags warmed and one by one, we gave in to the crisp fall night.

The dim morning light woke us without trouble and mules and horses were fed early, nickering their thanks as buckets of grain and hay were doled out in preparation for a long day on the trail. After our hunting party was fed, we began the process of saddling and weighing out loads for the pack animals, a necessary but time-consuming process. Hank’s rifle, a gift from a lifelong friend Tom, now deceased, was carefully slid into a scabbard on his riding mule. It was included in the trip as a nod to Tom and his unending love for the mountains. With our loads built and secured on our pack string, Hank and I swung legs over saddles and gratefully began our journey, Jaden and Carl bringing up the rear on foot.

Hours later, the string was lined out and eating up trail as the sun touched, then sank below the horizon. Standing in a stirrup as I looked over the loads, the tangy aroma of mule sweat hit my nostrils as I reached behind my saddle for another jacket, grateful for Hank’s well-tended string and their abilities. Darkness was complete in the timber and we rode in relative silence, trusting the animals to pick their way down the trail. Camp was reached an hour later and headlamps were pulled from saddlebags as we split chores amongst us, two of us tending to stock while two others cut wood, filtered water, and pitched the tent. Well into the night, we gratefully climbed into our respective sleeping bags as the woodstove popped and glowed, sleep coming easy after a long day on the trail.

Just a few hours later, it was time for what we had come for. I slipped out of the tent in the gray light and fed stock, admiring the view as I watched my paint mare, Sweet, fill up on her breakfast. A faint elk bugle hung in the stillness, my horse fed nearby and three friends got ready for the day; I smiled, soaking in the moment.

Hank knew what he was looking for in a bull: An older age class animal that had seen his fair share of winters and had had the opportunity to pass on his genetics during years of summer rutting. We knew we had the manpower and patience to find such a bull, we just hoped we had the time. Obligations at home had a firm end date to the hunt so we wasted little light as we began perusing our chosen area for bison. Hours later, with an array of glass trained on various pieces of the mountain, we picked out the first bull. He had been obscured in cover, his great mass hidden by brush and willows. The four of us compared notes and determined he was a prime breeding age bull, somewhere in the 4- to 6-year-old range. We watched him for a while, admiring his bulky shoulders and massive head as he fed alone before disappearing back into his midday warren of brush.

The night at camp was hopeful, having been encouraged by our first sighting and our moods reflected it. The stock, having been given the day off, were rested and ready to go again. High hopes were tempered with reality as we planned, comparing and contrasting notes from the day.

Changing Tactics in Pursuit of Success

Several days and many miles later, we changed tactics. We had seen a couple of bulls but their habit of staying in thick cover meant we had limited time to spot, judge, and stalk a bull when he did break free from his bedding area. We cinched our packs and climbed, gaining elevation to look down into the willows and hopefully find the bison we had come for. Spotting two different bulls that evening, one a near clone to the first day’s, we determined the second was worth a closer look. The evening light made it difficult to hazard a guess as to his age, but his body conformation, sunken hips and a slow, plodding gait had us hopeful for the morning.

The next day found us riding back to the vicinity of the old bull. It was hard to deny the whisper of tension as we rode, hoping he was still close, and he was what we thought the night before. Several hours after leaving camp, a dark mass in the brush had us creeping forward on foot, riding stock tied nearby in a grove of small trees. A bull rose from his bed ahead of us and joined a second, then third bull as they got up to feed. The sunken hips of the old bison gave him away and a whispered meeting confirmed our thoughts, this was a bull any hunter would be grateful to shoot. Hank pulled Tom’s .416 Taylor from his riding scabbard and ran a hand-loaded 400 grain Hornady DGX into the chamber. He patiently closed the final few yards and waited. The ancient bison fed away from him, then, as if willfully completing the final act of our backcountry drama, slowly turned. A sharp bark broke the air and the bull collapsed in a small cloud of dust, not moving.

Three of us hung back and let Hank admire his bull, a truly ancient animal. The average lifespan of a bison from the Yellowstone herd is 12 to 15 years old, Hank’s bull was aged at 15 to 16. We quietly admired the animal, reveling in the unique opportunity and challenge the hunt had presented. Worn teeth and flat spots on his horns from pushing snow for feed hinted at the sheer amount of will it took to survive the many winters he’d faced.

We took a solemn moment for Tom, an avid hunter in his own right, and hoped part of him was along for the ride. His rifle was carefully leaned against a tree, work completed. The four of us began the tremendous chore of breaking down and packing out the bull on pack stock, hitting the trailhead more than twenty-four hours after Tom’s .416 was set against the juniper.

With only a couple of miles to go, I led the heavily laden string past a young bull in the timber. He watched as I went by and I wondered if he was a son to Hank’s bull. Beyond grateful for the experience, I hoped he’d winter well—with any luck I’d be back another year with my own tag. Or, maybe one of my rifles will make the trip someday without me. If so, I hope my sons lean it against a tree in the sun after a successful hunt and take a moment to remember their father and the mountains he loved.

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