The Nebraska state flag is surprisingly similar to that of Montana. It also has a blue background, with the state seal in the center. This shows the Rocky Mountains and the Missouri River. In the middle is a blacksmith at work, denoting industry. The sheaves of wheat and a typical settler's cabin refer to agriculture, and the train and boat suggest the importance of transport. I imagine that historians from both states constantly argue over which flag borrowed what, from whom.
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We have arranged to have breakfast at 7.00am, and I manage to turn up on time.
Clyde Leffler, the motel manager, is already busy in the huge communal kitchen. There are good smells wafting through the air. Sarah, the owner's ugly, gnome-like, little dog is running around under our feet. Supposedly, she is a pedigree, but I have my doubts about that. There's no breeder in the world who would deliberately create such an animal. She looks like the failed by-product of some experiment in genetic engineering that went wrong. Like a character out of the film "Little Monsters"; but her weird looks belie a very high intelligence. On a command from her master, the little rat-dog will perform some amazing tricks.
Die for your country! comes the order, and Sarah falls down with a thud. She even closes her eyes, playing dead very convincingly. She is made to repeat this trick many times, and I almost fall off my chair laughing.
The hunting ground is approximately 28mi. away.
I must warn in advance that this is going to be a canned hunt. In my defence, I deliberately left this hunt until the end of my trip, to be my final farewell to America. I don't place it among my real hunts, but we couldn't find anywhere where it was possible to hunt buffalo out in the wilds. Either I hunt it here, or nowhere. This one of the few arguments I can muster to justify canned hunting.
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Even I am prepared to bend the rules when it comes to my own hunting. To mitigate my actions, let me say that this is the first - and, for the foreseeable future, the last - canned hunt I have ever done.
I don't know what to think about canned hunting. I have not managed to formulate a general philosophy, even for myself, which is valid for every example of this type of hunt. Generally, if I was asked about it, I would say that it is certainly unjustifiable, cannot be called true hunting, and that I would never do it. But, nevertheless, I'm here. I might even be prepared to participate in a beat for a canned hunt, one day. But I'd never shoot a canned stag, or any other type of deer if I had the option of shooting wild ones. Just as I wouldn't shoot any game that had been reared in captivity, even if it was now living wild. It just isn't done to shoot big game or cape buffalo under canned conditions. I think you should always avoid hunting in enclosed areas. If there is the slightest chance, then all stalking should take place in the wilds, even if it is much more expensive, there is no guarantee of success, and the hunt is more demanding physically.
We drive to the ranch.
Several trophies of almost record size have been bagged here, so my chances are good. The cold front that has hit Wyoming has reached this state as well; it has started snowing heavily, and there is fog too. We can't see beyond 600ft. There are no bulldozed roads here, and the jeep is shaking us about unpleasantly. We drive around in the terrible weather, but can't see any bison. It is very cold; 25F is not normal for this time of year, and the snow is early as well.
We can't see anything.
No tracks, no bison. No small ones, no big ones, no bulls, no cows. We can't see any.
The constant bone-shaking vibration is becoming exhausting; such a hunt, in such a car, over such terrain, is not for me. Sometimes we drive into pot-holes that are so large, I hit my head on the roof of the car.
I am holding my gun between my knees. Time is passing. The snow is getting deeper and deeper, making it harder and harder for the jeep to go on. The air is slowly cooling down, and our range of vision is decreasing.
The hours are spinning by; we are now in our fourth.
We are driving around randomly. We watch the storm. I'm starting to get nervous. I grab at every opportunity to stop. When we do, I get out into the open air for a look around.
I can't see anything but snow.
Will it really turn out that my last hunt, which should have been so easy, is going to be the one that causes all the problems?
Rick is optimistic; all that worries him is the snow. If it gets much deeper, then very soon our
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vehicle will sink into it, and we won't be able to move. And the snow won't help us in our search for bison, either. Snow doesn't melt on their thick fur, but just covers it completely. That makes them almost invisible among the snow-covered bushes as, in this weather, they don't move very much. I don't like this situation. I thought - obviously wrongly - that for a hunt like this I'd just be sitting in the car, staring at the bulls. I would be able to pick my target carefully and fastidiously.
But, instead, we are driving around in a deserted, lifeless landscape.
We cannot see any living creatures at all.
There is just a lot of wind, snow and cold. I turn up the heating; I have been cold too often during the last few weeks.
Rick can't understand what's going on, either, but tries a few explanations. The weather and snow are the problem, but nothing can be done about them. I would have thought the bison should be here, even if the weather is bad. Finally, Rick stops the car and telephones the ranch owner. Can he kindly tell us where the bison are? He gives us some detailed directions, how to drive across the same places that we have driven over 15 times already. It's not much help.
There is nothing to do but keep going. They must be here somewhere.
From the top of a hill we make a scan with the binoculars.
THERE! - I hear the long-awaited exclamation.
I point my Swaro in the same direction and yes! There are two huge bodies, standing motionless in the cruel wind. They seem oblivious to the cold, the wind, the snow. Their big heads are hanging down, and they are grazing on the thin grass. What huge creatures! Larger than a musk ox, without question. They are far away, and we can't assess them properly from where we are.
Because of the heavy snow, the spotting scope is not much help, as it only magnifies the snowflakes. We try to approach them by going in a large circle. The landscape is hilly here; there are lots of places for cover, enough to hide even a car. I have no doubt that we can creep up on them successfully. The wind is changing unexpectedly all the time; we must keep that in mind.
We view the two bulls from different angles, but can't decide on which one. We can't really see any difference between them, even from 600ft. Both have beautiful horns, but which is better?
Rick studies the horns, while I take a look at our surroundings. The nearby hills provide several good places for a shot. I work out which would be the best, and how I'll do it. We make another turn in the jeep and get within 300ft. of the bison. They see us, but are either unafraid, or don't know what we are.
I set up the camera quickly, and sit down in the snow.
Rick thinks the bull on the right looks a little better. I can't actually see why, but he's the expert. By the time we have come to a decision, all we can see are the bull's hindquarters. I don't really want
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to try a Texas Heart Shot, so I wait. Meanwhile, I get out the laser: it is 351ft.
It slowly turns to the left, and I take a leisurely aim.
BANG!
It collapses with the first shot, but, to be sure, I repeat immediately, taking one more shot at its fallen body.
Both my shots are hits, we heard the sound of two impacts quite clearly.
I approach it holding my camera… but, suddenly, the enormous head rises ...
It is not the done thing to get too close. Rick won't let me take another shot. He explains that the bison is a very tough animal, and, even in the case of a very good hit, can still remain alive for a long time. But I'm not happy about it. Whether he minds, or not, I am going to put it out of its misery.
I put down my camera, and approach it from behind with my gun. It is just on the point of death.
I've shot a bison in Nebraska!
The last big game of my trip is lying here in front of me.
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Here in Nebraska, exactly 2417mi. from where I bagged my Dall sheep, I have pulled the trigger of my Blaser for the last time. This happy moment is tinged with sadness, as my hunting in the New World is now over.
The first expedition of my life is slowly coming to an end.
Because of the snowstorm, which is getting worse, we keep the photo-session brief.
It feels really good getting back into the warmth of the 4-wheel drive. Rick drives to the rancher's house. We left the trailer in front of the ranch house, and need it to transport the huge carcass.
We don't know how we will manage to pull the massive body out of the snow on to the trailer, so we ask John Deer, the ranch owner, to help us with his tractor. It is eqipped with a huge bucket on the front, and will lift the bison as if it was a grasshopper.
I have carefully saved the exact position of the bagging on my Garmin Oregon 300-s GPS, a very useful device. I shot the bison on a quite distant part of the ranch, and our trail disappears under the snow in seconds. It would not be much fun wandering about looking for it for hours. The longer we take to get back to the bison, the more difficult it will be to find it, as the layer of snow is getting thicker by the minute. But the Garmin points us in the right direction, and leads us right back to where the animal is lying on its side. They tie a rope to the tractors bucket and by attaching it to one of the hind legs, raise up the animal for Rick to start gutting it. I am watching all this from the car, as it has now got very cold. Then the tractor's engine gives a roar and, with the bucket, scoops the bull up into the air. In the ranch's courtyard we reverse the trailer under the bucket. The springs groan under the weight of the body.
The processing plant is not far away, about 30mins. by car. A complex system of pulleys carry the bull into the building. We don't wait for them to start their work, we go straight off to a Pizza Hut. We've only had a sandwich during the entire day, and the warm food feels good.
There is no beer.
They are not allowed to sell alcohol on Sunday.
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Bed and Breakfast Bunkhouse