Awards

AWARDS AWARDS

by Jason Peak

Awards Committee Chairman

CHANGE IS IN THE AIR

Some old Greek guy said, “the only constant in life is change.” Then a chubby Englishman said, “to improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often.” With all that in mind and the assistance of the board, the Ram Awards Committee is making a few changes to the way the awards ceremony will be conducted at the 2023 Wild Sheep Foundation Show between January 11-14. Buckle up, pay attention and get those entries in before the deadline.

First, the event will now be a luncheon held between noon and 2:00 pm on Thursday, January 12, 2023. This decision was not made lightly. Several factors came into play with changing the event from a breakfast gathering to a lunchtime boondoggle, some of which included making sure outfitter exhibitors could attend without being hurried to get back to their booths at the Convention Center and moving from an early morning event that usually becomes difficult to attend for those of us who may have enjoyed things a bit too much the night before.

Next, the event will be moved from the Peppermill’s Tuscany Ballroom to the Mt. Rose Ballroom at the Convention Center. This move to the actual site of the convention eliminates the need for folks to travel back and forth from the Ram Awards lunch to the convention and saves a ton of time. Rather than finding a shuttle or driving and parking, its an easy stroll from the convention past the registration area and into the Ram Awards event.

Rather than a formal sit-down meal

Photo: John Herbst

with buffet-style food, we are working on having food stations set up and possibly sponsor/donor involvement. We are working through those details now and hope to have more to report once the event gets closer.

And finally, we are planning to give away an aoudad hunt to one lucky attendee! The hunt will be donated by a sponsor and we will give it away during the awards lunch to someone in the room. You have to be present to win, so plan accordingly.

As for the awards themselves, all entries (for both the Ram and Mountain Monarch Awards) must be received by no later than November 1, 2022. The information needed to enter for an award can be found on the website. Any ram or international sheep or goat legally and ethically taken between August 30, 2020 and August 30, 2022, will be eligible for the 2023 Ram and Mountain Monarch Awards program. As for FNAWS winners, qualifying members must have legally and ethically harvested all four sheep in a free-range environment and be recorded with Wild Sheep Foundation using the WSF Hunt Report Form found on the website.

The new day, time, location and format of the Ram Awards Program will be quite a change, but change is good according to Uncle Winston. Adding in an aoudad hunt giveaway, it’s going to be quite the event. We hope to see you there. WS

WHAT ARE THE ODDS?

BY KC RAMSEY

ost hunting stories start out talking about winning the lottery-type odds M we all face trying to draw a coveted sheep tag. And rightly so, the popularity of big game hunts in general has become an unlikely dream for most hunters. This hunt was no exception and the odds were very unfavorable for the hundreds of applicants that applied.

After applying for ten years, my number was pulled. This hunt had some very special meaning and memories for me and I wanted to do everything in my power to justify it. I had been lucky the last ten years scouting and helping guide some other hunters that had beaten the odds and looked to fulfill a dream they had also been chasing. In those years I had made some great friends and witnessed some life-changing moments. Those times are priceless and just make you want it even more. 2020 found me out there looking again in early July, trying to turn up a ram for a lucky hunter that had booked a hunt with us at War Eagle Outfitters. This would be a hunt that, if successful, would complete a FNAWS. Weeks of scouting paid off, and a hunter was able to walk away with a giant California ram, completing something very few will ever experience.

During that year of scouting, we had turned up three rams that would be a trophy in any state. After seeing one of them taken off the hill, I could only hope 2021 would be my year. I had lost a great friend that year—one that had spent every minute with me out there. Ken Jafek was a hunting legend that had been guiding people for almost 50 years. Call it fate, but somehow I talked the sheep gods into letting me draw.

The area we had to glass the rams from was over a mile away and at times made it hard to identify him.

July came quickly, and once again I was out looking in the country where we had left the big rams the year before. That morning I had located a small group of rams with great potential, but not the one I was looking for.

Later that morning we had moved down the canyon to glass a well known area that ram had been in the year before. Not long into it, a great friend of mine (Toad) got my attention and said he had seen something move through his spotting scope. He quickly explained the location and we both started picking the hillside apart.

It was then that the subject of this story begins. At the same time we both noticed something in our scopes that was a dream come true—and a sheep hunter’s worst nightmare.

In the same field of view I could see a giant ram sleeping totally oblivious to its surroundings, and a tom mountain lion tucked in the rocks and ready to end this ram’s ten-year career. At that point I don’t know how to express my thoughts. At 1400 yards away, all I could do is sit back and hope this 10-year-old ram could escape one of nature’s top sheep killers.

After about ten minutes of watching this standoff, the lion couldn’t find the right angle in the steep rocky terrain and simply moved off to try another day. We finished out the day talking about what we had just experienced, trying to be optimistic knowing we had found our number-one ram, but also knowing the danger he would have to overcome with this lion in his domain. Having hounds and spending over twenty years chasing this predator, I knew the chances of our ram getting killed with other younger rams around was low, but definitely a possibility. Lions don’t pick what they want to kill based on age and size.

I mean really, a ten-year-old ram with only a month until my hunt opening...what are the odds, right?

I had taken some great pictures and video of the two bigger rams on August 20th, and at that time determined the ram I wanted. Both rams were phenomenal, but I felt one was just an inch or two better. Really the only way to tell them apart was one ram had a very distinct white dot right between his eyes—an old scar from his days of fighting.

Finally, the weekend before my hunt was upon us and a game plan had been set. We would show up Thursday night and watch him until the opener on Monday.

Friday morning we were up early and making the long hike out to the area we had watched him and his buddies for two years. I had no doubt he would be there. As the sun was rising over the desert, the shapes of rams started to appear. With all the time and effort prior to this hunt it was shaping up just like I expected.

We all started talking about the rams, looking at each one and trying to find the ram with the white dot. The area we had to glass the rams from was over a mile away and at times made it hard to identify him.

Not long into it, I quickly noticed my trophy and another up-andcoming ram were missing. A little weird, but not something that hadn’t happened before. This was huge country and nothing was stopping them from wandering off for a day or two.

We spent all day Friday and

Saturday splitting up, getting different angles and trying to locate him.

By Sunday, I knew something was up. He was the dominant leader of this group and it was just not like him to be gone this long. The other rams seemed really spooky, never bedding in the same spot like earlier in the summer. They were jumpy and always on the move, bedding, then for no reason, getting up and traveling in the heat of the day, sometimes a mile or so. They seemed lost and unsure of what to do.

Sunday morning the decision was made to spread out and go deeper into the area and try to locate the lost rams.

Later that afternoon, I got a message on the Inreach that had some news; the ram had been found, but not the way we had hoped. Trying to be excited but knowing something was wrong, we packed up and headed back to camp confused and full of questions. These hunts have so much emotion and pressure already—so getting this message only added to the story.

We got to camp first, but not long after, headlights appeared. In minutes I would find out the answers I had been nervously waiting to hear. My friends pulled in and right away their faces told the story. Both of them never said anything and just walked to the back of the truck and opened the tailgate. We all gathered around, and sitting there was the remains of the big ram with the white dot between his eyes.

While glassing that morning, Toad and Jason noticed some birds flying around in the bottom of a canyon. Having a bad gut feeling, they knew it had to be one of the two missing

rams. Nature deals with some cruel and unfair situations and this was one of them. That lion had stayed the course of survival and killed the ram I had set my hopes on just days before my hunt was set to open. He was everything we already knew: a ten-year-old, giant ram.

The timing of this was something you just can’t make up. He had escaped this situation more times then we will ever know and finally got caught. What are the odds right?

The damage had been done and all I could do was focus on the other ram that was still there. And luckily for me, he was no slouch and still a ram- of-a-lifetime.

The next couple days we spent watching him and waiting for the right opportunity to make a move.

On day three he finally was in a place that allowed us a chance. Toad agreed to stay behind and keep an eye on him while Trison, Jim, and I drove two hours around to a place we could access him from. We left the truck at 10 and got in position around 1:30. At that time the rams were just over a rise and out of sight to us. The wind was wrong and getting closer was too risky and not an option. We

stayed ready knowing anytime they might feed up to us and hopefully allow a shot.

Less than an hour went by when it happened—one at a time the rams appeared single file feeding quickly, racing each other to each clump of green grass. The ram I was after had since established dominance and was in the lead. Jim was on the spotting scope and I had my scope dialed and just needed him to clear for a clean shot.

He finally separated and allowed me a 480-yard broadside shot. The sound of the rifle went off and the rams lifted their heads and took off running like I had just shot straight in the air. I scrambled to get another round in, dumbfounded he didn’t just drop. The rams headed back to the safety of the cliffs with the big ram leading the way.

It all happened so fast, and at the time, we couldn’t tell if I had hit him or completely blown a golden opportunity. Unsure, we grabbed our gear and frantically headed for the rim where we had last seen them drop over.

Getting to the edge, I knew something wasn’t right. He had taken the band of rams into a dead end of 100-foot-plus cliffs with no escape route. This big ram knew better than that, and if not injured, would have easily maneuvered down the canyon and escaped me.

After ten minutes of hearing rocks rolling and seeing rams run right past me trying to escape, I spotted the big ram 100 yards straight below me looking up...with nowhere to go but straight off a giant ledge to the canyon below. I could see a small blood spot on his shoulder, easily identifying him as the ram I was after. I had to make a quick decision to finish him off knowing when I pulled the trigger he was going to take a horrible fall. I didn’t have any choice, so that’s what I did.

It would have been quite a scene from the opposite side of the canyon seeing a ram leap off the ledge and come to a complete stop at the bottom of a canyon not meant for humans to be in. It was within an hour of darkness and we had our hands full just trying to find a somewhat safe route to get to him.

Within an hour we had picked our way through the ledges and rock slides and reached our prize. He was a beautiful nine-and-a-half-year-old ram that I was more than happy with.

It was a long and grueling night hiking out, but one I wouldn’t want any other way. These opportunities don’t come along very often, if ever, for most people, so I never take them for granted. I was able to check in my ram and keep the other ram the lion had killed.These are two incredible rams in any state and bittersweet seeing them both together. It sounds great and I can’t complain, but the lion problem out there is real. He has killed two rams in a month and will continue to kill. Fish and Game are aware of the problem, and hopefully, can help out. I got to fulfill my dream and want to see other hunters have the same opportunity I did. When it’s all said and done—and even though the pictures are with me holding a ram in one of the most picturesque places Idaho has to offer—the reason these pictures exist are because of the great friends I have who were willing to set aside time in their busy lives and make this happen. You all know who you are, and I can’t thank you enough. But really, what are the odds? WS

41 DAYSBY LARRY MCDERMOTT

omewhere on our trail of life together, my son Zach developed a passion for wild sheep. He is a resident of Wyoming and current S president of Wyoming Wild Sheep Foundation. This has led us both on several big game adventures and relations with great people, hunters and non-hunters alike. He also has an uncanny knack for drawing limited quota tags. Many in Colorado. Drawing a Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep tag in Colorado was another example and carried a special meaning for us both.

During my youth I spent more birthdays in the Colorado Rocky Mountains than anywhere else including my home in Omaha, Nebraska. Family members owned land parcels and cabins near Central City and Walden. Zach was five years old when my wife Candice began taking him, our oldest son, Shane, and their neighborhood friends to the remote cabin and country west of Walden on annual summer outings.

I’d been exploring the Mount Zirkel Wilderness area since my teenage years, now our sheep hunting son had drawn a coveted nonresident tag in that area. I can’t put into words the euphoria we all felt. Congratulations and commitments came pouring in.

Passionate board members of the Rocky Mountain Bighorn Society, John and Zac (Z-2) were extremely helpful and supportive throughout. Another first, along with his horses, was avid sheep hunter and good friend, Frank. His horses turned out be a great compliment to our two saddle mules, Tammy and Salty.

A trial run and scouting trip was planned, first for late July or early August. Then the fires started. My anxiety and training in the desert heat of Cave Creek Arizona (our new home) began to wear me down. Zach often reminded me: “Stay the course, be comfortable being uncomfortable.”

August 25th. Packed my gear.

August 26th. I met my nephew Ryan on I-17 and trucked to Walden, CO. After checking at the Forest Service office for any fire updates we rendezvoused with Zach, Frank, his horses, and our mules. We traveled to a trailhead on the south end of our unit which was not closed but had on open fire ban in effect. At this

point we were not sure if the hunt was going to happen. The opener was in twelve days. Our scouting trip was declared a success. We rode the Wyoming Trail on the Continental Divide and enjoyed quite a few bands of sheep. NO RAMS.

August 29th. We broke camp and packed out. By noon the crew was loaded, going our separate ways. Zach and Frank to Sheridan, a six-hour drive on a rough graveled, potholed two lane. Ryan and I traveling for a taxing thirteen hours to Phoenix.

August 31st. My wife and I were on the road to Sheridan, Wyoming, Zach’s home, to make ready for his hunt and my adventure. He was in constant contact with Colorado Parks and Wildlife, the Forest Service, and other hunters. Our hunt area continued to be closed west of the divide and the total fire ban was still in effect. This meant no campfire, a staple in any hunting camp.

September 3rd. Zach and I, with our mules, left Sheridan for our hunting unit and opener on the 7th. Ryan met us at a different trailhead, late in the day, drizzling, we decided to go forth. This meant setting camp after dark in a spot we had to find, in an area we had never been to.

September 4th. We finished camp and started learning the territory. Frank and friend rode into camp to help anyway they could.

September 5th. Comparing notes over Mountain House dinners heated by Jetboil water, Zach and Ryan disclosed they had seen a group of rams on a distant ridgeline from Flat Top Mountain (elev. 12,118 ft.) despite contending with the everpresent smoke. This became Zach’s favorite vantage point; climbed too many times to count. I stated that I saw two rams on a ridge not far from camp. Because of this country’s vastness, distance is a relative thing. Frank asked, ‘’What time did you spot them?’’

“It was 1:00 straight up,” I declared. They became the 1:00 Rams on 1:00 Ridge.

The following four days were uneventful, saw sheep every day. NO RAMS.

September 9th. Returning from glassing skylines and ridgetops, we ate a late lunch and the group decided to change course and try another approach. We broke camp and packed out. NO RAMS.

September 10th. Frank had received a tip from a tourist who said she saw a great big mountain sheep. She even produced a picture. “Low and behold, that’s a 170-class ram,” Frank responded. We decided that the ram had to be migrating to Sheep Mountain, of all places. We saddled up and rode the hell outta Sheep Mountain. NO RAM.

September 11th. Acting on another tip, Zach and I rode and hunted Red Canyon. Near the top I decided to traverse a small glacier (BAD IDEA). I no sooner got out of that mess when the lightning and thunder rolled in. Meeting up with Zach, we hustled down to where we left the mules and started our ride out. The weather just got crazier and crazier as mountain weather often does. An hour or two from our horse trailer, riding through a forested area

We glassed until dark. NO RAMS.

that could use a good burn, the trees were popping, cracking, and crashing. Our mules quickened their pace. They knew we were riding through the “Goblin Forest.” NO SHEEP.

September 12th. Sunday, we stopped in Walden for a coffee on our way back to Sheridan. Zach still works for a living.

September 16th. Back on the road heading to our high camp.

September 19th. After seeing no rams for three days, with a heavy fog covering the mountain tops we packed out and headed for Sheridan.

September 21st. Candy and I left Sheridan for home. I had to keep my promise. She agreed to ride along and watch Zach’s dog, Elvis, provided I’d have her home for her Arizona scheduled activities.

Zach also had to contend with the fact that his wife, Gina, was traveling back and forth to Salt Lake City helping nurse her father, Sam. He was on death’s doorstep from Covid-19. Sam was a trooper, encouraging us to not worry about him, “Keep huntin’. Get a big sheep.”

A bit of good news arrived via a personal phone call from Chris at the Forest Service field office in Walden. If Zach could inform them of our daily in and out of the fire closure area using his inREACH, we had their permission to go into that portion of the unit that had been off limits.

September 28th. I prepared to leave early on the 29th.

September 29th. Again, it took almost thirteen hours to reach Walden.

September 30th. We both were in possession of limited deer tags. Tags left unfilled due to the sheep! With a report of a 170 ram on or near Sheep Mountain, I decided to hunt and glass the mountain again while Zach was in route. This area is surrounded by private land and excellent habitat. Unfortunately, no sheep and only a few small deer. Fortunately, being able to watch a beautiful cinnamon

Releasing our pent-up emotions together as father and son was a moment never to be forgotten.

black bear and monster bull moose, made the day very worthwhile.

October 1st. After spending the night in our horse trailer at the trailhead, we packed the mules and started for our high camp. Now it’s just the two of us. In order to get all our provisions in for a possible eight days, I took on the role of sherpa. Four and a half hours later, upstream, I arrived to find camp set and water bags filled. A nice touch for a seventy-two-year-old sherpa. Zach left for Flat Top, me to a place I’d been using to glass from near camp. We glassed until dark. NO RAMS.

October 2nd. Zach decided to get on the backside of the ridge where the group of rams had been spotted days prior. I am along for the ride. With Forest Service permission slip in hand, we rode and glassed ridgeline and drainage after ridgeline and drainage. Not a soul had been in the area. It took four hours of riding and hiking (downhill), three hours after dark to reach camp. Zach led riding Tammy, never made a wrong turn. I was glad and impressed. NO SHEEP, no elk, no deer.

October 3rd. Giving our mules the day off, Zach hiked Flat Top again. I stayed low to cover the rocks and ridges surrounding “One O’clock Ridge”. Near dusk two nice rams appeared grazing south to north. Glassing them, suddenly they abruptly turned and ran back from whence they came. Later we met at camp for Mountain House meal number??? Our mules were turned out happily grazing bunchgrass. When I told Zach of my ram sighting and their hasty about face, he stated he had not seen them. “I usually glass that ridge and One O’clock. I’ve been down that way umpteen times. I don’t know why I didn’t check it out.” The trail was a rocky, treacherous, switch backed 500yard descent. He scoffed when I mentioned fatigue. Over and over, we knew and had been saying the rams have to be somewhere. Now we had proof. These were the first legal rams we had seen since before the opening on the 7th of September. Days were winding down. Four days left of a thirty-day season. One of the more remarkable things about Zach’s demeanor was his lack of anxiety. His ardent persistence was inspiring. Seeing sheep almost every day we were, to a small extent, starting to clock and pattern their movements. Over a shot of Jack, our night cap, we concluded seven a.m. would be the time to be in position.

October 4th. Not being where I wanted to be, crossing a meadow below camp, through the trees I looked to the ridge where I saw the rams the previous late afternoon. There they were casually munching their way south to north. Garnering Zach’s attention, he geared up and moved to try to intercept them. Off hand, I tried to settle my Maven 15x56 binos while keeping the rams in focus. Not knowing where he went, I glassed as they moved out of sight. Much to my surprise and amazement, came a third ram. OMG, what a ram! Minutes later, a shot rang out. Seconds later, a follow-up shot. The crescendo that followed was music to my ears and told me everything I needed to know. Running to find him, I dropped gear along the way. At 10,600 feet and climbing, it didn’t take long for this old timer to slow down.

Releasing our pent-up emotions together as father and son was a

moment never to be forgotten. Knowing all that Zach had been through, his resolve, his resilience and fortitude made me as proud as a father could possibly be.

After thanking the sheep gods and pictures aplenty, the work started, including getting our mules to the downed ram. A majestic twelve-anda-half-year-old chocolate. Willfully, Tammy and Salty fulfilled their roles.

Back at camp we hung and boned out the meat. Then fleshed out the cape on our “kitchen table,” a sizeable deadfall log near a vacant fire ring. Time and again a resplendent red fox joined for a snack.

Later, we put the mules to bed, celebrated with a shot of Jack and called it a night. What a Monday!

October 5th. Turned out the mules at first light, broke camp, caught and packed our mules, micro-crumbed the area then hiked out. Two and a half hours later we were at the horse trailer, tired and hungry with a lot of busy work yet to do.

First and foremost, we had to find the field office of Parks and Wildlife in Walden, hoping an officer would be present to record and plug the ram, cooler the meat, and find an overnight for the mules.

Anyone who has been on a DIY hunt knows you need help along the way. The folks working the field office could not have been more helpful. One had a place for our mules, her ranch. A walk-in cooler was available for the meat and an officer arrived in the nick of time, near closing, to record and plug. This turned out to be a fun and rewarding experience in that Zach’s ram was marveled at by all the personnel and hunters coming for check-ins and other various dealings.

I left Zach at the field office to finalize his paperwork while I tried to find us a room. During all this we contacted home to tell our story. After a quick burger and beer at the bowling alley we showered and hustled to Stockton’s bar, an old family destination. It sits on mainstreet in the center of town and has been in the same building with the same sign as far back as I can remember. Chris of the Forest Service met us there, he and Zach had become friends during their many conversations concerning the fires and their windswept directions. We three told stories and toasted our good fortune.

October 6th. Up before dawn, it was decided I would leave for my arduous trek to Cave Creek. Zach would retrieve the mules and meat when the field office opened at 8:00 am.

Zach and I want to thank my wife Candy, his mother, for her unbridled support and patience listening to our adventure time after time.

I personally must thank Zach for including me on many of his adventurous hunts and outings. Our friend, Ron Dube, once told me an old saying I had not heard, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.” So it was. It goes without saying I thank my lucky star that I’m still willing and able to be part of a sheep hunt. WS

TOKTOMAT

BY ALEXANDER SHARIF

he irrefutable fact is that the lion’s share of all world-class T sheep and ibex taken by Western hunters on a guided hunt is not because of their own abilities, but those of their guides. Whether it is pre-scouting before the hunter arrives or the way the stalk is formulated and conducted, it is the guide who deserves the most credit. The hunter’s job is to follow the guide and administer a calm shot.

Unlike here on the North American continent where there are designated awards such as the Dalziel, Golata, etc. for guides annually, guides in Central Asia get the short end of the stick and are hardly even mentioned by their actual names. They are the true mountain hunters, which with minimal gear, a meager diet and a pack of cigarettes find the royal game and put their clients within reach of their rifles.

In Tajikistan where the stakes are high for the mighty Ovis ammon poli which incidentally wears a very high price tag on his horns—and the fact that the hunts in the Eastern Pamirs take place above 14,000 ft and all-in wide-open country—the guide’s job is further complicated and is more critical for success.

This tribute is slated for a Tajik guide with Kirgiz origins by the name of Toktomat. I had heard

It’s all smiles for Toktomat and his hunter in front of their “ger”

about him through my late uncle Nouri who had hunted with him in Tajikistan in 1996 and was always intrigued to learn more. I reached out to my contacts at ANCOT in Tajikistan, and thanks to technology, I eventually got in touch first with his son Esenali, and subsequently with his granddaughter Batma via WhatsApp.

Here we go…

Kenzhebaev Toktomat Zhoroevich or commonly known as Toktomat was born on December 10, 1940, in the small village of Chechekti near Murghab in Eastern Tajikistan. He had a very difficult childhood. His parents died when he was only seven and was left orphaned together with his younger brother. A generous lady from their village took both under her household, but it was still tough. When he turned 12, he lost his only brother and was left alone. This is also the time when he started to hunt, perhaps to get away from it all.

At 18, he joined the army, and upon completing his compulsory military service, quickly returned to his village, started doing odd jobs and used hunting as a supplement for subsistence. For Toktomat, having all these wild animals in the mountains was like a fairy tale, and having lost all his family members, they would be his only consolation. He hunted them but also loved them, and at times, would even talk to them knowing that they also understood him. He mentions that in a few instances, the wild Marco Polo sheep would approach him and

Toktomat and his signature smile making field chai in the Pamirs

Toktomat (left) with a Central Asian ibex

those experiences reinforced his love for the mountains and the game that lived closed to him in his village. He was enamored with wandering in the mountains and hunting to the extent that he never received a formal education. Part of the reason was, of course, having to provide for his small family that he had just started.

In 1961, he briefly worked as an electrician at the Aksuu hydroelectric power generation station near Murghab. However, he never quit hunting and was able to provide fresh meat not only for his own family, but for several other families that lived in the Karakul and Murghab villages.

After Tajikistan’s civil war ended and the country opened its doors to Western hunters, there were attempts made by some outfitters to hire him as a guide, but for one reason or another, it never materialized. In 1990, and by sheer coincidence, he crossed paths with Russian-born Yuri Matison, a medical doctor by trade, but more importantly, a mogul figure in the Marco Polo hunting scene in Tajikistan. Yuri was setting up his business and was looking for poachers to hire them as guides. After all, the poachers know more about the game than anyone, eh?

He eventually became Yuri’s head guide and guided many of the recent/ famous sheep hunters such as the late Soudy Golabchi and others to world- record trophies. And that is how the long-time relationship between him, and Yuri started and lasted until 2009, when he finally retired from guiding. To this day, they remain good friends.

Upon retirement, he returned to his native Kyrgyzstan and lives in Sarymogol village surrounded by the Alai mountains. After Toktomat had experienced and realized the value that trophy hunting brings to the table for the betterment of the local’s lives, he became a big advocate of conservation and despised poachers.

How many successful hunters he had guided in his guiding career, only God knows. He had eyes of an eagle and legs of steel. His nickname was “Kuchuk” which translates to a dog, referring to his unparalleled speed to get to game. Through his granddaughter Batma, I asked him what his toughest and most memorable hunt was, and his response was: “Of course, with Soudy and Nouri in November of 1996 where we spent 30 days in the mountains watching Soudy pass

up numerous heads of monster poli rams in search of a giant ram that Yuri and I had spotted earlier in the season. We finally found that ram and Soudy killed what was then the new SCI world record Marco polo ram measuring 66 ½” around the curve.”

He almost always had success on the hunts which he was guiding. Perhaps because of his wife Abakirova Pazilet whom he adored and considered as a taliswoman. She was a kind soul and told a story about how poor they were when they got married, yet would still share their only piece of bread between themselves and their two dogs equally.

After her death in 2007, it was as though Toktomat’s luck had disappeared and he retired from guiding. He and his wife only had one son, whom, after growing up and starting a family, was able to give Toktomat what he longed for all his life—and what he missed in his own childhood—four grandsons and five granddaughters to decorate the old man’s life. His son was able to provide education for all nine of his children by working hard and with financial help from what Toktomat had saved all his life as a guide.

On a poli hunt in the Pamirs in 2004, the Canadian sculpture artist Rick Taylor was so impressed by Toktomat, that upon returning to Canada, made a sculpture of him holding a set of colossal poli horns. He named it “Weathered” as both the guide and the ram skull shared the same character.

Here’s hoping that in our next hunt in faraway places, we all take note of the tough men who guide us. Tip them well and get to know more about their personal lives and immortalize their legacy! WS

Toktomat with Soudy Golabchi and a 64” plus Poli

ON HOPE & PROMISES

BY PAUL TAYLOR

soft thump against my bedroom door followed by a scratch and then a low A whine by first one, then by my other Wirehaired Griffon, made the alarm about to go off at 4:15 am unnecessary. Flipping the switch on the clock, I mentally sorted out whether it was a “pack” day or a “gym” day. The tails excitedly beating against the walls reminded me that, to them, it’s always a “pack” day. And so starts another round of stretching and body weight exercises. I know that the stairs and hills on our four-and-a-half-mile walk carrying a pack loaded with 60 pounds won’t fully prepare me for the rigors of my Alberta backpack bighorn hunt—.a hunt that I have been dreaming about for over three years—and due to COVID, is a year delayed. While I stay in relatively good shape year-round, I had stepped

The ride in to our base camp was spectacular...scenery so beautiful that unless you’ve seen it cannot be truly appreciated.

up my exercise regimen for a hunt that might not even happen. The daily refreshing of my internet search for Canada border status had joined the ritual of post-walk protein shake and coffee. The anxiety of trying to get in some semblance of “sheep shape” was compounded by the gnawing fear that my hunt might be doomed by something completely out of my control. But what else could I do other than be as ready as possible and hope for the best?

My outfitter, André van Hilten of Willow Creek Outfitters, did his best to keep me informed of what he was hearing regarding the border status. The hopes expressed on hunting and fishing social media posts were tempered by U.S. and Canadian news stories, which led to even more confusion and uncertainty. However one thing was certain, the adverse economic impact on Canadian outfitters was very real and if the border remained closed for another season, it would most likely result in many of them not being able to stay in business. I realized that it would simply be too much to ask Andre to hold my spot for another year… so I could only try to be as ready as possible and hope for the best.

Through the spring and into the summer I alternated workouts between gym days, combining rigorous cardio and weight training with days carrying my pack while being towed by two Griffs. I felt pretty good about my conditioning for a sixty-four-year-old.

Then the call I had been hoping for came from André in mid-July… the border would open on August 9 for non-essential travel to Canada by Americans! At last I finally found myself going through Canadian customs in Calgary without a hitch.

André and his brother Hans arrived right on schedule and while driving to the trailhead filled us in with a few more details of our hunt in a wilderness area. We would all horseback in together, and then once in the mountains, Hans would serve as one of our guides and another guide we would meet at the trailhead would take the other hunter. It was great to see Quinn Chattaway whom I had met with André at the Sheep Show® in 2020.

As soon as the group saw me around the stock I really didn’t have to inform them that, while I am from Texas and I love barbeque and country music, I know absolutely nothing about riding horses. My inexperience was obvious, yet the guys guided me through the process

and made me feel like I belonged. An older Palomino gelding named “Cash” would soon become my new best friend. He has been with André for many years, and like all of his stock, was well equipped, in excellent shape and very steady. The coordination of efforts while tacking up and packing the horses is akin to a NASCAR pit crew. There was no wasted effort, and other than good-natured kidding, very few words were exchanged. Everyone seamlessly moved between blankets, saddles, bridles, panniers, etc. It’s was very apparent that André, Hans and Quinn were very experienced, enjoyed working together and were focused on getting us into sheep country as efficiently as possible.

The ride in to our base camp was spectacular...scenery so beautiful that unless you’ve seen it cannot be truly appreciated. Unlike driving at highway speeds, being on horseback as part of a pack train, you experience snow covered peaks, jagged draws, and pristine lakes like never before. The serpentine trails going up and down through multi-colored forests takes you back to another time...a time without the pressures of modern society, work stress and global pandemics.

Just over eight hours in the saddle seemed like minutes and we arrived at André’s remote base camp. Greeted by packers/wranglers, Levi and Ty, each of whom despite their youth, were capable horsemen and integral to the operation.

After a night in the comfort of a wall tent, we each selected enough oatmeal, protein bars, freeze dried meals and snacks for ten days. We then loaded up for another full day ride deep into the backcountry.

Spirits were high as we made camp in a gorgeous valley near a creek surrounded by mountains and drainages known to hold sheep. As the sun set, I was reminded of how fortunate I was and I vowed to never take the privilege of being in country like that for granted, ever again.

The following morning, guides Hans and Quinn assisted by Ty, Chris and myself backpacked up a drainage above camp with provisions for ten days. The hike would take pretty much all day with the initial ascent serving as a stark reminder that my training regimen wasn’t nearly enough. Especially when the additional twenty pounds of food, full water bottle, and rifle was added

to the weight that I had been using for training. Fortunately, Hans and Quinn made sure that we understood that this wasn’t a race and that we had plenty of time. Nevertheless, I constantly sought confirmation that we were progressing at the rate that they desired, and felt relieved that I not only was keeping up, but able to stay a bit ahead of the pace that they were hoping for. The enjoyment of the hike with the splendor of the views gave way to a sense of accomplishment as we made camp at the end of the day.

We decided to spend the first real hunting day as a group of five going up together over a saddle between two peaks. As we started the hike, the steepness of the route ahead was intimidating. Following switchbacks along well-established sheep trails helped take some of the burn out of the thighs. But as we stopped and looked back down at where we began the day, our tents increasingly appeared to be nothing but small dots before disappearing completely.

At first, through binoculars, the sheep were barely discernable shapes, but as the guides quickly found them in their spotters, rams came into view! Three along a two-mile-distant ridgeline appeared to be young, with only one close to being legal. However, all three were clearly interested in something in the opposite direction from us and were displaying the look animals often do when watching another animal. To get a closer look it would take a full day to close the gap, and since we were already quite a distance into our hike, we decided to continue to stick with our original plan. We continued the climb, paused for a snack on the very saddle that had seemed so difficult to reach earlier that morning and surveyed a breathtaking landscape. We enthusiastically glassed for quite a while. The wind picked up dramatically as the shadows lengthened and we opted for a return to our spike camp while we had plenty of light. Even though not in our immediate area, we were buoyed by our earlier sighting of rams and those thoughts helped pacify a windy night.

As the hours of glassing passed, I imagined what it must have been like for the First Nation’s people and early explorers to see this for the first time and wondered if they shared my same sense of awe or was this feeling outweighed by their quest for mere survival.

The next morning over coffee and instant oatmeal, Hans and Quinn decided that we would break camp and split into two separate groups. Hans and Chris would go in the direction that we had seen the three rams the day before, while Quinn, Ty and myself would go back up and over the saddle where we had glassed the previous day, but push a bit farther out and establish a new camp. We would then hunt the many drainages in that area. I was surprised that even with the added weight of additional food, tent, etc., I made it fairly easily back up the steep climb, over the saddle and down to our new camp site. Quinn estimated the trip to take five hours and we made it in just over four. We excitedly got our tents set up, quickly ate a snack and headed up a drainage toward an area where sheep had been seen in previous years.

As the hours of glassing passed, I imagined what it must have been like for the First Nation’s people and early explorers to see this for the first time and wondered if they shared my same sense of awe, or was this feeling outweighed by their quest for mere survival? I was snapped back into the present by Quinn telling Ty and me to remain at this spot while he hiked to the top of a nearby peak to look into the other side. We watched him ascend at an astonishing rate. While it may be easy to think, “Oh to be young again…,” I have to admit that I was never in that good of shape and doubted that even if I were, I wouldn’t be able to move over the skree with the ease that he did. He returned with a smile saying that he found what looked to be a legal ram. Unfortunately, it was quite a ways off and there was no way for us to get anywhere close in range from our location. And, any other approach would be cut off by shear cliffs and thus impossible to reach. Quinn’s experience and hunting savvy became very evident as he decided the best thing to do was to be patient, stay in the same glassing point, and hope that the ram and perhaps other unseen rams might make their way toward us. We remained at that location right up until he felt we were in the time frame needed to get back to camp in the twilight.

Safely back at camp over a quick meal, we exchanged favorite lines and scenes from movies, talked about other hunts, and laughed at follies from each other’s lives. Though four decades separated us in age, you can always find a common bond in the mountains.

We got up a bit earlier than we had before as we wanted to be back up on the peak at our glassing point as the sun came over the mountains. We found our spot, glassed for a while and then decided to edge a bit further up the ridgeline. Quinn crawled up to a group of pickup-sized boulders and peered over the top.

He quickly slid back down and his wide smile told us what we had been hoping to hear. There was a ram in view below us a couple of hundred vertical feet and just over 1,200 yards away. He took his spotting scope and tripod as he crawled back up to his position between some rocks. After a few minutes he waved me up to take a look. The majestic ram was feeding and appeared to be alone. He had the distinct sway back, large belly, massive shoulders and neck and rump of a mature ram. His right side was beyond full curl, while his left side was broomed back a bit. The mass of his horns was obvious even at that distance. I softly asked Quinn what he thought of the ram—was he worth going after? Through a wry smile he whispered, “Paul, that’s a dream ram!”

For over two hours he only moved perhaps 50 yards. Then he nonchalantly eased over to the edge of the bench and stepped down into what appeared to be a small coulee. Just as he did, we looked up to see a beautiful rainbow cresting over a distant mountain. We watched for a few more minutes to make sure that the ram didn’t re-emerge, and once satisfied that he was likely bedded near the cusp of the coulee, Quinn decided our best (and only) tactic, was to go back 400-500 yards, drop down into a series of drainages and carefully work our way toward where we had last seen the ram. Quietly walking in single file, we stealthily closed the distance keeping boulders and rock piles between us and where we believed him to be.

As we were reaching the vicinity of about where I thought he might be, Quinn crouched down and held the palm of his hand in a sign that everyone who has been in the field recognizes as “Stop”. He then turned, smiled, and gave a “thumbs up.” Duck walking the few feet back to me, he said that the ram had come back up out of the coulee and was feeding again roughly 350 yards just ahead of our location. He pointed out a group of boulders 70 to 80 yards in front of us and said if we’d slowly inch our way to them, we should have a great shot from there.

Laying down I slowly opened the action on my Hill Country Custom .300 WSM and quietly slid a live round into the chamber to join the other three in the magazine, making sure that the gun was on safe. With a slight breeze in our face, the few moments it took for us to get positioned behind the boulders without the ram in view seemed like hours. Peeking through an opening, Quinn ranged him at 264 yards. As I leaned against one boulder and rested my stock on another, my first glimpse of the ram through my scope was shocking—my sight was bouncing all over the place. With panic on my face, I looked at Quinn and said that I couldn’t get steady. He calmly smiled and said “Don’t rush…we’ve got plenty of time… take a couple of breaths…you’ve got this…” Just then, my crosshairs became rock solid and as I settled in on his shoulder.

The recoil wasn’t even felt as the ram dropped at the shot. Quinn and I just looked at each other as if neither of us could believe what had just transpired. As he broadly grinned with a look of absolute satisfaction, I became emotional and my feelings poured out. I picked up my brass, carefully saving it in my shirt pocket, and after waiting a few minutes, we walked to the fallen warrior. He was every bit of the ram that we imagined. Heavy mass, a lot of scars, dark cape, one very distinct chunk out of his right horn, and 10 years of age. InReach notifications

With panic on my face, I looked at Quinn and said that I couldn’t get steady.

to my sons Cole and Jake and father Joe were returned with heartfelt congratulatory messages from each, while my wife Brenda simply admonished me with “No more full body mounts!”

After caping, quartering and deboning, we divided up the load and laughed at Ty’s constant one-liners on the trek to our camp arriving early afternoon. We decided that while still full of adrenaline, we would break this camp down and go back to our first spike camp. Evidently the adrenaline effect wore off about 15 minutes into our pack out and we were all relieved as we reached our objective five hours after we started—and just after sundown. Topping off the freeze-dried food with hot cocoa and chocolate bars, we all slept very soundly.

A good night’s rest and the jubilation of a successful hunt propelled us down the mountain and back to the horse camp where we would be joined by the others prior to the two day ride out.

In addition to running an outstanding outfit with excellent

equipment, stock, and staff, André van Hilten’s attentiveness to detail continued as he coordinated the ram inspection as well as assisting with getting my ram to one of Canada’s premier sheep taxidermists. Further, I can’t say enough good things about my guide Quinn Chattaway. His enthusiasm, encouragement and yeoman-like efforts made all the difference and turned my dream into reality. WS

IN THE FOOTSEPS OF IN THE FOOTSEPS OF TEDDY ROOSEVELT TEDDY ROOSEVELT

Sometimes you overthink the booking of hunts. Sometimes, you don’t. Make no mistake, I plan as many controllable details as I can after I commit to a hunt. I enjoy, even revel in, some spur-of-the-moment decisions. Other decisions like the home I bought on a whim in Nova Scotia, I rue. I didn’t put a lot of worry or thought to the North Dakota Governor’s Sheep tag in the spring of 2021. Despite COVID, things were going well and I was weary of staying home. So I bought the license at the Midwest Chapter of the Wild Sheep Foundation’s live auction without a lot of research. I never regretted the decision...not once.

For maximum flexibility I decided to drive to ND. I could bring all possible needed gear, guns, loads, boots, etc. I enlisted the help of a number of friends for the ram hunt and for subsequent upland and waterfowl gunning. With the truck I didn’t have to skimp on gear and the four-wheel drive gave me added security for bad weather driving. I had some last-minute medical issues but was able to work them out. I wasn’t in the sheep-shape of earlier years, but, as I was to learn, the Badlands had a lot of ranch and oil development roads. I didn’t know it at first, but this was an old-man’s sheep hunt.

BY PETER SPEAR

I left NH a week early to allow lots of scouting. Sheep were easy to locate, rams were plentiful and rutting behavior was on the rise. Mega-rams were a little scarce early in the week. But the old fellows started to move around more as the days wore on. The weather was grand and I was having a lot of fun seeing new country.

Two evenings before the Friday opener, we located a big symmetrical ram but it was late, he was distant and the light was poor. He was on the move, and we didn’t get great views of him, but there was no question that he was a contender. We were unable to relocate him the next day, but we had an idea where he was headed—a ranch that often held ewes in abundance this time of the year. He was on par with a big fellow that we’d located early in the week who spent much of his time in a secluded canyon. Fortunately for that first ram, he’d busted off seven inches of horn from his left side. Make no mistake, he was a magnificent ram, but he didn’t quite move the adrenalin meter the way I wanted.

On opening day, we glassed our way into a hidden little valley, slowly and cautiously. We saw three pods of ewes scattered about with a number of nice (but young) rams in attendance. There was even one group with a 10-year old, mature ram, but he didn’t carry his mass well. Sometime in the late morning we spotted a dandy ram coming across a flat, having apparently satisfied himself about the estrousstatus of a small group of ewes at the head of the valley. He was clearly on a mission to visit as many ladies as possible in as short a period of time as possible. He jumped a stock fence along the way.

In no-time he covered over a mile and was with a sizeable group of ewes that held the aforementioned old ram and a handsome, but younger ram. He ran the old ram off and took his time checking and re-checking the receptivity of the ewes. This endeavor took a little time and it was enjoyable to watch him perform the flehmen-display, posture for, kick at and butt heads with the old ram.

We had been sizing him up all the while and I did not yet want to have to decide the fate of this ram. I wanted to milk as much excitement from the hunt as I could. The truth is: We had spent the four previous days sneaking into and away from numerous wonderful rams and their courtiers. This hunt was the scouting, and I had sensed it all along. This tag conferred no exclusivity to me. There were two other resident tag holders who could hunt the same areas I was hunting.

So, like it or not, there was an element of competition. We had, in fact, met one other sheep hunter in a prime area several days previous. I’d honored (that is, avoided) their general areas, but for at least one fellow, there was no reciprocity.

Then this great ram abandoned this band of ewes and started trotting out of my life, heading in the general direction of the old ram. It triggered the chase-response in my predatory genes. Like a bear seeing a potential dinner running away, almost without thought I decided HE WAS THE ONE. I suppose a more disciplined man may have held out, awaited future possibilities. Not me, not today…

It wasn’t as simple as dropping prone and slipping one into the chamber. There was some drama, a muffed stalk, the need to reshuffle the chess pieces a time or two. But in the end, I found myself with a comfortable rest off my daypack looking at the beautiful dark chocolate ram and a lone ewe on a small butte all by themselves. The shot was a little further than I like, but there was no way to close the distance without spooking them. Because of the steep uphill view he looked further away than 300 yards.

A few hunts ago I down-sized to a lightweight Kimber “Montana” rifle in 30:06 caliber. I’d taken less than a handful of animals with it, but I was eminently confident in its ability

I suppose a more disciplined man may have held out, awaited future possibilities. Not me, not today…

to shoot a dime-sized, three-shot group the weekend before heading west. The gun roared and the ram collapsed and rolled down the butte toward us. It was over just like that. We celebrated like kids and then troubled over photo/sun angles for more time than truly necessary.

It’s hard to conjure up the right words to describe a fallen monarch like I had just taken. I hunt with as few gadgets and modern conveniences as possible. I want the animal to be able to get away, I don’t want to snipe it from a thousand yards. I do employ good glass, but mostly it’s purpose is to evaluate the age and size in poor weather/light. In some ways, I wish I’d held out longer; not really to get a bigger or more noble animal, but selfishly...to simply enjoy the hunt a bit longer.

I would like to thank the North Dakota Game and Fish Department for conservatively managing their sheep herd and for the Midwest Chapter of the Wild Sheep Foundation for hosting the auction sale of the governor’s tag, and my friends for helping.

POSTSCRIPT

Theodore Roosevelt, 26th President of the United States of America is a personal hero of mine. He was a great patriot, public servant, man and conservationist. He owned two ranches in the Badlands and spent much time ranching and hunting the area. His only bighorn Ram came for the Little Missouri —right where I hunted. It gives me unending pleasure to know that my hunting footsteps crossed those of such a great man where he was happiest. Read a copy of Ranch Life and the Hunting Trail. The writing style is stiff and a little stilted by today’s standard. Today’s standard will morph in the future; no matter. Teddy tells it with truth and honesty—you can’t beat that in a writer. See you on the mountain, boys… WS

DESERT DOZEN

BY SCOTT BESTFUL

While all sheep occupy rarefied air—not only in habitat, but given the number of Boone and Crockett record book entries—the desert bighorn is in a class by itself. Their limited range means huntable populations are smaller, which makes procuring a tag often as difficult as the hunt itself. Then there’s the high, rugged terrain, combined with arid and hot weather…conditions that can test even the most devout sheep fanatic.

These factors combine to make tagging a desert ram that places high in the record books among big game hunting’s most difficult feats. If you need proof, consider that the World’s Record in the category dates back more than 80 years, and the #3 ram is over a century old. Of course, sheep hunters are rarely intimidated by lofty marks and daunting challenges, and there’s no doubt an eager hunter intent on rewriting the record book is patiently waiting for a tag, and perhaps scouting for the next magnificent ram as we speak. Here’s a look at some of the top desert bighorns in the B&C books.

#1: World Record

(Native American, picked up) Location: Baja California, 1940 Score: 205-1/8”

The Boone and Crockett (B&C) Club does more than keep records, it’s also a warehouse of entertaining and informative hunting stories. In 1992, ardent hunter Carl M. Scrivens of Jackson, Wyoming, submitted a story detailing his finding of the World’s Record desert bighorn on a trip to Mexico’s Baja Peninsula in 1941. “We finally arrived at our destination, a remote rancho on the southern end of the Sierra San Pedro Martir Mountains. While the vaqueros were rounding up the mules, we took a stroll around the rancho. We looked inside an old, dilapidated wagon, and there was a skull and horns of a desert ram. What a head it was! My brothers and family were fairly knowledgeable about the size of desert rams, but this beat anything we had ever seen—and I was determined to have it before we left. (Unfortunately) the history of the taking of this head is meager. According to the vaqueros at the rancho, the ram had been killed the previous year by a Native American meat hunter who left the head lying. A vaquero brought the head to the rancho. When I acquired the head there was still a scrap of hide adhered to the skull, and it was black.” Scrivens explained. “Frequently, rams with black, or nearly black pelts are found in that area. We hunted this same area at later times and took other rams, but none as large as the one I bartered for.”

The Boone and Crockett Club’s Samuel Webb measured the head in 1946 and it scored 205-1/8 points. In 1992 this magnificent ram was bequeathed to the Arizona Desert Bighorn Sheep Society, of which Scrivens has been a lifelong member. After the Arizona Department of Fish and Game located a cape for this head, the restored mount was hung in the Boone and Crockett Club’s National Collection of Heads and Horns at the Buffalo Bill Historical Center in Cody, Wyoming, on June 27, 1992. The ram remained with the collection until 2015 when the mount was returned to the Arizona Desert Bighorn Sheep Society.”

#2 : Greg Koons Ram

(picked up) Location: Pima County, AZ, 1982 Score: 201-1/8”

Koons, co-owner of High Desert Outfitters (http:// highdesertoutfitters.blogspot. com/2011/04/koons-ram.html), had just taken a fox and a coyote while predator hunting in 1982 when he spotted a dead ram. This picked up head not only remains the largest desert ram from the U.S., but retains the runner-up spot in the B&C record books. For a great picture of the Koons ram live, taken two years before the ram was found, visit the High Desert website.

#5: Jim Hens Ram

Location: Socorro, New Mexico, 2013 Score: 195-3/8”

#3: H.M. Beck Ram

Location: Southern California or northern Mexico, 1892 Score: 197-4/8”

Easily the oldest ram in the desert book, this incredible trophy would have reigned as the World’s Record for decades had it been scored shortly after its harvest. Sporting horns of 44” and 43-4/8”, the symmetrical ram features only 1” of deductions.

Like Dubs, Jim Hens is a name peppered throughout the hunting record books. Hens’ 2013 giant is not only the largest ram killed in the 21st century, but the New Mexico state record for the species. In addition to this incredible ram, Hens owns the Pope & Young (P&Y) World’s Record for the largest bow-killed Stone’s Sheep (179-4/8”), the fourthlargest P&Y bighorn (198-1/8”) and the desert ram he shot in New Mexico in 2007 (178-6/8”) ranks ninth in the P&Y books.

#4: Arthur Dubs Ram

Location: Arizona, 1988 Score: 197-7/8”

Some of the rams on this list are shrouded in a bit of mystery, but the Dubs ram was killed by a man who was not only a noted hunter but filmed his hunts in a fashion few had at the time. Dubs, a successful Oregon contractor, hunted globally and recorded many of his hunts and made them into feature length films like “Windwalker,” “Across the Great Divide,” and “Dream Chasers.” Dubs was hunting the Aravaipa Canyon Wilderness Area in the winter of 1988 when he tagged one of the largest hunter-killed desert sheep ever, a 197-1/8” giant nicknamed “Old Chiphorn” by the outfitter. In addition to once holding the record for the largest FNAWS, Dubs had also held the World’s Record for polar bear, with a giant animal he killed in 1960.

#6: Xavier Lopez delBosque Ram

Location: Baja California, 1979 Score: 192-5/8”

DelBosque was hunting only a few miles from the area where Bruno Scherrer (see #10, below, right) tagged his ram. Originally scored by a Mexican official at 196”, the ram would not appear in the B&C books until eight years later and over three inches smaller. Whether the original scorer had a more liberal tape, or the ram serves as a reminder to get an official score as soon as the required drying time elapses, will never be known.

#7: Lit Ng Ram

Location: Baja California 1968 Score: 191-6/8”

Lit Ng was more than an accomplished hunter, he was the embodiment of the American Dream. Born in China in 1932, Ng would eventually emigrate to the U.S. and, after a young life marked by hard work in several trades, would open a small chain of stores that offered groceries and dry goods at a discount. Preceding superstores like Target and WalMart, Ng’s four “Monte Mart” stores would prove hugely successful and allow him to pursue his passion for big game hunting. Ng’s 1968 Desert ram holds on to second in state/province records.

#9: Claude Bourguignon Ram

Location: Baja California,1982 Score: 191-2/8”

While we don’t have a photo of the 8th place desert–a 191-3/8” head picked up in Mexico in 1952 that remains a state/province–record, Bourguignon’s fantastic ram trails it by only 1/8”. Another successful entrepreneur, Bourguignon was, according to his 2012 obituary, “a pioneer in producing European-style cheese in the U.S., (and) many multi-national dairy companies took Claude’s lead and began investing in the U.S. and producing hundreds of unique cheeses with European influence, such as Brie, Camembert, goat cheese, Italian style cheese, etc., that American consumers enjoy today.” Bourguignon traveled the world hunting trophy wild game on almost every continent. At one point, he built a museum in Hazelhurst, WS, called “Journey into the Wild” to house the many trophies he collected over many years to share his experiences with the public.

#10: Bruno Scherrer Ram

Location: Baja California, 1981 Score: 191-1/8”

Scherrer was hunting with noted sheep guide Jesus Aguiar Martinez when he tagged this gorgeous ram. With no side-to-side deduct greater than 1/8” (only 3/8” deductions total) this ram sports almost perfect symmetry.

#11: Chase Willis Ram

Location: Socorro Co, NM, 2012 Score: 191”

If he’s not the youngest hunter to kill a world-class desert ram, he’s certainly in the running. Chase Willis used Cabela’s T.A.G.S system to draw a coveted New Mexico tag, then employed the services of Frontier Outfitting to put a tag on an incredible ram. The Willis desert would claim the New Mexico state record spot…which he surrendered only a year later to the Jim Hens ram (see #5).

#12: Jason Hairston Ram

Location: Orocopia Mountains, California, 2017 Score: 190-4/8”

In addition to being one of the most awesome deserts in recent history, the tale of the Hairston ram is also tinged with sadness. Hairston, founder of Kuiu clothing and gear, bought a coveted California Governor’s Tag at the WSF auction in 2017, then set out to hunt “Goliath” a monster desert ram well known to sheep hunters. But Goliath had a maddening habit of disappearing as soon as hunting seasons opened, a trait that had kept the whopper ram alive well into old age. Thanks to his knowledge of sheep and a tenacious drive, Hairston was able to locate and catch up with Goliath in a section of mountains other hunters had never penetrated, then make the shot on a 12-year-old ram with 17” bases. Sadly, the 47-year old Hairston, would be dead only a year later. A former collegiate football star who spent two years in the NFL, Hairston had endured multiple concussions and suffered from CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy). He took his own life. WS

䴀椀欀攀 䌀愀爀瀀椀渀椀琀漀 匀爀⸀ 倀愀欀椀猀琀愀渀 ㈀ ㈀

䬀愀猀栀洀椀爀 䬀愀猀栀洀椀爀 䴀愀爀欀栀漀爀 䴀愀爀欀栀漀爀

Just a few more steps to the top. It’s okay to take your time; you just have to get there!

SO YOU WANT TO BE A SHEEP HUNTER? BY CRAIG BODDINGTON ARE YOU SURE?

How sure are you? Do you know how much it’s going to hurt? As radio character Roy D. Mercer might have said, “Just how tough a boy are you? That mountain’s gonna pour a can of whup-ass all over you!” Your back and shoulders will ache from the heavy pack. Your thighs and calves will scream from the uphill. Maybe, if you trained enough in boots just right for your feet, you’ll avoid sharp agony from blisters with each step. Even with the best boots, sooner or later, after an all-night soaking rain on the mountain, you’ll probably suffer that pleasantry. On the downhill, your toes will be on fire, and your knees will get creaky.

At the end of a long day, even your hair is going to hurt. Especially if you know you must go back up there in

the morning. Let’s face it: Your wallet will also hurt. This applies (though not equally) to folks fortunate to live in sheep country! The mountains still must be reached, and even resident sheep hunters need the right gear to have a fighting chance…and be safe.

You know you’re a sheep hunter Reality being the awful thing that it is, the real pain comes when you realize your sheep hunting days might be over.

when it’s your soul that hurts the most, during those inevitable dry spells when you long to be back in the high country. “Nobody gets to be a cowboy forever.” (Jack Schaefer, Monte Walsh). Nobody gets to be a sheep hunter forever, and nobody gets to hunt sheep all the time.

Success on the mountain is hard-earned and oh, so sweet! The desert bighorn below was Boddington’s first “FNAWS,” 30 years after his first ram.

PASSAGES

I wasn’t yet 21 when I took my first ram. The mountains weren’t so steep back then. Years passed before I took another. The desire was there; the wherewithal was not. It took time, but opportunity and experience came along. Although I studiously avoided the sobriquet, I had become a sheep hunter, expending generously of my hopes and dreams in figuring out how to get on the next mountain.

Funny thing happened 40 years after that first ram. I was on a wimpy little mountain in Uganda, hunting… but not for sheep. In fact, I’d just shot a wonderful old buffalo, was doing a high-five with the Ugandan game scout, when the world spun and I hit the ground. Missed all the signs, so did the hospital in Kampala. “Event” is the preferred term, but let’s just call it a heart attack. Apparently not fatal, but would have been better if I’d recognized (and accepted) the symptoms and done some things differently. Made it home just under the wire, don’t recall much about the time in Intensive Care.

Do recall being mostly angry at myself, furious at my ticker for letting me down. Even at 60, getting up a sheep mountain had never been a problem. I am (absolutely) no athlete, but from my 20s into my 50s the Marine Corps suggested that I stay in reasonable shape…and required periodic testing just to make sure. So, being “sheep-shape” was never a concern. The “event” was several years after I retired, but old habits die hard. I was still running,

Aw, hell, maybe they took the oldest hunter up the easiest valley. Maybe I just got lucky…maybe a little bit of both.

and I’d done Nepal the year before, a high and tough mountain hunt.

How could this have happened? No family history, no indicators. As I lay in the hospital, eventually assured I’d be leaving upright, I was angry. If you’re not a sheep hunter (yet), this will sound silly: One of my greatest concerns was that I might not top another ridge in sheep country!

That created a goal. Despite promotions and decorations, I was a 31-year maverick in the Marines, a tool they weren’t sure where to keep…until it was needed. This time, I followed orders. Sort of. I even attended “cardio rehab.” Until a guy next to me coded-out and went face down on the treadmill, like a belt sander on his nose. Got him off of it and he survived. No more for me. With Donna’s help (as she waited for me to catch up), we used local hiking trails.

Ninety days after the “event” I did a walk-up tahr hunt in New Zealand. No problem, but let me be honest: To this day, I have unavoidable, deepseated fear of pushing myself too hard. I hate this weakness; it’s a wall that cannot be climbed (and perhaps shouldn’t be). Six months after the “event,” I took my Kuban tur in the Caucasus of southern Russia. Not especially high, but the steepest and most abrupt range I have hunted. It hurt—hurting was scary—but I took my time and got ‘er done.

I have noticed that the mountains don’t seem to mind that I take my time! And, if the stalk is planned correctly (and is possible), the sheep or goat will still be there when I finally arrive. So, today I’ve slowed down, but the mountains still beckon. In my sixties, I did two backpack Dall’s sheep hunts in Alaska, two more hunts in Pakistan, returned to the Caucasus for the third tur, had an amazing hunt in Mongolia, took a great Montana goat (on a 30-year draw tag), and shared mountain hunts with Donna and daughter Brittany. In between, I keep

You mean I have to go up there?” Yep, sooner or later you usually have to get to the top!

Himalayan tahr country on New Zealand’s South Island. No matter where you hunt mountain game, the country is more magnificent than any other hunting.

my hand in with free-range aoudads in Far West Texas.

Am I done? I hope not! The bucket list isn’t empty! So far, I have totally skipped the snow sheep in Siberia. Almost had a plan for snow sheep this August, then the Russian tanks rolled into Ukraine. Maybe someday, but not now! It’s not necessary to drink as deeply of the mountain Kool-Aid as I have, but for most, wild sheep become a lifelong passion, sheep fever a chronic illness. I don’t look forward to the time when I can’t do it anymore. Coming soon, no doubt…but not just yet! ARE YOU READY?

I hunted mid-Asian ibex in Tajikistan in February ’22. All my life I have prided myself on being in sheep-shape and ready. The party was supposed to go in December, rescheduled to end of season. One of the original group couldn’t go so, purely as a last-minute draft choice, they reached out to the Old Man. Although I’ve avoided the label, I am a sheep hunter. Three seconds to decide: Count me in! Then, damn reality: I’m almost 70. December was whitetail hunting from a stand (no exercise). Then holidays, then conventions…and a nasty bout with the Dread Virus.

My entire life I’ve stayed ready for the Marine Corps physical fitness test (and any mountain hunt that might come along). I was not ready for this one! I don’t blame Covid, more sloth and advancing age, but it’s shameful. Lord, I knew it was going to hurt… and it did. In central Tajikistan, west of the Pamirs, the country wasn’t especially high, but it was some of the steepest ibex country I have seen, similar to the Caucasus

Aw, hell, maybe they took the oldest hunter up the easiest valley. Maybe I just got lucky…maybe a little bit of both. I know there were bigger ibex up there than the one I got. I know because I saw a bigger one on the first day, just a glimpse between shifting cloud banks. Also, I know this because two of my campmates took bigger ibex.

No matter. As Dirty Harry Callahan, Clint Eastwood told us: “A man’s got to know his limitations.” In every vista I saw tall ridges and vertical faces I knew I could not ascend. So, on the third day, I didn’t hesitate when I got a shot at a fine, heavy-horned, 11-yearold ibex. I knew there were bigger ibex, and I had plenty of time, but I questioned my ability to reach them. I understood reality and took the gift. We finished three good billies for four hunters, one giant; mine the heaviest but shortest by a couple inches. Validating a sensible call, the fourth hunter in our group hunted hard until the last moment, climbed places I know I couldn’t go…and went home empty.

It’s not totally accurate to say I “settled,” knowing there were bigger and better. Probably, I made a sound decision. I hated myself for it. Partly because I recognized I was getting older, slower, and hurting more (in new places). Mostly because I was

Can’t do anything about the weather, and the weather we drew was awful: Rain, snow, sleet, hail—in a backpack tent.

not in proper shape for a hunt like that!

Nobody’s fault but mine. A mountain hunt is not “an exam you can cram for.” Buddy Mike Hagen completed his FNAWS not so long ago. Somebody asked him how long he’d trained for his last, an exceptionally tough backpack hunt. “Months” was his reply. Yep. Or, perhaps better: “All the time, constantly.”

We plan ahead; a guided hunt might be booked years out (on a payment plan). Plenty of time, but you never know when lightning might strike: You draw a tag, or an irresistible cancellation come along. At the end of January ’22 I knew I was in (almost) the worst shape in my life. No problem, going snow sheep hunting in August. Seven months to fix the problem. Then, on three weeks’ notice, I’m going ibex hunting. Being a sheep hunter is a lifelong commitment. I failed.

MOSTLY MENTAL

There is good news: Being a sheep/goat/mountain hunter is not summiting Everest (no sheep or goat lives that high). It is, genuinely, mostly mental. You must want it, not just badly, but badly enough…to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Usually there’s plenty of time. If a ram or billy is moving, you’re pretty well hosed anyway. Better to be patient, wait until he settles down, then plan your move. Through the spotting scope, we bedded my best Marco Polo argali before sunrise, got the shot just at sundown (in that latitude and time, nine hours later). We spotted my Arizona desert sheep on a skyline in late afternoon. Nothing to be done that day. We climbed the next morning and took him almost exactly where we’d seen him the day before…20 hours later.

It doesn’t always work that way, but with mountain game time is often on your side. The hard part is finding the right animal. Once that is done, it’s not a footrace. It’s okay to take your time.

A good friend, in my age group, has done more mountain hunting than

Kaan Karakaya and Boddington, packing out a fine Dagestan tur. We were both a bit younger back then, but we’re still sheep hunters!

Boddington’s hunting partner on a Yukon sheep hunt, suffering the agony of “de feet.” Good, well-broken-in boots are essential, but all mountain hunters get hot spots now and again.

I have. He is, well, built sort of like a fireplug. Which is not to say I’m Charles Atlas. Obviously not, but my friend is shorter and wider. He calls himself a charter member of the SFSHC: Short Fat Sheep Hunters Club. Great rams have been taken by hunters of advanced age and with significant physical limitations, but it’s hard enough for the young and fit. Comes down to: You must want it… bad enough.

Doesn’t mean it’s for everyone. Definitely not. Young colleague of mine went on one sheep hunt in Alaska, busted his tail without getting a shot. His unashamed summation: “Never again.” He is not a sheep hunter. Absent extensive therapy, probably will not become one. We must wonder: If he’d gotten a ram, would he feel the same? Or would “sheep fever” have taken hold?

Can’t answer, can only ponder. I’d like to think his answer would be the same: Win, lose, or draw, sheep hunting isn’t for him. It’s essential to understand: Regardless of calories and currency expended, sheep hunting is not a sure thing. Much less. In North America, often fighting weather and “legal ram” restrictions, 50-50 odds may be pretty good. You must be out there for the mountains, the experience of hunting in those mountains, and you roll the dice. I got a ram on my first outing, now 50 years ago, and I was hooked. Impossible to judge how I’d feel if I failed the first time!

Wife Donna didn’t hunt at all until she was 40-something. Took to it nicely, but I was shocked when, years later, she announced she’d like to try sheep hunting. Okay, she had some goats, but her first real sheep hunt was a backpack hunt in Alaska’s Brooks Range. Can’t do anything about the weather, and the weather we drew was awful: Rain, snow, sleet, hail—in a backpack tent. Never saw the tops, never had a chance. I didn’t blame her when she said, “Never again.” It took a couple of years, but the call was too strong. She got back on the horse and rode it again, another backpack hunt, a week of tough hunting to her first North American ram. Now three-quarters to her FNAWS, last ram booked, she is a sheep hunter.

YOU HAVEN’T REALLY HUNTED…

…until you’ve done a serious mountain hunt. I must be careful with this. I am not an elitist. All hunting is wonderful. I get a huge thrill potting tree squirrels in my Kansas woods, and I love my whitetail hunting. Consistently successful whitetail hunters are the most efficient predators on Planet Earth. No sheep or goat is as wary as a mature whitetail.

However, mountain hunting is different. There are no stands, no feeders, no row crops or food plots. In fact, mountain hunting is different from everything else. You don’t track, you don’t call, you don’t ambush. Hunting is done by patient glassing, and before you get the shot you must conquer the mountain. In various places, some glassing may be done from vehicles…but you still must conquer the mountain. Riding stock is often used to cover ground. Sooner or later, you must tie up the horses…and you still must conquer the mountain. On foot, one step at a time.

Wild sheep are typically found in low density in wild, rugged country. You aren’t just looking for the animal; you are looking for the correct animal. Sightings of ewes and lambs are exciting and encouraging…but mean little. Sightings of young rams keep your enthusiasm up…but also mean little. The mature rams you seek may be (and often are) on a different mountain. To some extent, all hunting is process of elimination but, with sheep hunting, on a grand scale. The only way to know if this is the drainage, ridge, or mountain, is to go look.

Here’s the challenge: You must find a legal and acceptable ram, and then you must get to him. I have friends who have game rooms crowded with marvelous animals from far corners of the world…but not a single wild sheep. Doesn’t render them less, as humans or hunters. Tastes vary. Some of us are more “into” antlered game, bears, African antelopes, the big bovines. No one can question the beauty and majesty of a wild sheep, but I accept that some hunters are more fascinated by other animals. I do wonder about shortfalls in their

Field lunch in spike camp in Azerbaijan, pretty fancy as mountain meals go. That’s Steve Hornady in the center. The smile tells it all: He is a sheep hunter. imaginations. Surely they must be curious about what it feels like, after days of painful effort, to crawl over the top and set up for a shot at one of these amazing animals. Surely, somewhere deep inside, they must question if they can hack it. Even if only once, just to be certain they have it in them.

The truth is, absent great age or serious infirmities, most hunters have what it takes. The secret is simple: You have to want it bad enough. Peter O’Toole, as Lawrence of Arabia, said: “The trick is not minding that it hurts.” Oh, yes, it’s going to hurt. If you mind that it hurts, you probably aren’t a sheep hunter. That’s sad. You’ll never know the view you missed if you’d gotten to the top. You’ll never feel the fresh breeze that instantly cools your sweat. You’ll never experience the adrenaline rush when you see distant rams in the spotting scope, bringing new energy you didn’t realize you had. Somehow, if you’re a sheep hunter, you will find a way to get to them. WS

Sheep camp on a backpack Dall’s hunt in NWT’s McKenzie Mountains. If you must have a comfortable lodge, sheep hunting probably isn’t for you.

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