Big Bison Boogie: Persistence Pays Off with Wyoming Bull

It is never wise to take a knife to a gunfight. But that was exactly what I found myself doing on Oct. 7, 2024. I had just left my pickup and entered legal Wyoming bison habitat when something orange flashed in the trees.

Dawn was barely breaking, but someone was already ahead of me. Seconds later, a gun-toting nimrod in a blaze vest stepped into the clear. The only open big-game season was for buffalo, so this guy’s intent was clear. He was snooping through the area I had planned to hunt.

The man never saw me as he trudged out of sight, despite my own fluorescent stocking cap. There is no separate archery season for buffalo in Wyoming, so I had to abide by gun-hunting rules.

I groaned and angled away, with hopes of finding an undisturbed bull. This was my second day of bowhunting for bison in that particular area, and my 33rd day of combing various places in hopes of seeing a buffalo. So far, I had seen neither hide nor hair.

My home state of Wyoming is one of very few places that allow hunting for free-ranging American bison. There are less than a dozen habitats in North America recognized by the Pope and Young Club as harboring truly fair-chase buffalo. Most such beasts on our continent are found on fenced farms or places where they are rounded up periodically and inoculated like cattle. The difference between domesticated and wild buffalo is stark.

As I sneaked through the woods, memories of other bison hunts crossed my mind. I had enjoyed the good fortune to harvest nine record-book bison in Utah, Arizona and Wyoming, including a former Pope and Young world record from Arizona and the current Wyoming state archery record. I had obtained those tags by lottery draw or auction bid.

The bison is one of my all-time favorite animals, for several reasons. Unlike buffs on private ranches or farms, the hard-hunted kind are skittish and difficult to find. They are notoriously nomadic, routinely walking many miles between feed, water and bed. In Wyoming, the success rate for bison hunters is less than 50 percent, and that includes the harvest of cows. The kill rate for mature bulls is less than 25 percent.

Bull bison are huge and awesome to see — nearly one ton of heavy horn, rippling muscle, massive bone and glistening hide. The meat, even from an old bull, is incredibly tasty and extremely healthy. There is lots of it, too, enough to fill a large freezer with low-fat steaks, chops, roasts, stew meat and burger.

In addition, I feel a deep kinship with ancient archers who pursued these noble beasts before they were nearly wiped out two centuries ago. Bowhunting bison offers a historic thrill rarely experienced with other types of North American big game.

I hiked across two ridges covered with knee-deep grass and virgin timber. My boots were damp from trickling creeks in between. Unlike open prairie lands people often associate with buffalo, this was a checkerboard of dense evergreens and small meadows sprouting haphazardly from steep mountain slopes. Hard-hunted Wyoming bison favor the same country as elk. Like elk, they no longer roam the wide-open and dangerous places their ancestors once preferred.

Two hundred yards ahead, I spied another flash of orange. A different guy, shorter and stockier, stepped out and tipped his blaze bill cap my way. Wyoming requires only one fluorescent garment during gun season — hat, vest or coat. I ambled over to compare hunting notes.

This fellow was from Colorado — the lucky recipient of a rare non-resident lottery tag. Like me, he had seen no bison, no bison tracks, and no fresh cow-like piles of dung. Buffalo leave plenty of sign, particularly big and boxy hoof prints. They sink deep into all but the hardest soil or thickest patches of grass. In soft terrain or fresh snow, it is sometimes possible to track down a buff and get a shot.

Hours later, I climbed in my pickup and headed back to camp. Midday temperatures were balmy with no snow — even at 7,000 feet — and the area seemed devoid of bison. Buffalo season had already been open for months, and I feared that gunners might have spooked animals out of the country.

Almost all fair-chase Wyoming bison spend their time in National Parks or vast and roadless wilderness areas. Legal hunting occurs on remote public land, most of it accessible only by foot or horseback. The area I was hiking had traditionally produced bull buffalo, and other hunters clearly knew it. I thought about shifting to another place but decided to give my original plan another day or two. A bull might wander in.

Oct. 8 dawned clear and cold. My truck thermometer read 17 degrees as I steered toward bison country and parked. I chose a different route than before, angling crosswind to avoid sensitive animal noses.

One hollow with scattered grass was crisscrossed by bison tracks, but they were old. The prints were pressed deep in dried mud from a rain two weeks before. I measured and identified three separate sets of tracks. The largest taped 5.5 inches across — an especially big male. Except during the mid-summer rut, bison bulls tend to stay by themselves or with a few bachelor buddies.

At noon, I had planted my butt to eat a sandwich when two gunners strolled past 50 yards away. They were talking and laughing and never saw me. So much for slipping silently for buffalo.

I hiked all afternoon. No buff, but no more hunters either. Just before sundown, I was easing through thick trees less than 300 yards from the edge of the legal hunting zone.

Suddenly, something brown flickered to my right. As I turned, a bull bison galloped past 30 yards behind me. He vanished over a hill, hooves pounding like a jackhammer. I whirled and ran after him, my heart in my throat.

I peeked beyond the rise, and the buff was feeding 25 yards away. I don’t know why, but bison bulls sometimes cavort like playful fawn deer. One second, they are dozing, the next they are bouncing in a wild and heavy-hoofed boogie. This guy could not have smelled me, so I figured he had decided to dance a little jig.

I nocked an arrow, ripped back the Bear Alaskan’s bowstring and squeezed the release trigger. The FMJ shaft flickered and smashed the broadside bull. The 2-blade Zwickey broadhead sliced through both lungs, and blood bloomed on both sides as the buff charged away. It was nearly dark when I found the beast, piled up against a log 125 yards from the hit site.

This was my tenth fair-chase archery bison and one of my largest. After climbing to a hilltop with cell service, I called three good friends. They drove like mad and helped me with the nighttime meat salvage chores. Thanks to my pals Ron Niziolek, Sam Niziolek and Jason Stafford, we managed to butcher the giant animal and drag out the head and meat with plastic sleds. The sun was just peeking over distant hills as I drove toward the meat locker.

My 2024 bison has been officially scored and will be panel measured for a possible award at the Pope and Young Biennial Convention in April 2025. It was a difficult hunt, but a late-evening bison boogie turned frustration into success!

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