Bison are the West’s enduring icon, roaming the plains by the millions before nearly vanishing, only to return through ranch conservation efforts. Today, 90% of them live on ranches, where hunters help fund and manage herds. I’d seen bison in parks, but bowhunting one was the dream. South Dakota’s open country felt right, so I called Worldwide Trophy Adventures, and they set me up with a top-notch outfitter.
The hunt required unique gear. South Dakota’s winter can be brutal. We expected windchills to drop into the -30° F range during our trip, cold enough to frostbite fingers in minutes. I packed heavy wool layers, insulated boots, and fingerless gloves under mittens, knowing I’d need to pull them off to shoot my bow. WTA handled all the logistics. All I had to do was get there.
I drove from Michigan, loaded with empty coolers for meat and space for the hide and skull. The outfitter’s setup was a cluster of small houses around a central lodge, clean and warm with cozy beds. We ate home-cooked dishes in the lodge, hearty meals that fueled our long, frigid days. My guide, Shannon, was excellent. He loves his job and hunts hard, even during nasty weather.
We planned the hunt over beers in the lodge that first night. Bison are solitary, not with a herd this time of year, making them tough to find. We’d glass from high points, then stalk on foot. Although the terrain seems flat, it’s full of dips and ridges that bison use to get out of the wind.
Day one, we glassed from a hill, scanning miles of icy grass. Nothing. After a few hours, we got intel on a bull near a watering tank an hour away. We drove out and huddled in a low, swampy area to make a plan. Just as Shannon said bison can appear out of nowhere, one crested the ridge behind us. We ducked into the reeds, barely hidden. He closed to 45 yards, his long horns gleaming in the blowing grass, but strong winds made a bow shot impossible. We let the bull walk, planning to stalk him again in better conditions.
We spotted him a mile out with three cows. Shannon set up a brand-new, custom screen-printed bison decoy along a tree line. We hid in a blowdown, hoping to draw him close enough for a shot. The bull came right to the decoy but stayed 60 yards out, too windy to shoot. He moved off fast, trailing the cows. We attempted other stalks, but the cows’ sharp eyes kept us pinned out of range. Beat, we headed back to the lodge for a hot meal and playoff football, planning to pick them up in the morning.
Day two was colder, -26° F with windchill, but calmer air meant I could reach further with my bow. We picked up the bull and his cows early. One cow locked onto us, staring for minutes, forcing a slow crawl through a frozen marsh. We closed the distance, but they fed away and out of the area. I couldn’t believe how slow they looked yet how fast they moved through the landscape.
We picked them up again, grazing in a huge open area with a single tree line cutting through it. Using the trees as cover, we crept up, tree by tree, to avoid the watchful eyes of those wary cows. When we snuck within range, I slipped off my mittens, the cold burning my fingers, and nocked an arrow. The first shot hit the bull’s heart. His massive body barely flinched. A second arrow struck true, moving him left and behind a cow. He was mortally wounded, but I wanted to end things quickly, so I nocked another arrow and sent it through his lungs. He dropped in 30 seconds. My nerves were shot, my whiskers frozen, my fingers frostbitten, but I had dropped a giant with my bow.
The dead bull was beautiful. His horns, wide and tall like goalposts, were unique, Shannon said, worn smooth. His thick coat puffed dust when I slapped it, his blood frozen on the icy ground. Bison are an American icon and taking this one with a bow like this was amazing.
I took the carcass to a nearby butcher, and within 24 hours, it was ready. They showed me the broadhead slashes in his heart, clean and lethal. The meat filled my coolers, the skull went to a cleaner in Michigan, and the hide’s being tanned for mittens and hats—wonderful reminders of the hunt.
The cold was the toughest part of this hunt, colder than anything I’d experienced, but it made it unforgettable. For a bison hunt, this one’s hard to beat.
