Legendary Hunts

by Boone

  Saturday morning and dawn found me and Skookum in a cool canyon with a water hole at its upper end. We had found it and a small bunch of large bison about a week earlier. After a long, hard hike, we surprised 11 nice animals bedded around a seep. For me, it was adrenalin time, because to exit from this very narrow cut they had to pass within 20 feet of my position. Following the bigger ones with the muzzle of the .475, I decided not to shoot. Later that evening, we crawled up into a bunch of about 20 head, but we were so close and it was so dark that all we could do was crawl back out and wait for the next morning.

  Sunday broke windy and cold, and we soon discovered other hunters were sharing that part of the mountain. After hearing shots, we departed.

  Back at camp we packed enough food for a couple of days and a tarp in the Land Cruiser and started for Bull Creek Pass and Table Mountain. As we climbed higher, the snow got deeper. Deer were browsing the abundant plants, standing in belly-high grasses. This contrasted sharply with the lower elevations, where heavy grazing had left little feed.

  It was soon apparent that the road was almost closed by drifted snow, and no one had driven the pass lately. I was surprised, because in almost a month I had never seen anyone on foot.

  Near the top on the east face, we found a single set of large hoof prints. They meandered down the road, sometimes off into the brush, then across to another tidbit. Half a mile farther, the tracks stopped at a bed, right in the middle of the road. Well, big bulls are loners, and up there on Bull Creek Pass I was alone too, except for the wind and my dog.

  I parked the Cruiser at a wide spot, buckled on the .475, shouldered a small pack, and went up the trail. We were in pine and aspen patches, with the south ridges bare. Thick low brush grew in the gullies. It was fairly steep, and the tracks we had followed down turned to go up again. There were some snow patches in the shade so tracking the bull was not really difficult if I went slowly, watching carefully. By 3:00 p.m., we were in about 3 inches of snow, and from the tracks it appeared the bison had some place to go. I wondered if he had sighted us as we were driving down, because he was sure headed for the top.

  It was 5:00 p.m., the sun was below the ridge in front of us, and the wind was really beginning to rise as the temperature rapidly fell. We broke out of the quaking aspens along the lower edge of a large hill, and there he was. All I could see was the top of a woolly hump. With only one small pine between the bull and us, Skookum and I started one-stepping it, hunched over and moving slowly toward the single patch of cover. The bison was feeding directly away from us. The range was about 150 yards. When we closed the distance to 100 yards, I realized I had nothing to judge this bull by, no points to count, nothing with which to compare him. So I added up what I knew: solitary bull, big tracks, horns curved, shaggy head and blonde hump equaled old bull. This was it.

  Behind me, Skookum lay down in the snow while I pulled the .475 Linebaugh and tried to shrink into the sagebrush. I had only gone about 10 yards when the bull turned to his right, feeding directly broadside. The revolver came up. Too late. I was dead still as he fed directly toward the upraised muzzle. At about 60 yards, I knew it was time to do it. The plan was to slip a 430-grain bullet between shoulder and ribs, on a line with the heart. Careful. Careful. Sight picture, trigger, BOOM! I was watching the target so intently that I actually saw the hair part and dust rise from the exact spot the front sight had occupied. There was absolutely no reaction.

  Second later, the bull wheeled around and started away at full speed. At 75 yards he turned slightly. I shot again. He never broke stride. The bull was going downhill, perhaps 100 yards away and nearing a grove of old pines and aspens, when he turned broadside. I was chanting, “Front sight, front sight.” At the shot, the old bull pitched full-length and slid 20 feet on his left side.

  I was running then, pushing out cases, and groping for ammunition. By the time I covered half the distance, he was back on his feet, but badly hurt.

  I had just accomplished the goal of the hunt and was feeling elation and pride, but I also felt sadness, sympathy, and admiration for that truly grand animal. A quick shot and it was finished for the old bison.

  It was far from finished for this old hunter. What an animal! He was simply huge. It was almost dark, my feet were soaking wet, the temperature was in the 20s, and a hard, cold wind was blowing. Skokie and I ran about three miles down to the Land Cruiser. By dark, we had returned to the bison. I luckily found a dead pine stump and coffee and dinner were soon heating. By lantern and firelight, the cleaning and skinning chores started.

  At midnight, the temperature was down to 10 degrees and one weary old man was done. Almost.

  The first slug from the Linebaugh had penetrated between the shoulder and ribs as intended. When the first rib was hit, the big lead bullet didn’t cut through. It was deflected slightly and caught the second rib edgewise, cutting it completely. Then, the bullet punched through half of a third rib and angled up and across, exiting after busting another rib on the far side.

  The second, raking shot was too far forward, I guess my concentration was focused on the shoulder, because that’s exactly where it hit. The angle was so acute that the bullet cut a six-inch furrow in the hide before entering behind the right ear. It was later found by taxidermist Sam Raby, just under the nose-pad skin.

  My third shot broke the right femur, cut straight through a rib, ripped arteries from the heart and lungs, broke another rib, penetrated the shoulder bones, and disappeared into the woods. Big bullets do big work.

  The bull’s final score is 126-6/8 points. It presently ranks first among bison taken in Utah. It was also the first with a pistol.

  Image from B&C Archives

  Original score chart for Holland Butler’s bison, which scores 126-6/8 points.

  Photo from B&C Archives

  Bison, Scoring 131-6/8 Points, Taken by Duane R. Richardson in Coconino County, Arizona, in 2002.

  My Last Bull

  By Duane R. Richardson

  25th Big Game Awards Program

  I WOKE UP MY SON, RUSS, THE MORNING AFTER HE HAD JUST PLAYED AND COME UP SHORT FOR THE ARIZONA STATE CHAMPIONSHIPS IN FOOTBALL. I TOLD HIM I HAD SOME GOOD NEWS AND NEEDED HIM TO VERIFY WHAT I WAS LOOKING AT. HE WANDERED IN AND LOOKED AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN IN MY OFFICE AND CONFIRMED MY FINDINGS OF HAVING THE NUMBER ONE OF FOUR BISON TAGS FOR THE HOUSE ROCK RANCH HUNT IN NORTHERN ARIZONA. MY EXCITEMENT WAS SHARED BY HIM AND EVERYONE ELSE I COULD CALL AT THAT EARLY HOUR WHO MIGHT BE INTERESTED IN MY GLORY.

  My son wanted me to do the hunt with my bow. The tag allows you to hunt with any legal weapon, but I agreed with my son. My choice would be that of the stick and string.

  Scouting started in January before the season to get the lay of the land, and possibly find a few big bulls in some out of the way places. The ranch manager stated that he had not seen nor heard of any bison since the first part of September. He also said that we would really have our work cut out for us. That sentiment went right along with the videotape that the Game and Fish sends successful applicants. It basically says, “Congratulations, but get ready for the hardest hunt in the world.”

  I was never one to forego a challenge, so I put together a team of people who had expertise in each area needed. We were able to execute a wonderful game plan. I am blessed to have a family and group of friends who are without a doubt some of the best hunters in the entire west.

  I would start my hunt in a very remote spot separated from the other hunters by many miles and an entire mountain range. I had the pleasure of meeting two of the other hunters on previous scouting trips, and they were really nice people who were going to be fun to hunt with. I told them of my plans to pursue with stick and string, and they thought I was either crazy or just not really fond of bison steaks.

  Orientation day was now here. Two weeks earlier, I had located four bulls I believed would push the state record. After orientation, I drove back to camp in a blinding snowstorm that stopped around 3 a.m. “Perfect,” I tho
ught to myself.

  We really needed to cover some ground and look for tracks in the area where I last saw the four bulls. At the end of day one, my dad, George, and Bill Bolt were able to come up with some signs we determined were three days old. Phil Dalrymple and I decided to track around and see what we could come up with on the next day. My uncle Bob and Craig Thornton would try to eliminate other areas where we might have missed the bulls from the day before.

  Day two panned out nothing but cold, wet feet, and sore leg muscles. Day three was pretty much the same thing. We would leave camp well before sunrise and return with headlights, covering literally hundreds of miles between us and not so much as a track found.

  On day four, our excitement level soared to a new high. Phil had found some huge tracks leading east toward the plateau. I had already had visions of two huge bulls traveling together and just hanging out away from the rest of the herd. The further we tracked, the deeper the snow got, to the point where we guessed it to be 36-inches deep. We finally reached the time of day where we were running out of light and the tracks were still heading up the plateau. We decided to back off and come back the next morning.

  While en route to where we had cut tracks the day before, we cut one single set of tracks headed out of the deep snow to the west. We tracked them over 10 miles, taking up most of the day, only to find they belonged to the biggest bull I had ever seen! The problem was the bull was a stray cow from a cattle herd. The tracks of a cow and a bison are identical, and cannot be told apart by even the most seasoned hunter or rancher; however after day five it was pretty depressing to say the least.

  We determined that we needed to change location, and day six was spent moving the camp a hundred miles away, closer to the House Rock Ranch. Arriving at the ranch, we learned that two of the four hunters were finished. One hunter remained and had taken his horses back to Phoenix for some fresh stock.

  Several years ago, the first archery bison hunt on the North Kaibab was undertaken by my father. He was able to connect on a bull the first day of a 30-day hunt. Dad’s experiences on the Kaibab for those many years were invaluable when it came to planning the rest of our hunt. There was an area above the ranch that we knew would hold some big bulls. We spent the afternoon of the seventh day trying to figure out a way to access that area. Phil had some commitments he needed to get back on the seventh day, so he left around noon.

  While looking for an access point across a huge canyon, we came across two very large sets of tracks. Dad was elated at the freshness and size of the tracks. He told me, “Corky, this is a huge bison.”

  I remember telling him (after spending day five tracking down a cow), “No, Dad, those are just rogue cattle.”

  He answered back, “If these are rogue cattle, then they are carrying around bison hair and fur with ‘em because I found enough to stuff a volleyball with.”

  He was right! After seven days, we finally had a track that was under two days old. I grabbed my pack, bow, and quiver and began tracking. The bison seemed to be spending most of their time in an open field that provided good feed. I cut some tracks that had very sharp edges on them. They had to have been made that morning. The bison chips were extremely fresh. The tracks headed down a pinion-juniper point that is half a mile long and half a mile wide — a good bedding area, heavy with shade.

  A light snow had fallen, and I decided to check around the bedding area to see if I could find tracks leading out. I made a circle around the point without finding any tracks leading out. It was around 4 p.m., so I decided to start at the end of the point and work my way back to the feeding fields to the west. Four hundred yards into the point, I found two fresh beds still warm. What really got me excited and had me nock an arrow on my string was when I found foamy urine with the bubbles popping on a flat rock.

  The wind was perfect, blowing from west to east as I entered the feeding area. All of a sudden, the ground began to shake as two bulls came running from the south and headed toward a small draw. What went wrong? The wind was perfect, and I knew they had not heard me. Something or someone had spooked them.

  After spending seven days looking for the quarry, I was just thankful and praising God that I had seen bison — running or not. I hurried over to the edge of the draw where they had disappeared, only to find the biggest one had stopped across a small draw. I remembered thinking to myself, “If that bull would just turn and come back to the feeding grounds I will be in good shape.”

  As if on cue, the bull (not knowing what had spooked it) turned and headed back uphill to the west of me. I hurriedly took off my boots to do the shoeless dance one more time. I ran 200 yards while quartering towards the bull in order to get a lane where I could get a good shot.

  The bull stopped in an opening 35 yards away, with only its head entering the opening. I could see its right side and knew it was something special. If it would only stop for a minute to give me a good shot. I was already at full draw for about 15 seconds, waiting for it to move. The bull finally stepped forward and I released the arrow. The arrow got there faster than I anticipated. I hit it square in the front shoulder, just up from the leg, with my first shot.

  I immediately grabbed another arrow and ran up the hill to cut the bull off in order to get another shot at it. I was uncertain how much penetration I had made from my first arrow. To my amazement, the bull had already begun to weave and was having a hard time standing up. The arrow had penetrated to the opposite shoulder and only my fletching remained visible.

  I followed it about 150 yards before it stopped for the first time. This time the arrow penetrated dead middle and dead center. The bull walked away, and I pursued it, grabbing for arrow number three.

  While in pursuit I was locked in and focused on getting shot three away. Then I heard a sound, “Psst.”

  “Psst.” I think I heard something again.

  “Corky,” I hear, in a loud whisper. Standing on a small rim, above where the bull had just stopped, stood Dad and Craig. They went on to tell me how they had found these two bulls in the feeding area that they had spooked after catching sight of them. They felt about as high as a wart on a snake’s belly after running off the only two bulls we had seen in a seven-day period, especially without being able to find me They explained that they were just following the tracks where the buffalo had spooked, when all of a sudden, they saw the largest of the two coming toward them. Unbeknownst to me, the bull had stopped no further than 10 yards below them. My dad was wondering where I was, when all of the sudden he heard the sound of an arrow. The next thing he saw was an arrow sticking out of the bull in the ten-zone. He kept telling me that I needed to slow down on my pursuit, but the view he had of the bison was of its left side, and he didn’t know that I had a well-placed arrow on the right side. The bull went down no more than 75 yards from our conversation.

  Kaibab is laced with wilderness area from one end to the other, but this bison chose to die on a two-track logging road; Packing would not be a problem. Once we approached the bison, my dad knew right away that he had never seen a picture nor heard of one with this size of horns. The bull expired with one side of the horn down in the dirt, and it took all three of us to turn its head around and see if we had two sides that matched; indeed we did!

  I was able to contact Phil before he had made his trip back to Tucson. He had traveled halfway when he heard part of a broken-up cell phone message from me. He determined that one of two things had happened: either I needed help, or I had gotten a bison. Either way, he headed back. He found us around midnight.

  I drove down to the game manager’s house to get him to confirm a bow kill before any fielddressing took place. He couldn’t believe that I had actually killed one with a bow on one of Arizona’s most difficult hunts. When he saw the bison, he said that to his knowledge, he had not seen that particular bull. He aged the bull according to the jaw age charts at over 16 years.

  God had blessed me way beyond my wildest dreams with an exceptional animal and extraord
inary friends and family that will remain with me for a lifetime and an eternity. Did I mention that he died on an old road? If you have ever skinned and quartered a 2,000-pound animal then you know how truly blessed I was.

  Photo from B&C Archives

  Rocky Mountain Goat, Scoring 55 Points, Taken by David K. Mueller on Cleveland Peninsula, Alaska, in 1997.

  Goat-Hunting Bug

  By David K. Mueller

  23rd Big Game Awards Program

  AFTER MOVING TO SOUTHEAST ALASKA ALMOST 10 YEARS AGO, IT DIDN’T TAKE ME LONG TO LEARN I WAS LIVING IN SOME OF THE BEST TROPHY MOUNTAIN GOAT TERRITORY IN NORTH AMERICA. I KNEW SOMEDAY I WOULD HUNT FOR A TROPHY GOAT, BUT AT THE TIME, I WAS HUNTING DALL’S SHEEP EACH YEAR, AND THAT WAS USING UP MOST OF MY HUNTING TIME AND MONEY.

  I am a trophy hunter and have been for many years. To take just any billy, just to have one, didn’t really interest me. If I were to go after a goat, I wanted to find an area with no hunting pressure, where a billy could grow to trophy size. So for years I kept my ears open and talked to everyone I knew who had hunted goats gathering tips on where I could find a trophy.

  I also spent many hours reading Boone and Crockett Club’s Records of North American Big Game to see where the big goats had been taken in southeast Alaska. I was in Ketchikan, Alaska, in the late fall of 1996 when I stopped by the Alaska Fish and Game office and talked to the goat biologist. I asked him about an area on the Cleveland Peninsula I had heard about. The biologist said the Cleveland Peninsula has produced some of the biggest goats from Alaska, but they were few and far between. He also said the area was not hunted because of very difficult terrain and this also accounted for the area having some large billies. That was all I needed to hear. Now I had the area to hunt I had been waiting for. Big goats and no hunting pressure!