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Hunting Wyoming's Wild Bison -- Part 4
(Continued from Part 3 )
I walked up to my bull and knelt beside his massive head.
His horns were battered and busted, very different from the immaculate horns of ranch-raised bison I have seen. He had a deep scar in his side. He must have been a mean prick, fighting with the other bulls, and now off by himself, away from the herds of cows and younger bulls.
The 180-grain bullet from my .30-06 had not left a mark on him — it had simply been swallowed up by this enormous creature.
I plunged my hand into the dense, deep fur of his neck and thought about how this was a wild bison, a wooly beast descended from hundreds of generations of wild bison, and I could almost feel the direct line from this bull running clear back to the Pleistocene. I felt like I was part of something very, very big, and I realized that it sure would be worth giving up quite a lot to still have herds of bison roaming the plains.
I thought about moving him in to the classic photographic pose for a bison, hump up and belly down, and even tried to move him. Which was a stunningly futile effort. I couldn't lift his head off the ground, much less roll him on to his belly. I took some pictures with him as he lay, then realized what a ton of work I had ahead of me.
I went to make the first skinning cut at the elbow of his left front leg — and couldn't even puncture his skin. Wow! The hair and skin on the front of a bison is serious armor. After trying for a full minute, I finally broke the skin and was able to start skinning.
I skinned the side that was up, then took off the two massive quarters without gutting him. Even with those quarters removed, I realized there was no way I could flip him over. Fortunately, I had brought a come-along in my truck, and was able to attach this between a tree and his leg, and slowly crank him over. I took off the other two quarters, the backstraps, and the hump and neck. (The hump is a substantial load in and of itself).
When I went to cut through his neck to remove his head, I was stymied yet again. His neck was so incredibly thick that I just couldn't cut through it. Again the come-along saved me. Attached between a tree and his horns, it allowed me to increase the gap between body and head as I cut.
I was able to get my truck to within 200 yards of the kill site. And, fortunately, I had a two-wheeled game cart that I had brought along. Even using the cart, however, I struggled to move the enormous game bags full of meat over the rough ground to the truck.
I packed the head and cape out last. I tried to lift the head on to the game cart, but literally could not lift it an inch off the ground. I finally flipped the cart on top of the head, strapped the head to it, then rolled the whole thing back over. I'll never know how much that head and cape weighed — maybe 300 pounds? — but the poor game cart managed to hold together till I could get it to the truck.
At which point I was once again stymied. There was simply no way I could lift the massive head up in to the back of my truck. so I crawled in under my topper, attached the come-along to one of the tie downs up by the cab, and slowly cranked the head up to the edge of the tail gate. I rolled it in, exhausted.
From the time I shot the bison till the time I closed the tailgate was the toughest day of my life. Concerned about meat spoilage and hair slippage, I had worked feverishly fast, wrestling alone with the massive carcass. To my knowledge, I'm the only person in the 20th century who has been dumb enough to shoot, quarter, and pack an entire bison by himself. Since then, whenever I've been faced with a challenge, I always compare it to that day in the shadow of the Tetons. "Hell, if I can shoot, quarter, and pack a bison by myself, this shouldn't be that tough..."
Still worried about the meat, I drove straight home, tired and bloody, so that I could deliver the meat to the butcher first thing in the morning. The hanging weight at the butcher was 568 pounds, and it was all in perfect condition. After it was boned, cut, and wrapped, it produced well over 400 pounds of meat for my family and friends. The meat was tasty, but tough.
I turned in the requested tooth sample to Wyoming Game and Fish, and a few months later they sent me a postcard telling me that the bull had been 7.5 years old, a good solid mature animal.
I got him back from the taxidermist, mounted with his mouth in the growling position that had made such an impression on me, and enjoyed staring at him for quite a while. It took a few weeks of staring before I started to realize that his horns were really pretty big, and I eventually pulled out a tape measure to score them. I did so 3 times, and although I came up with a different number each time, the score was always above the Boone and Crockett minimum. The official scorer agreed a few weeks later, and my bull took his place in the book.
Shooting a wild bison is a once-in-a-lifetime hunt according to the regulations of the Wyoming Game and Fish Department. If I could, I'd apply again in Wyoming in a heartbeat. As it is, I apply in most of the western states that offer a bison hunt.
As someone who has hunted wild bison in The West, I can say without reservation that it's demanding, enjoyable, challenging, and a whole lot of work. As someone who would like to see more wild bison, I very much hope that we find the sense to make land-use decisions that favor wild bison and protect and expand the habitat they need to prosper. We owe it to them, and to ourselves.
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