When our first group of bison arrived on the ranch in January 2019, a young breeding bull arrived with them.

Over the years he grew and grew -- ultimately becoming a spectacularly beautiful bison. I always tell people that if the Smithsonian wanted to take a photo of the perfect bison, this bull would be the one.

At some point along this journey, Otto, Greta, and I each "claimed" a breeding bull as our own. This guy became my bull.

He has been filmed and photographed a bunch, and he's the bull in David Yarrow's famous Snowman photo.

When people visit the ranch and I take them out to see the herd, a lot of people would get nervous about this big bull. I always chuckled and told them they had nothing to worry about -- this guy was so sweet and gentle that they literally didn't have to worry about him.

Over time I started referring to him as The Gentle Giant.

The nickname fit, given his demeanor, and he also had these big, sweet, gentle eyes.

On Tuesday, I field-harvested The Gentle Giant.

We made the decision last August that it was time for him to be retired, as he had fathered plenty of calves on the ranch, and it was time for him to go in the name of healthy genetic diversity.

It was the right decision, but in the months that followed, it was slowly eating me alive.

I did not want him to leave -- I did not want to kill him -- and I couldn't imagine the ranch without him.

I avoided it and put it off for as long as I could.

Sarah and I talked about it several times over the winter -- with me trying to talk myself out of it multiple times (even though I knew it was the right thing to do).

We pre-sold his meat in 1/8ths, and we sold his head as a full shoulder mount to Big Sky Bravery, who will auction it off later this year to raise tens of thousands of dollars for our veterans.

All that was left to do was to drive out and field-harvest The Gentle Giant.

After avoiding it for almost eight months, this week was the week, and Tuesday was the day.

My good buddy Jesse Ziegler of J2 Taxidermy was here along with his wife and son for the field-harvest to cape out the front half of the bull for the shoulder mount, which Jesse will be doing.

So there I was -- somewhere around 10:00 AM Tuesday morning -- alone in my truck -- in the pasture with the bison -- Jesse and his family in their truck watching the bison and me -- my rifle resting on the arm of the rearview mirror -- and The Gentle Giant about 25 yards away from me.

I didn't have the right shot angle, so I drove around to line up a better shot. The bison moved. I repositioned my truck. The bison moved again.

This happened a few times.

Eventually I was in a perfect position, and The Gentle Giant and a handful of other bison were right in front of me -- about 20 yards away. My heart was pounding; I knew it was time.

But then the bison started to move again. I was nervous they'd walk away and I'd have to reposition myself.

But The Gentle Giant stayed back by himself. It was like he had consciously separated himself from the others. And then he turned and stared at me.

We locked eyes, and I got my rifle ready.

I was totally locked into the moment, my heart still pounding, and I took a few deep breaths.

And then this thought came over me -- it seemed to me that The Gentle Giant had intentionally separated himself from the others and looked at me with his big eyes -- and he was telling me, "It's okay. I know it's time, and I'm okay with it. You have my permission."

I took one more deep breath, and I pulled the trigger.

The Gentle Giant dropped immediately.

Instant death. No pain, no confinement, no stress. Standing on his home land, grass in his mouth, his family and friends nearby.

It was surreal to walk up to him and rub my hand along his face and over his eye.

Jesse and I got to work, and I found myself almost euphoric with relief.

I was expecting to be sad, but I wasn't. Everything went perfectly, and I did right by The Gentle Giant.

But later that night, at dinner, when Sarah, Otto, Greta, and I were eating his heart and hanging tender steak, and we had toasted him and thanked him, and I was sitting directly in front of a huge photograph of him, I began to tell them the story of the field-harvest earlier that day, and how he had separated himself, and how I interpreted that as him telling me it was okay.

And before I could finish the story, I had tears in my eyes -- the gravity of the day, the moment he and I shared before I killed him, and the reality that he was forever gone from our ranch -- it all hit me hard.

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Now at this point you might be thinking, "Matt is completely insane if he thinks that bison was talking to him."

And that's a fair point and a perfectly reasonable inference.

But this is our ranch and our journey. And I love stories; they help me make sense of the world.

And with The Gentle Giant, this is my story of that day. It might be crazy, but it's my story.

And -- ultimately -- all I really care about is giving our bison amazing lives -- and an honorable, instant, stress-free, beautiful death.

I gave all of that to The Gentle Giant, and while I miss him, and I still can't believe he's no longer here, I feel so great about how The Gentle Giant lived -- and how The Gentle Giant died.

And, as Otto said when he toasted him Tuesday night, he will live on forever on the ranch through his offspring.

And he will live on forever in my heart.