ONE ARROW, ONE BISON, SIX MONTHS

The story of a once-in-a-lifetime Utah bison hunt, a 71-yard arrow, and the people who made it matter.

By Dr. Preston Ward, PT, DPT, OCS

Imagine drawing the most coveted bison tag in the state of Utah.

Not one of the most coveted.

The most coveted.

In 2021, Utah issued only one Sportsman’s bison tag.

And somehow, my name was on it.

When I opened that envelope and realized I had drawn the tag, I was ecstatic. I had dreamed of hunting an American bison with my bow for as long as I could remember. Now I had the opportunity.

But with the tag came something I hadn’t anticipated.

Pressure.

The Sportsman’s tag gave me six months to hunt, which sounds like a dream. In reality, it meant six months of knowing that at some point, I was going to have to make one perfect decision on one enormous animal.

And everyone had an opinion.

Some people told me it couldn’t be done with a bow.

Others said August would be too hot.

They told me I needed to wait until the weather cooled down.

Some questioned whether I could recover the meat and hide if I killed a bull during the heat of summer.

I listened to all of it.

But I knew one thing.

I was a bowhunter.

And if I was fortunate enough to take a bison, I wanted to do it with my bow.

Not because it was easy.

Because it wasn’t.

I wanted the challenge.

I wanted to earn it.

And more importantly, I wanted my family to be part of it.

THE SEARCH

The American bison is an incredible conservation story.

At one point, millions of bison roamed North America. Then, through unregulated hunting and the destruction of habitat, their numbers collapsed to the brink of extinction.

The fact that I could hold a Utah bison tag in my hand decades later was a testament to the conservation efforts that helped bring this animal back.

I didn’t take that lightly.

I wanted to become part of that story.

So the scouting began.

We covered country in the Book Cliffs and the Henry Mountains. We rode mules, glassed ridges, studied herds and searched for bulls that could potentially meet Pope and Young criteria.

All summer long, I worked on my bow and my health.

I tuned.

I ran.

I lifted.

I practiced.

I shot.

Then I shot some more.

Every arrow was preparation for the possibility that I might only get one chance.

Opening weekend arrived in early August.

I headed into the Henry Mountains with my friend Jayden Brian, owner of Bull Mountain Outfitters.

We found a good bull.

We made a move.

The opportunity was there.

But my wife and daughter weren’t coming until the following weekend.

And I had already made up my mind.

I wanted them there.

So I passed.

That decision meant the hunt continued.

And that was okay.

Because this wasn’t going to be a hunt I wanted to remember alone.

EVERYBODY WANTED TO BE THERE

The following weekend, the mountains filled with family and friends.

My wife and daughter came.

My dad and his wife.

My mom.

My brother and his entire family.

My good friend Weston McArthur, better known as Rise and Shed.

And one of my best friends, Kolby, who drove through the night just to make it down for this hunt—a friend who is there for every pack out.

The hunt became something bigger than I had imagined.

We weren’t just pursuing a bison.

We were creating a memory.

We found bulls.

We made stock after stock.

Eight attempts.

Maybe more.

We would get close.

The wind would be perfect.

The terrain would line up.

Everything would look right.

Then the wind would change.

Just like that, the herd would know.

And when a bison gets spooked, it doesn’t run 50 yards and stop to look back.

It runs for miles.

One stock in particular is burned into my memory.

We had worked our way within roughly 50 yards of a bull down a draw when the wind shifted.

The herd exploded.

They ran down a cliff face, breaking through the trees.

We walked up to one of the trees they had destroyed.

The branch was probably six inches in diameter.

They had snapped it like a twig.

I remember standing there looking at that broken tree and thinking about the animal I was pursuing.

This was North America’s largest land animal.

And I was trying to get within bow range.

The odds had finally been put in my favor when I drew the tag.

Now I had to do something with it.

THE HERD BULL

The next weekend, I went back down with Jayden and his family.

His two young kids.

My wife.

And my daughter, who was about seven years old.

Jayden and I split up.

Then I found them.

A herd of roughly 100 bison was tucked into a deep hole.

As I watched, one bull immediately caught my attention.

He was chasing other bulls away.

Running them off.

Breeding cows.

Controlling the herd.

There was no question.

He was the herd bull.

I radioed Jayden.

“Get over here.”

Then I started moving.

It was mid-August.

The middle of the desert.

And it was hot.

As I got closer, I began leaving gear behind.

Anything that added weight.

Anything that might make noise.

Anything I didn’t absolutely need.

That’s what happens when you’re a bowhunter.

The closer you get, the quieter you become.

Every step matters.

Every sound matters.

Every movement matters.

But nothing matters more than the wind.

That day, the wind was in my favor.

I moved slowly.

Eventually, I got within about 200 yards of the herd.

I dropped my pack.

Changed my approach.

And worked my way toward the edge of a cliff.

The bison had a direct view of the country in front of them.

Including me.

I sat down.

Then began moving closer.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Using shadows.

Moving through hot sand and cactus.

Trying not to make a single unnecessary movement.

Eventually, I reached the bottom.

Jayden had made his way back over to me.

He was watching from above.

Then the herd bull stepped out.

He was about 70 yards away.

I hid behind a small sagebrush and a small tree.

And I remember thinking:

If he looks through this brush and sees me, this is over.

I could be trampled.

The herd could stampede.

Or my opportunity could disappear.

The bull searched the open area.

He was looking for cows.

He didn’t see me.

He went back into the herd.

Then the animals settled.

The bull bedded down.

I kept moving.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Keeping the wind in my face.

THIRTY-FIVE YARDS

It was two or three in the afternoon.

I’d been in the sun for hours.

I was thirsty.

I was tired.

And I had left my pack behind.

But I kept moving.

Eventually, I could see them clearly.

I could hear them snorting.

Grunting.

Rolling in the dirt.

And there he was.

The herd bull.

Thirty-five yards away.

Everything I had practiced all summer was finally relevant.

My bow was tuned.

My arrows were tuned.

My shot placement was dialed.

I knew exactly where I needed to put an arrow.

There was only one problem.

He was bedded facing away from me.

He was focused on one cow.

Every time she stood, he stood.

Every time she bedded, he bedded.

He knew she was hot.

I knew she was hot.

And I knew I had an opportunity.

So I waited.

And waited.

For more than three hours.

Thirty-five yards from the bull.

Sitting in the heat.

Parched.

Baking under the August sun.

With nothing but a small PJ between me and the animal I had spent years dreaming about.

Then, without warning, a rainstorm moved in.

The temperature dropped.

I leaned back.

Opened my mouth.

And caught raindrops on my tongue.

For the first time all afternoon, I felt some relief.

But I also knew the weather was changing.

The afternoon was turning toward evening.

The thermals were going to change.

And when the wind changed, everything could be over.

Then it happened.

The herd stood.

All at once, roughly 20 animals broke through the trees.

For a moment, I thought they were coming directly toward me.

Fortunately, they ran the other direction.

Dust filled the air.

The herd disappeared.

And then I felt it.

The wind hit the back of my neck.

I knew.

It was over.

Or so I thought.

When the dust finally settled, I looked up.

There he was.

Standing 71 yards away.

Broadside.

Looking directly at me.

Another bull had moved up beside him.

But there was a small window.

A narrow opening.

I ranged him.

71 yards.

I knew that distance was within my effective range.

I’d practiced for it.

My arrow was approximately 540 grains, built around an Easton Full Metal Jacket shaft and topped with an Iron Will broadhead.

I had spent the entire summer preparing for a moment exactly like this.

There was no more preparation.

No more practice.

No more waiting.

There was only the decision.

I drew.

Anchored.

Settled.

And released.

THE ARROW

I watched the white fletching disappear into the bull’s chest.

And immediately dropped to my knees.

My first thought was:

Oh no.

It looked low.

I thought I had made a bad shot.

All the practice.

All the preparation.

All the pressure.

And I thought I had just blown it.

Then Jayden’s voice came over the radio.

“Preston.”

“Preston, you did it.”

“You just killed a giant bull.”

I couldn’t believe him.

“No way. I hit him low.”

He answered immediately.

“No, Preston.”

“I watched that arrow come completely through the other side.”

“That’s a full pass-through.”

“You hit him perfectly.”

I sat there in disbelief.

The bull ran over the hill and disappeared.

And for a moment, everything stopped.

Six months of having the tag.

Months of scouting.

Countless arrows.

Eight or more failed stocks.

The heat.

The nerves.

The pressure.

My family.

My friends.

Everything had come down to one arrow.

One opportunity.

And somehow, it had worked.

THE TRACK

We collected our gear and began the two-and-a-half-mile hike back to the side-by-side.

Then we returned to camp.

But the hunt wasn’t over.

We brought everyone back with us.

Our wives.

Our kids.

Our friends.

Our family.

We started back toward the bull.

Another rainstorm rolled in.

And now I had a new concern.

The blood trail.

I worried the rain would wash it away.

We walked directly to the spot where I’d taken the shot.

Then we found it.

A drop of blood.

Then another.

We found his track.

And we began following.

The kids were right there beside us.

We taught them how to track.

How to read blood.

How to look for sign.

How to follow an animal.

How to respect what had just happened.

The farther we went, the better the blood trail became.

And then we found him.

Laying in the shade.

Cool.

Perfectly preserved.

A modern miracle.

After hearing all the concerns about hunting a bison in August, there he was.

The meat was intact.

The hide was intact.

And the animal had died quickly.

I dropped to my knees.

I thanked God for that animal.

For the opportunity.

For the conservation work that had made the hunt possible.

And for the fact that one arrow had done its job.

After years of dreaming about it, I had finally harvested an American bison with my bow.

A beautiful Pope and Young bull.

With my family beside me.

THE LONGEST NIGHT

The work began around seven that evening.

We knew it was going to be a long night.

Our kids were young.

Six, seven and eight years old.

But they stayed.

They watched.

They learned.

We taught them what it means to harvest an animal.

What it means to respect an animal.

What it means to use what you’ve been given.

As the night went on, the temperature dropped.

We built a fire.

Eventually, the kids fell asleep in the dirt while we quietly continued processing the animal.

Around 12:30 a.m., everything was finally loaded.

The meat.

The hide.

The packs.

Some of those packs weighed well over 100 pounds.

And then we started walking.

Two and a half miles.

In complete darkness.

With exhausted adults and young kids.

Sometimes we talked.

Sometimes we laughed.

Sometimes we comforted the kids.

Sometimes we walked in silence.

Then a lightning storm moved in.

Thunder.

Rain.

Cold air.

We took shelter underneath some trees and waited for the storm to pass.

When it did, we kept walking.

Finally, at approximately 4:30 in the morning, we made it back to camp.

We had done it.

We were exhausted.

Hungry.

Thirsty.

Completely spent.

But we hadn’t lost a single ounce of meat.

We hadn’t lost the hide.

The bull was recovered.

We got the meat on ice, cooked some burgers, ate as quickly as we could, and crawled into our sleeping bags.

It had been one of the longest days of my life.

And one of the best.

MORE THAN A BISON

Years later, I still think about that hunt.

I think about the 71-yard shot.

I think about sitting 35 yards from that bull for more than three hours.

I think about the rain.

The wind.

The dust.

The broken trees.

The blood trail.

The long walk home.

But most of all, I think about the people who were there.

My wife.

My daughter.

My parents.

My brother.

My friends.

Those kids sleeping in the dirt while we processed an animal.

The laughter.

The exhaustion.

The stories.

Those are the things I remember each time I bring a client into the office and see the reminders of these hunts on the wall.

Because hunting, to me, has never been just about killing an animal.

It’s about conservation.

It’s about responsibility.

It’s about wild places.

It’s about teaching your kids where food comes from.

It’s about creating traditions.

It’s about making memories with your family.

It’s about passing something down.

The American bison represents one of the greatest conservation stories in North America.

An animal that was once nearly gone is now roaming the same wild places our ancestors once traveled.

And through that Sportsman’s tag, I was fortunate enough to become a very small part of that story.

I don’t take that for granted.

That experience also changed the way I think about hunting as I get older.

I built my career as a physical therapist around helping people stay capable of doing the things they love.

For me, that means hunting.

It means getting into the mountains.

It means carrying a heavy pack.

It means following an animal.

It means being there when my daughter wants to go hunting.

And someday, hopefully, when my grandkids want to go.

Because the goal isn’t simply to hunt this year.

It’s to keep hunting for decades.

I want to make memories with my kids.

Then with my grandkids.

I want to help new hunters experience these wild places.

And I want to see the next generation become stewards of the animals and lands that make this lifestyle possible.

That is what the bison hunt ultimately gave me.

Not just a trophy.

Not just meat.

Not just a story about a 71-yard perfectly placed arrow.

It gave me a memory that my family will carry for generations.

And a deeper appreciation for the responsibility that comes with being a hunter.

One tag.

One bull.

One arrow.

And one unforgettable piece of the American conservation story.

MTN PHYSIO

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From there, we build a plan that prepares you not just for opening day, but for a lifetime in the mountains.

Because the goal isn’t just to get you through a hunt.

It’s to keep you hunting.

To keep you running.

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To keep you capable when it matters most.

Think of it as having a doctor in your corner when you need it most—for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, and for every day in between.