Sitting comfortably in my favorite chair, I clicked on the Wyoming Fish and Game website to check the draw results. I stared at the screen in disbelief. It was not the long list of “Unsuccessful” displayed next to my elk, deer, mountain goat, and bighorn applications that grabbed my attention. I had drawn a Wyoming bull bison tag for area 2 on my very first attempt. Wyoming is my go-to crazy lucky state. Years previous, I had drawn a Shiras bull moose tag in the Bighorn Mountains, again on my first attempt. There is wisdom to the Huntin’ Fool motto, “Apply, Apply, Apply!”
The following Monday morning, I made what turned out to be the most important call of all. “How we doing, Tom?” was Logan Hedges’ greeting. Logan, a Professional Hunt Advisor and Landowner Tag Specialist for Huntin’ Fool, was a wealth of information. Actually, his wife, Kresta, had drawn a bison tag for the same area the year before. As we were discussing the best time of the year for me to travel from Michigan on this once-in-a-lifetime adventure as well as possible guides, the thought occurred to me, ask Logan. He immediately responded, “Sure, I’ll help. We are going to find a bull so big he can hardly lift his head!” I was ready to jump in the truck that very day and start the adventure.
Normally, while preparing for the hunt, I have to curb my excitement so as not to give my wife and kids the wrong message. Although my wife is a tremendous supporter of my outdoor pursuits, my exuberance to get on the road could be taken the wrong way. The beauty of this particular hunt was that my wife, Pam, and my daughter, Madison, were joining me.
By the time December rolled around, I was texting and calling Logan weekly, asking, “What’s the weather? Are the bison migrating?” To my chagrin, the response was always above average temps, very little snow, and the bison were still on national park lands. With limited alternatives, we headed west as planned the week before Christmas.
Over the next eight days, we all enjoyed what the greater Jackson Hole area provided. Each morning, before the eastern sky was painted, I was either driving to a new vantage point or hiking to a distant ridge. Every day, I would see bison, but they were always under the protection of the national park boundary. Logan was able to join me on a few morning hunts. Each time out, he showed me a few more spots to continue checking out. It was cool getting to know someone I had spent years talking with on the phone. There were two things I was confident about – Logan knows what it takes to be successful in the field and he wanted me to get a shot as much as I did.
On my last morning hunt, Logan met me at the agreed upon rendezvous point. After another session of seeing bison but not being able to actively pursue them, I dropped Logan off at his truck. Throwing his gear into the back of his diesel pickup, he turned and asked, “When you coming back? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime tag, and I never quit on a hunt.” I had the same thought!
More than I would like to admit, I have experienced my share of long drives home with empty coolers. Normally, the ride seems longer with a sense of something not completed. This trip was different. As a family, we had created so many wonderful memories. From expansive herds of mewing elk to sparring bighorns to the sheer rugged beauty of the Tetons, there were so many vivid experiences to replay. The 1,562-mile return trip home seemed to fly by. It didn’t hurt that I was already planning my return trip.
Fast forward through Christmas and two weeks of January. Although the main herd was still within the confines of the national park boundaries, smaller groups had begun to split off, venturing onto national forest lands. I decided to return on January 26th and hunt through the 31st, the last day of the season. Much to my amazement, my wife wanted to be part of the return trip. The attachment she developed with the bighorns was quite interesting.
As we disembarked from the plane, we were met with a cold blast of Wyoming sleet and wind. With the rental car secured, we began the search, cruising two-tracks for any sign of recent crossings. On this trip, it was decided to retire the bow in favor of the rifle. The season had been drastically different than most with the vast majority of bison tags unpunched. That afternoon, bison were spotted much closer to national forest land and the National Elk Refuge. Although Logan could not hunt Sunday, he suggested that I hike into a long draw that turned into an oblong bowl well before light. The hope was that the bison from the previous day had traveled a few miles south under the cover of darkness. Although a single bison was not spotted, the morning was anything but a wash. Groups of bull elk were glassed on the mountainside, and the pungent aroma of their musk-soaked, vacated beds was unmistakable. A pair of wolf tracks, side by side, was clearly imprinted in the newly fallen snow.
That evening, Logan and I discussed our game plan for the following morning. Reports just prior to dark had the bison moving in our direction. The next morning, I was up a full hour before the alarm was to sound at 5:00 a.m. Anticipation was higher this morning than any of the previous morning hunts. As I was pulling up my boots, I said a quick prayer of thanksgiving for this amazing opportunity. Daybreak found me at the same vantage point as the morning before, and Logan was checking territory a few miles to the south. As the eastern sky began to lighten and the bowl before me became illuminated, I heard, although muted but unmistakable, the sound of a distant gunshot. It had come from where I had started my hike. Just then, my phone rang.
Logan said, “We drove right by them on the way in. They should be coming your way soon. Get ready.”
I wasted no time getting into position, overlooking the draw to my west. Within minutes, I could see a small herd of bison over a mile away, heading somewhat diagonal to my position. My phone rang again, and Logan said the bison were heading west. Two and a half hours into climbing a series of ridges, my legs and lungs were feeling the effects of altitude as well as the six to eight inches of ice-crusted snow that gave way at every step.
Atop one of the many ridges climbed, I caught a glimpse of three bulls milling around approximately 1,000 yards away. Within 30 minutes, I was picking my way through thigh-high sage, nearing a position I estimated would put me within 200 yards of the bison. Reminding myself to slow down, get steady, and pick a spot, I scanned the landscape below. There was no sign of the bison. I continued heading west up yet another ridge. The words of Logan played back in my mind, “I never quit on a hunt.” I was not going to let this opportunity slip away. Quickening my pace, I crested the ridge. Slightly bent with my hands on my knees and labored breathing, I looked up to see the backs of two bulls just below a knife ridge not more than 200 yards away. Throwing my pack to the ground, I positioned myself prone. There was no hesitation finding the bison in the scope. All I needed him to do was gain two more feet of elevation. Thankfully, my breathing slowed and the crosshairs settled over his enormous shoulder. At the crack of my .300 Win Mag, he crumbled.
Walking up on such a beast was somewhat surreal. My feelings of jubilation slowly melted into those of respect for such an iconic animal. In the shadow of the Tetons, I ran my hands through his magnificent winter coat, admiring his massive, sweeping horns. I was humbled by not only the size of this animal, but also the efforts of a new friend and the awesome beauty that surrounded me. A few hours later, Logan joined me to take pictures and break down one of North America’s largest critters. Even with the assistance of an oversized pull sled, packing out a bison is an adventure of its own. On second thought, maybe shooting a bison that could actually pick his head up would have been a better idea. Thank God for strong friends!
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