Most things nowadays are built around ease. Faster checkout. Shorter lines. Less friction.
Somewhere along the way, we started believing we could get the juice without the squeeze. That we could taste success without any real cost. You see it everywhere—promises of wealth with no risk, no money down, no real effort required.
No pain. All gain.
And even as the evidence continues to pile up to the contrary, we keep getting duped by it.
But everything of value comes with a price. Enduring things are built slowly, over time, with resistance.
Last Monday, I spent the day with my friend Matt Skoglund of North Bridger Bison in the Shields Valley of Montana (about 40 minutes north of Bozeman).
Once upon a time Matt was a lawyer in Chicago. Now he and his wife Sarah, along with their two kids Otto and Gretta, manage a herd of around 200 bison on a piece of land they’ve cared for over the past nine years.
After spending the day up there, I can tell you no detail goes overlooked.
One of my all time favorite Matt Skoglund quotes is:
“We manage our ranch first and foremost for biological diversity because we have found that the more diverse our ranch is the more resilient it is — and we’re currently in the middle of an extinction crisis, and we want to do our part to try and help. And then we’re totally obsessed with meat quality, as we are genuinely trying to provide our customers with the best meat they’ll ever taste — full stop.”
On Monday, I was here to accompany Matt for a bison field harvest.
A field harvest is exactly what it sounds like. Folks order a whole, half, or quarter bison’s worth of meat and then wait until their bison can be properly dispatched in the field, processed, packed, and shipped to them. It’s like Christmas morning for people who are passionate about the highest quality food available.
But in order to deliver on that quality, Matt is committed to harvesting each bison himself, in the field where no undue stress befalls the animal. As he likes to say, “one minute they are hanging out in the pasture with their buds and a mouthful of grass and in an instant the lights go out.”
The Skoglund’s bison live great, stress-free lives on the ranch, follow Matt’s truck from one pasture to the next when it’s time to move to fresh grass, and one day their life will end in an instant and they will become the protein that North Bridger Bison’s customers have been patiently awaiting.
Out here, there is no shying away from the reality that for us to eat, something else has to die.
A reality that only feels unsettling because we have been so divorced from the process for the last few generations.
I know how seriously Matt takes this task. There is no bravado involved in the work—only a deep conviction for how to best put meat on a plate and steward this piece of land.
Two things struck me the most about our time together.
First was Matt’s process.
He goes through the same process each and every time he harvests a bison. Fills his water jugs, sharpens his knives, fills up his coffee, and turns his phone on airplane mode before leaving the ranch house.
We drive over to a post with a target stapled to it to test the rifle.
“I know it’s sighted in, this is just part of my process,” he says.
After a practice shot, we drive to the pasture where the herd of ~200 bison are feeding on grass amongst the sagebrush.
It’s mid-April and the first sign of Spring is here. The grass is starting to green up and the first calves have been born.
Bison are different from cows in that human intervention is not required for birthing. These animals were created to live on this exact landscape—and on this landscape they thrive.
We counted 5 “red dogs,” a nickname given to bison calves because of their distinct orangeish-red color. One of the calves we saw had been born possibly only minutes before we arrived.
Signs of life that serve as a reminder of the flourishing that exists out here.
Death is real, and yet so is life.
Today, the plan is to harvest two bison: a two-year-old bull and an unbred cow.
Matt was proud to share that when the vet came out to do their preg-check in February, they found only one cow in the entire herd wasn’t pregnant. A success rate that had even the vet a bit befuddled—and a confirmation that the herd is healthy, thriving, and experiencing very little stress.
As we drive, the herd is loosely split into two groups: the main herd and the maternity ward.
The cows with calves or soon-to-be calves naturally separate themselves, but it’s not a hard line. Bison move back and forth between the two groups with ease.
They were gregarious and entertaining as we drove amongst them—more personality than I expected. Matt says they get this way every Spring when the first green-up starts to happen.
It doesn’t take long before Matt spots what he is looking for—a cluster of two-year-old bulls off to the side.
Matt stays in the truck because the herd is accustomed to his white Ford flatbed. People on foot would be a cause for concern.
Once he finds the angle he’s looking for, Matt takes a single shot with a copper bullet.
Death is instant.
The other bison don’t flee. There is no mass hysteria. They wander off while Matt loads the bison and we transport it to an empty pasture for field dressing.
As we go, Matt grabs clumps of shedding winter hair and tosses them into the wind. Ground-nesting birds will find these clumps clinging to the sagebrush and use them for nesting material.
The unbred cow we were after has stayed with the maternity group, so Matt lets her be. Human plans are secondary out here.
A second bull is taken in the same swift manner as the first.
The process of field dressing a bison is no small feat.
Although Matt has done it several hundred times and knows the process intimately, these are big animals and the labor is real. The work is methodical and, much like the morning preparation, everything follows a routine.
We talk about small business to herd growth to surf trips and elk hunting.
By the time the work is finished, there are two gut piles spread out on the prairie for the birds and scavengers, and two bison loaded in the back of the truck.
It’s now mid-afternoon, and both of us have somewhere to be.
Matt heads to the processor. I’m headed to Yellowstone National Park to deliver jerky for the summer season.
Far removed from the usual factory-like efficiency of modern industrial life.
Standing in contrast to the comfort and convenience that surrounds us.
It’s hard to fully convey the level of respect and gratitude I have for the land, the herd, and the work.
The fact that there are enough customers willing to order half a bison and wait for their rancher to harvest it in the field where it has lived its entire life means that systems like this can exist.
It’s certainly easier to buy a cellophane wrapped ribeye any time you get the craving.
This is something else entirely.
As we’re leaving the ranch, a pronghorn buck loped past us toward the herd.
“I never see pronghorn hanging around this close to the herd,” Matt said. As Pronghorn are one of my favorite animals, it felt like a fitting way to end the day.
