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Boone and Crockett 31st Annual Big Game Awards
BOONE AND CROCKETT 31ST BIG GAME AWARDS
As a celebration of our collective successes in the recovery, conservation, and management of our cherished big game species, the Boone and Crockett Club hosts its awards program every three years before publishing its next records book. This past August was the Club’s 31st Big Game Awards held at the Bass Pro Shops and Wonders of Wildlife Museum and Aquarium in Springfield, MO, and WSF was there in more ways than one.
For the fifth straight Big Game Awards, WSF was the Awards Banquet sponsor. WSF President & CEO Gray N. Thornton was on hand to take the podium and congratulated all the award winners in all 26 categories of native North American big game. He also gave a special shout-out to the wild sheep award winners in attendance— two of which were also WSF members, and one, was the successful buyer of an Alaska Dall’s sheep tag he purchased at the Sheep Show® that resulted in a tremendous ram.
In total, of the top five rams in each category that were invited to these Awards, eight rams were sent by their owners to be included in the remarkable display of trophies.
Is Putting and Keeping Wild Sheep on the Mountain® working? B&C’s latest record book is proof positive.
#1 DESERT SHEEP 183-7/8 B&C. M. Craig Shelley, Cochise Co., Arizona – 2018
#2 BIGHORN SHEEP 206-3/8 B&C. Picked Up, Wild Horse Island, Flathead Co., Montana – 2021 Owner: B&C National Collection
#3 BIGHORN SHEEP 195-7/8 B&C. Michael J. Carpinito, Fergus Co., Montana – 2019
#4 DESERT SHEEP 185-4/8 B&C. Mike A. Carpinito, Socorro Co., New Mexico – 2020
#5 DESERT SHEEP 185-3/8 B&C. Douglas A. Sayer, Tiburon Island, Mexico – 2019 1.
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Past WSF Board Chair Doug and Shelly Sayer with B&C’s past VP of Big Game Records, Eldon “Buck” Buckner (L) and Director of Big Game Records, Mike Opitz, Bighorn sheep 200-1/8 B&C – Nez Perce Co., Idaho – 2019
WSF Board member Tony Caliguri with current VP of Big Game Records, Richard Hale (L) and Chairman of the B&C Records Committee, Justin Spring. Stone’s sheep 175-3/8 B&C – Richards Creek, British Columbia – 2018
I THINK I MIGHT BE A SHEEP HUNTER
BY INDIANA FIRST LADY JANET HOLCOMB
n July 30th, I switched my phone to airplane mode as the floats on the O Cessna 206 rose from the water, Whitehorse slowly disappearing as we climbed westward. In less than an hour, but a world away, the float plane came to a stop on the gravel shoreline of a backcountry lake. Handing off gear as I stepped ashore, I was welcomed to sheep camp by guide Clayton, and horse wrangler Markus. Positioned on this picturesque mountain lake, the humble camp would be our base of operations for the coming 10 days. I immediately got busy getting settled, with the remainder of the day spent
glassing, fishing, and discussing what to expect in the days to come.
I am outwardly composed most any time, and in most any situation. I think I come by this naturally, but it has certainly been reinforced over the past six years. I am not the typical sheep hunter. In fact, this was my first sheep hunt, so I was hanging on every word, and trying to envision what was ahead. The discussion and details helped calm any inner nervousness that my face did not reflect.
Challenges and adversity test our character and provide us an opportunity to grow. It is the difficult times in life that really define us,
make us who we are, and give us strength and fortitude.
My Dall’s sheep story began in 2008, when a difficult experience changed the trajectory of my life. While home asleep, a burglar broke into my house; although only my purse was stolen, I was haunted by the chilling reality that a criminal had been in my house, and my eyes were immediately opened to my lack of preparedness. While frightening at the time, I eventually grew to see this valuable lesson as a gift. My loss of security in my own home provided the motivation I needed to overcome an uneasiness around firearms.
Spurred into action, I was determined to learn. Training and range time opened a new world for me, sparked a love of shooting sports, and would eventually lead me to this mountain in the Yukon.
A two-day defensive pistol course laid the foundation for this journey. After a couple of years, and to benchmark my proficiency, I took another step by completing a basic pistol instructor certification through the NRA. This provided me the ability to share my knowledge through a defined process so I could encourage other women to begin their own journey. I have gone on to share my passion with hundreds of women across my state.
Life changed in another respect. After the Vice-Presidential nomination upended the 2016 ballot in Indiana, my husband ran for and was elected Governor. Naturally a private person, I struggled to adjust to a new, very public lifestyle. Just as it had throughout my life, solace for me was time spent outdoors. The natural world centers me, and grounds me in ways that I don’t otherwise experience. As Indiana First Lady, I frequently speak to groups of students. When I do, a common refrain is to encourage lifelong learning by always trying new things. Pushing my own comfort zone has led to many adventures and allowed me opportunities to grow. My interest in marksmanship expanded, and I eventually began exploring rifle and shotgun disciplines in addition to pistol. It seemed a natural progression when I then began to explore hunting. My first hunt was a pheasant put-and-take on a crisp fall day. As an animal enthusiast, I instantly
loved watching a pair of German Shorthair Pointers work the autumn field. There was an elegance as they held a point, and the dogs’ expression was of absolute joy as they covered mile upon mile doing what they were bred to do.
In subsequent hunting seasons, the game would eventually become larger; whitetail, then pronghorn, and elk. Western spot and stalk hunting was the answer for someone like me who gets fidgety in a tree stand. The more I hunted, the more I loved hunting. As my hunting experience expanded, I soon came to understand the Hunter’s Creed, the ethics of hunting, and the positive impact of science-based conservation upon preservation of species.
Sometimes you conquer the mountain; sometimes the mountain conquers you. In February 2019, a great day of skiing ended abruptly with a torn ACL that required surgical repair. In the months to follow, recovering from this setback, and surgery, reminded me how far we can push our bodies if we are strong enough to endure a little discomfort. Months of rehab renewed a greater commitment to fitness as I logged miles hiking and biking. Hiking in particular became a go-to as a way to strengthen my knee and enjoy nature. It was through this valley in life that future peaks became possible.
The friendships I have formed with fellow shooting sports and conservation hunting enthusiasts are some of my closest and most cherished. My friends, Leann and Jim Craig, are no exception. They are the epitome of humble, hardworking Hoosiers, who are dedicated to sharing their love of the outdoors and hunting with anyone who is interested and willing to learn. Together, Jim and Leann have led countless women, youth, and men to hunting and shooting sports.
Jim is a sheep hunting legend with 7 3/4 FNAWS, and five decades of experience. (Jim doesn’t count his 8th Rocky Mountain Bighorn sheep — the one that completed his 8th FNAWS — because it was lost when he was attacked by a grizzly bear in 1994.) He has become my mentor, chief strategist, and enabler in this sheep-crazy pursuit.
By the time I attended my first Sheep Show® in January 2022, I was already lined up for my first hunt. When you’re starting anything new, you don’t know what you don’t know, but time spent in Reno talking to other hunters, guides and outfitters, vendors, and the knowledgeable WIld Sheep Foundation staff raised my level of excitement about my hunt exponentially. I counted the months until my departure, pushed myself to be in sheep shape, and was undaunted by the promise that it was going to be challenging and tough. One fellow hunter described sheep hunting as the most fun you can have
while being totally miserable.
Months of eager preparation eventually brought me to a lakeside camp in the Yukon. I was among the first group of hunters with Mervyn Yukon Outfitters for the August 1st opener, and was delighted when my friends asked to accompany me on my trip. Jim and Leann would travel with me to Whitehorse, and Jim (83 years young) would join me in camp.
Clayton proved his competency in every aspect of guiding—even the food was great. This comes as no surprise, since he had grown up in this rugged country with outfitters Jen and Tim Mervyn as parents. His training as a sheep guide began in earnest at age 12 when he first accompanied his father Tim on a client hunt. He had begged to be allowed to go, and was permitted to do so only when he promised to work hard. Work he did — helping in camp, wrangling horses, and filling his backpack with meat when the hunt was successful. The client on that hunt was none other than Jim Craig. Fourteen years later, they were back in sheep camp together, as Clayton led my first hunt.
Mornings and evenings in camp were filled with conversation as Jim recounted decades of stories. It was a glorious celebration of the 50-year anniversary of Jim’s first sheep hunt, and of dozens of other big game pursuits across three continents. My only regret—I should have been recording it.
The final day of July entailed a short horseback ride up the mountain where we were greeted by a juvenile cinnamon-colored grizzly. The bear moved off, but we continued to spot it in the coming days as we traversed this granite terrain. We spent the
early and midday spotting and getting a glimpse of other areas of the mountain, then enjoyed more fishing in the late afternoon when we reeled in a few grayling and lake trout.
The next day was August 1st, and the season was open! Early in the day we spotted a group of rams on a distant outcropping. Two hours on horseback, an hour of hiking, and a 70-yard belly crawl, gave us a good view at a very decent nine-year-old ram that was broomed on the left. I set my rifle up on my backpack. Jim had encouraged me to use the gun of choice for the Jack O’Connor era sheep hunters, and had given me a Husqvarna .270 that dated to 1956. I confirmed the distance at 230 yards while Clayton aged the rams in the group. I was grateful to watch these rams interact on this rocky piece of the world. The herd alternated between grazing listlessly in the sun’s warmth, then bedding down for a period. A couple of the rams rested the weight of their heads on one horn, while the youngest rams did some head pushing over a favored resting spot or clump of grass.
We watched the group for some time, and there were several opportunities to take a shot. Ultimately, I decided it was the first day, and I just hadn’t worked hard enough yet. I hadn’t come to the Yukon for ‘easy’ or ‘decent’, so I decided to pass.
Later in the day we moved to the opposite side of the mountain and spotted a group of larger rams bedded down in a tight circle below us in a large bowl. The rolling terrain was unforgiving, and there was no way to get within 1,000 yards of the group without being spotted. This was a reality check for me, because nearly every ram in this group was a full curl, and a couple were huge. This certainly wasn’t going to be easy.
Rain, sleet, thick fog and extreme
wind riddled the following three days, extending time in camp and limiting time on the mountain. Clayton’s girlfriend, Brianna, had arrived a couple of days earlier when additional supplies had been delivered via float plane. We all appreciated the coziness of camp on these cold, wet mornings, and the additional hours together provided more time for stories from Jim. They were stories of sheep hunts past, a lifetime of adventure, and the cumulative equivalent of many years spent on the mountain. In spite of any weather conditions, Jim traversed the mountain three days during the trip.
The fourth day of hunting found us suddenly huddled in a small ditch for several hours after a group of rams fed over the top of a ridge that ranged in excess of 500 yards. We were hiking toward another group further down the same ridge line and had to dive for cover as this undetected group emerged. The rams continued to slowly feed toward us, and stayed clustered too tightly for a shot. I eventually set my rifle up on the largest ram in the group. When he moved away from the others, he quartered to me at 450 yards. It was particularly windy that afternoon, with crosswind gusts that we estimated at 40 mph. I discerned my ability to make a shot on a gun range was not the equivalent of making a shot on this animal, under this set of conditions. Additionally, I didn’t want to chase a wounded animal across this terrain for the coming hours or days. As we watched from the ditch, a group of ewes eventually moved in and pushed the rams back over the ridge. We arrived back to camp at nearly 10 p.m. that night.
The next morning was day five of my hunt, and in spite of better weather, I was feeling discouraged. There is an obvious risk in passing, and not having taken a shot earlier in the week meant that my hunting time was dwindling. I knew the risk, and I understood the possible outcome. I questioned whether I should have tried the shot the day before. Jim assured me, over coffee, that I had made the right decision, and said, “it will happen…your time will come.”
As we were finishing breakfast and discussing our plan to revisit the back side of the mountain, a group of three
rams appeared on a ridge just above camp, the first time we had seen sheep on this area of the mountain. Clayton grabbed his spotting scope and headed for a vantage point, while wrangler Markus went to saddle the horses.
The first glance determined that the rams were worthy of closer inspection, and forty minutes later we had ridden to a spot where we could get a better look. The rams had moved across the face of the mountain and were at 750 yards. We knew that one of the rams in particular was a standout.
The next 30 minutes went quickly as we moved to conceal the horses and begin our stalk. We had paralleled the mountain and began to work closer to the rams, first clawing our way through a stand of thick willows then up a rocky face to eventually maneuver into a good position. I piled up backpacks while Clayton set up his spotting scope. A moment later, he pulled back from the lens, a smile crossed his face and excitement filled his voice when he told me that the largest ram was every bit of 11 years old—maybe more. I was positioned behind a rock, half standing, half kneeled, and leaning forward to find a comfortable and solid rest. We were at a lower elevation, about 15 degrees below the rams, with a sharp ravine between us. After a quick look, I pulled off my riflescope for a more thorough assessment through the spotting scope. This was the one.
The ram was absolutely stunning with horns that swept outward in a wide spread, and ended with tips that had inexplicably survived a rugged life on this granite mountain. The two other rams in the group were eight years of age and very tightly curled, making the older ram look all the more impressive. His face reflected the telltale signs of battle; scars punctuating his rounded Roman nose.
Back on my rifle, with a round chambered, I asked Clayton if I was cleared to shoot. Always thorough and detail focused, he aged the ram a
final time. I reconfirmed the distance —205 yards—and noted that the ever-present wind was surprisingly manageable.
Without pulling back from his spotting scope, Clayton confirmed I could shoot. Within 10 seconds I pulled the trigger, and my dream of a wild sheep hunt was complete. My ram was down immediately.
Back in the camp, Jim had been watching us through a spotting scope, although the three rams were out of view. He wondered what we were doing and was shocked when wrangler Markus came back to report we had a ram down. In what was one of the best moments of the hunt, Jim came up the mountain to see my Dall’s ram and offer his congratulations. Sharing this experience on the side of a Yukon ravine with my friend, and a true sheep hunting legend was a privilege I will never forget. When he inspected my harvest, he beamed with pride.
I remained in camp the next couple of days to continue to soak in every moment of this spectacular journey. Clayton, Markus, and Brianna worked on the cape, and every meal featured sheep meat. Back strap and tenderloin melted in our mouths, and we savored ribs smoked over a campfire; meals that so very few have the opportunity to enjoy.
My ram was aged at 13. Outwardly, his body condition looked terrific, but he was missing the thick layer of fat that sustain these majestic creatures through brutal winters in harsh terrain. His teeth were worn to the gum line as he had far surpassed his life expectancy. This beautiful animal would not have survived to see another Yukon spring. For me, this was a perfect harvest during a perfect trip.
My husband is not a hunter, and governing the state leaves little time for adventurous pursuits. I don’t think he really understands what he has agreed to, but following my hunt in northwest Canada—and knowing how much I loved the experience— he recently encouraged me to pursue a FNAWS. He has a lot to focus on as we complete our second and final term as Governor and First Lady, so let’s just keep the requirements of achieving this lofty goal between those of us that gather around the campfire. No need to worry him with all the details! WS
BEYOND REACH
BY BRENT GLIDDEN
If there are predictable stages of emotions when faced with life-changing events, such as grief progressing through shock, denial, anger, and so on, I’ve recently learned that similarly predictable emotions come with drawing rare hunting tags. Of course, emotions aren’t exact from person to person, but from what I’ve read and heard, there are almost stereotypical consistencies in our reactions.
For me, the first stage was brief: shock and disbelief. I looked up the tag results online and thought I couldn’t be reading the page correctly. “A Rocky Mountain goat tag? No way.” I didn’t see a deer tag listed which had far better odds, so I reasoned that maybe this was the page of tags I hadn’t won. I passed the phone to my wife, Shari, and asked, “What does it look like my draw results are?” When her eyes went wide, I allowed myself the first real hope that the tag was real.
Stage two lasted much longer: total exhilaration. This is when hunters shout the news from the rooftops, reaching out to all their hunting friends and relatives who will both share the excitement and turn green with envy. Looking back at the hunt almost a year later, I’d say that this excitement still lingers, although there were moments where it dimmed some, beginning with the next stage.
The third stage settled insidiously. Self-doubts crept in. Let’s say that “more seasoned” hunters consider all the aches, pains, creaks, gasket leaks, and extra baggage that they’ve accumulated over many hard miles. In my case, I have a prosthetic leg that allows me to stay active as long as I base my activity upon how well my stump is tolerating it. I had to ask myself, what if I wasn’t up to the physical demands of this hunt? The prime goat territory for this South Wallowa Mountain unit tag is in the roadless Eagle Cap Wilderness of northeastern Oregon. Known as the Alps of Oregon, the elevation and incline of these mountains are literally breathtaking. As the saying goes, “Goat country begins where sheep country ends.” I knew that to be ready for this hunt, it was time to get very serious about conditioning and other preparations before opening day.
And so the fourth and longest stage of the hunt began in earnest: the determination and preparations to succeed. With excitement constantly percolating, the hunt was my first thought in the morning
and the last when I closed my eyes at night. In my head, I was hearing “Eye of the Tiger,” seeing every day’s prep work like an inspiring film montage. We took rigorous hikes, adding weight to our packs week by week. We sorted through boots, packs, trekking poles, rain gear, water filtration, GPS, and other essentials to make sure our kit was up to snuff. This hunt warranted the best gear.
My dad suggested I borrow his Fierce Fury chambered in .300 RUM. Topped with a 5-25 magnification Zeiss and offering a couple hundred feet per second advantage over my best mountain rifle, I gladly accepted the loan. I worked up a load with a 180 grain Nosler Accubond leaping out at 3300 fps, shooting consistent sub-MOA groups out to the 600 yard limit of our local rifle range.
In mid-July, I received an unsolicited but welcome call. Dan Blankenship from Sheep Mountain Outfitters reached out to let me know that while scouting for deer and elk, they’d taken photos of a “potential state-record billy.” I held the only goat tag in the unit where this monster was located, so Dan tracked me down.
I could hear the dismay in his voice when I told him that I already had a team of friends and family who were determined to make this hunt happen on our own. As much as I appreciated his offer, I turned him down. He clearly understood the once-in-alifetime opportunity I was ignoring and advised me, “If the governor’s-tag holder finds out about this goat, he’s going to be in this unit on August 1.” Guiding a hunter to a record-book goat would be a feather in the cap for any outfitter, and I certainly couldn’t begrudge him doing what was best for his business. I kept his number and said I would keep his offer in mind.
With the planning stage behind us, the fifth stage is the pulse-pounding thrill of the hunt itself. The first week in August found our expedition heading north to the Wallowa Mountains. We’d talked with biologists and hunters who provided us with detailed reports of where we should find goats. Several reported goats coming into camp to lick the salts at common urination sites. We were consequently quite hopeful. Heck, we might have trouble keeping goats away from us. However, as can often be the case in hunting, the greatest expectations on the hunter’s part produced no sense of obligation from nature to cooperate.
To be brief, in that first week of the season, we saw no goats. We packed in on foot, and we packed out footsore and blistered. We clambered up some of the most gorgeous and pristine mountain country a person could ever hope to see, and from those peaks we glassed all day for goats, but to no avail. We relocated and explored other ridges and peaks in the unit, but our results were the same. No matter which drainage we trekked up or which mountain we glassed, we never found where the goats were summering.
By the time we were heading home, we also had to admit that none of us were as fit for mountain hunting as we once were. The creaking came from our original joints as much as our orthopedic and prosthetic hardware. Occupying more and more of our conversation were the facts that a nearby outfitter had already located a record-book goat, and that same outfitter had access to a train of pack horses that could get us most of the way there.
I was worried that I had put off scheduling a slot with SMO for
too long because an outfit with a success record like theirs books a full calendar almost as soon as tag drawings are announced. I called, but the phone went to voicemail. I left a message and hoped I hadn’t missed my window.
When Dan called back the next day, he made it clear that he was interested and confident that they could make this goat hunt happen. He was in the field guiding a sheep hunt and would message his partner, Todd Longgood, to check their schedule. Over the next few days, we settled on a five-day hunt during the first week in October. The goats would have their winter coats by then, and the odds were fair that we wouldn’t be fighting heavy snow yet. The three-month long season was a
real blessing.
Six o’clock in the morning on October 2, we rendezvoused just south of the Wallowa range. After handshakes and being introduced to Rob, the owner of the pack horses, Dan excitedly shared a video taken through a spotting scope. “Joe is already on the mountain. He sent this video.” His phone showed three billies leisurely feeding on a steeply sloped patch of dry grass. Joe was the scout who first spotted the goat back in July. Dan continued, “He sent this video yesterday, and he says they’re in the same spot this morning. If we’re lucky, we could have eyes on them by noon.”
The drive took more than an hour to reach the trailhead where Rob expertly weighed, loaded, and balanced all the camp gear into packs for five horses. Soon our train of eight horses was heading up the steadily rising trail.
That day we covered fantastic terrain. The trail sometimes sprawled across rock-strewn meadows, only to be pinched down again though evergreen forests. Our continual elevation gains threaded along mountain trails and switchbacks through chattering shale slides, glinting fields of granite boulders, and shifting pumice sands. During the whole trip, the weather cooperated with clear skies and pleasant fall temperatures.
My wife and I aren’t the most experienced on horseback, so for us, the most exciting parts of the 12 miles to camp were when the horses discovered two different underground bee nests. Both times they alerted with explosions of noise and violence: stamping hooves, snapping lead ropes, and crashing gear. It was invigorating to suddenly be charging forward, horses shoving to get past each other on a path where moments before we’d been discussing how far something would fall before colliding with anything to stop it.
Most of the ride was uneventful and allowed relaxed conversations as hunters and guides got to know each other. In the early afternoon we met up with Joe, and he guided us off the trail and through heavy timber to a spot for base camp. We were stiff and sore from being on the trail most of the day. It was too late to get in a hunt, so we set up camp.
Around camp was a broken ring of mountains, their slopes shaded except for the highest ridges still glowing in the late sunlight. Spotting scopes were set up and aimed at surrounding peaks. Shari soon cooly breathed, “There’s a goat.” All optics shifted to follow her gaze, and heads nodded, “It’s a billy. Not bad either.” Shortly, two more joined him, their thick snowy coats glowing brilliant white. We kept glassing and soon picked out three more goats, a single and a pair. I was thrilled.
In the morning, we rode the horses up through the timber to the base of the mountain. I was thankful for the ride, allowing us to reserve our strength for the climbing we had in front of us. Our plan was to glass and identify the best billy from what we’d seen the day before. That morning, we could only see three, concluding that the others had dropped over the far side of the mountain. We planned our ascent to avoid being spotted.
Once on the ridge, Shari and I set up to glass the group of three billies while Todd, Dan, and Joe hiked off to assess the pair and the loner we’d seen the day before. The longer I glassed, the more I leaned toward picking one of the goats we had eyes on. They looked great to
me. I didn’t have the experience to discern between a good or great goat, but I could see that two were mature billies and in an area where they’d be recoverable after a good shot. It looked possible to drop below the ridgeline and stalk to within a couple hundred yards.
All hunters know the internal conflict between seizing the opportunity in front of you, successfully closing the deal early, versus being disciplined and patient with the hope you’ll be able to create an even better opportunity. I’ve been left empty-handed after missing chances early in a hunt, only to find later those were the only chances I’d get. So I sweated my options. Here was a once-in-a-lifetime tag, and in front of me was a way to get the job done with a good trophy. But we’d come a long way to trust in guides’ expertise, and that kept me from acting rashly.
Good news soon squelched over the radios. The lone billy was the one we wanted, possibly the same one spotted in July. If it wasn’t the same goat, maybe this was the land of the giants. The top goats in Oregon have come from this mountain range, including the biggest goat in the lower 48 states, a 54 6/8” beauty harvested a year earlier by a hunter of a mere 14 years of age.
It didn’t take long to make a straightforward plan. We’d stay under the skyline and move about 500 yards down the ridge. Then we’d crawl up to peek over the crest where we could see him bedded down a couple hundred yards below us. From there, a clear shot with a stone-steady rest should be easy to find.
After about a quarter of a mile, we hunkered low and crept up to the edge. Resting in shade about 250 yards below us was a great, white, hairy beast. I peered at him through the spotting scope. We were close enough that I swear I could see the glint in his eyes. He was magnificent. He was facing away from us with his back pressed against a shelf on the mountain, which made judging the horn length at that angle less than perfect, but his bases were big. Really big. Maybe huge.
However, I admit to being intimidated by the slope he was on. If hunting on our own, my wife and I wouldn’t have dared take a shot. Dan assured me that this was a recoverable location. If they were confident that this was the shot to take, I needed to be also. This decision was why we’d hired professionals.
The angle-adjusted rangefinder put the distance around 225 yards. The billy was angled away, lying on his side with his head up. His spine
he one thing that is certain (outside of death and taxes) is that nothing in life is static. It is ever changing. The Wild Sheep Foundation witnessed the winds of change along with the rest of the world this spring. We have done our fair share of bemoaning while remaining cautiously optimistic. While we know that things will eventually normalize, we have always been aware that the change 2020 brought us has no foreseeable end. Thanks to sound leadership and our staff’s willingness to pivot quickly, we have been able to adjust our sails.
As soon as the world “shut down,” each staffer at the Wild Sheep Foundation was commissioned with the task of rethinking and retooling efforts within our respective departments to ensure that we will continue being a leader in the world of conservation. As one example, we launched a pilot run on a new fundraising platform called Classy. It is a digital platform that allows for crowdfunding, peer-to-peer fundraising, team fundraising, and virtual events. We were excited to II add this new tool to our arsenal and we are even more thrilled in the incredible success we saw from the II II outset. On October 22, we released a campaign to help fund two bighorn reintroduction projects in the Little Belt and Tendoy mountain ranges of Montana. Thanks to our partners PROUD SPONSOR BECAUSE WE ARE PASSIONATE ABOUT BECAUSE WECONSERVATION, ARE PASSIONHUNTING AND ATE ABWINE... OUT
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was tucked against the mountain side, and from my vantage point, I couldn’t see all of his back, but I could see enough of his front shoulder for a good shot. My rifle’s zero would put the impact almost five inches high on level ground at that distance. I placed the crosshairs low, intending to break the top shoulder and anchor him on his shelf. I breathed. I was stone steady. I had the green light.
I torched off the round.
A vertical plume of dust erupted over his head. The muzzle break had subdued the recoil, enabling me to watch the impact. Dust!? The shot had gone high!? My gut clenched. I ran the bolt quickly and recentered the crosshairs. But the goat didn’t move. In fact, he appeared to have laid his head down. Maybe I’d grazed his skull and he was only unconscious. The shot had felt perfectly steady, but there was no denying the dust cloud I’d seen over his head at the bullet’s impact. His hind leg twitched. His chest might have been rising and falling. I sent another shot. He didn’t move again.
The shot is its own essential stage of a hunt, requiring a mental focus wherein hunters must master themselves, calming and settling to overcome the dump of adrenaline, almost meditatively attuning themselves to the requirements of that instant, while in their sights stands the focus of what is nothing less than their lives’ passions. It’s a necessary step of successful pursuit, toward the fulfillment of an instinct rooted deep in the hunter’s identity. However, it’s a culmination of the hunt only in a very narrow sense. The shot is the moment most misunderstood by non-hunters as being the end of the hunt. But earning it isn’t done.
After the successful shot comes what’s often the most grueling stage of a hunt: powering through exhaustion to bring the bacon all the way home. Frequently this stage doesn’t even begin until day’s end, and bone-deep fatigue of an already full day’s work must be ignored to tackle the real work. Whatever weight you were carrying on your back up to that point can now be multiplied by meat, hide, and horn, and then increased exponentially by time, terrain, and weather. Closure between hunter and hunted is far from over because the sweat equity is yet to be paid in full until everyone is home and the meat is in the freezer. I believe this commitment by hunters is not respected by the nonhunting mind because it’s completely unknown to them.
The time was just past noon. After a quick round of handshakes, we found a shale chute to begin our descent. One at a time, to avoid cascading rocks onto the climber below, we slid downhill amidst the almost musical clatter of shale shards that would stop the heart of any finechina shop owner.
Reaching the billy, we found him on a shelf where stepping off to the left, right, or below launched an immediate slide downward. One shot had decimated his top shoulder, and the other had hit further forward on the shoulder, also breaking his neck. If he hadn’t been anchored by the first shot, but had taken one step, he would have been in tatters hundreds of yards down the mountain.
“There certainly isn’t any ground shrinkage on this one!” Todd exclaimed.
“It’s a dirty giant,” Dan added with satisfaction. I saw the truth of his statement when we started caping. Splitting the hide down the backbone poured a six-inch dirt track down the backstraps. The dust plume from my first shot made sense. I hadn’t missed, but I’d smacked a shag rug that had been collecting dirt for nearly eight years.
Joe has experience as a taxidermist, so he took the helm in the skinning and breaking down the animal for transport. He made quite efficient work of it. Todd wound up with the heaviest load, shoving the head and complete hide into his pack frame. The rest of us divided up the meat into packs and bags to haul back to camp. The good news was that we faced mere hundreds of yards of notquite-straight-up mountain to climb before hitting the top and heading downhill the rest of the way to camp. We made very good time, making it back to the ridge top with our loads of goat less than four hours after the shot. Joe walked up the mountain as effortlessly as if walking on a level sidewalk. Shari and I made it up the mountain next, aided by the lightest loads of the group. Dan followed, and with the heaviest load Todd brought up the end of the train with a demonstration of impressive strength and endurance.
The last 75 feet of our climbs were aided by a rope line that Rob dropped to us by anchoring his lasso to an outcropping, but not only did the packer greet us at the ridge top, the very welcome and unexpected sight of two pack horses greeted us as well. Talk about an act of horsemanship bordering on wizardry! Imagine a horse standing atop a 500-foot A-frame ladder, and you have a
fairly accurate idea of what Rob had achieved. We gratefully unburdened ourselves and packed the horses’ panniers for the return to camp. The return went perfectly. We were all safely back in camp before sundown.
We began the final stage of this hunt that night in camp, honoring our shared hunting culture reminiscing over challenges, successes, and failures. Sitting around the campfire with others who share the same hunting ethos recognizes and welcomes them as members of your tribe, originating from the same cave so to speak. The stories and laughter lasted for hours. I’d say more here, but the stories shared during the comradery of hunting camp are sacred to hunting camp.
My wife and I owe our unflagging gratitude to the crew assembled by Sheep Mountain Outfitters who turned this once-in-a-lifetime tag into a once-in-a-lifetime hunt. It was an experience that began with hiring an outfitter and finished as a hunt with friends, fulfilling a dream that’s beyond the reach of most hunters just by the astronomical improbability of ever drawing a tag, which is why so many hunters compare it to winning the lottery. They’re not wrong. The blind luck of drawing a 2021 tag whose equivalent sold at auction for $75,000 is akin to winning the lottery and not paying taxes on the winnings. Only better. Because this hunt is exactly how I would have spent my winnings.
As an afterthought, it might be worth adding that our goat proved to be a giant, scoring an official 54” which ties him for the number two spot in Oregon. It’s good news for everyone that this species is thriving. WS
ONCE-IN-
A-LIFETIME
BY MICHAEL SAWICKI
There are a lot of oncein-a-lifetime things people dream about every day. For me, ever since I was seven years old, I have wanted to go on a Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep hunt. Hunting and fishing have been sports my family has been involved in for many generations, and when I became a father and had the opportunity to pass this tradition down to my son, Gavin, and daughter, Hailey, it created a special bond for us that cannot be explained. I hope my children are able to pass this great family tradition to their own children. With such an outdoor background, I was ecstatic when my son, Gavin, reached the age he could join me on hunting trips. Gavin immediately fell in love with hunting. After tagging along with me a few times to set up trail cameras, tree stands and sitting in a blind for his first time, he was hooked.
The story takes off from there. I was first introduced to World Trophy Adventures/TAGS through Cabela’s about 15 years ago. After speaking with a WTA consultant, they explained and assisted me with the application process and setting up my profile. Honestly, what sold me was the fact that WTA/TAGS will float a lot of the application fee which, since I don’t have a bunch of money tied up, allows me to apply in multiple states. And that’s exactly what Gavin and I ended up doing.
In December, 2021, I spoke with my consultant, Jeremy Ivie, about the upcoming year and we formulated a game plan for applying for the 2022 hunting season. Just before we hung up, he asked if I had any children and I answered, yes, a 12-year-old son and 11-year-old daughter. Jeremy asked if I knew that children under the age of 18 can apply in most states basically for free or at minimal cost. I had no idea but was immediately interested. Jeremy said he would assemble Gavin’s profile, since he was of age, and recommend a list of states he should apply in. This is where I owe everything to Jeremy. He was persistent with emails (some I may have missed). If it wasn’t for a phone call he made to me in late January 2022 telling me Gavin was going to miss deadlines in some states if we didn’t submit his application, I would not be writing this article today. At the end of that call, I asked Jeremy what it is like for him to make the call when someone draws a Rocky Mountain sheep tag—he remarked it’s one of the best days of the year for the whole WTA office. Later that night I explained the process at dinner to my wife and kids. Gavin understood that the odds were low like winning the lottery, but you cannot draw unless your name is in the hat. Gavin was confident that Jeremy was going to call us, I prayed he was right.
April 20, 2022, is a day our family will never forget. We arrived home from a family vacation and after unpacking I noticed my cell phone was still on airplane mode and that I had a voicemail, it was Jeremy. He said he had a couple of questions and asked if I could give him a call. I called Jeremy expecting something along the lines of not completing one the applications correctly, but he said, “You drew! You drew!” And believe me, those are the words every hunter wants to hear. Then, it got better. He said Gavin drew the Wheeler Peak tag. Honestly, it is still a blur to me. I froze in complete shock. It felt like time had stopped. This is a father’s dream come true. Not only did my son draw a bighorn sheep tag but he drew the Wheeler Peak tag, one of the most coveted tags in the country, so I would get to accompany my son on this amazing life experience.
I immediately called Gavin, who was out with friends riding bikes, and asked him to come home. He asked if everything was OK and I said, yes, I just want to talk to you. The next 10 minutes felt like a lifetime; I couldn’t wait to tell him. I met Gavin at our front door and he could see the excitement on my face. You did it! You drew a Rocky Mountain sheep tag! His face immediately lit up and he hugged me and quickly reminded me that he knew we would draw. Gavin screamed, Let’s GO! when he found out he was going to Wheeler Peak, New Mexico.
The next morning the news still hadn’t fully sunk in. Jeremy called to congratulate Gavin and me once again and said he had more news. The hunt would take place on August 6 through 15, 2022, and that he had spoken with Eric Pawlak and Mark Peterson from WTA/TAGS and they agreed they wanted to film the hunt. It was almost too much to comprehend. I quickly accepted, thinking how awesome this is. I get to go on this once-in-a-lifetime hunt and watch my son possibly harvest the most beautiful animal in the world and also have the entire experience professionally filmed. Not only is it a dream hunt come true but to be able to have memories recorded forever is just amazing.
Jeremy also highly recommended an outfitter for the hunt. I asked Jeremy if this was your son’s hunt, what outfitter would you book? With no hesitation, he said G.T., 100 percent. I was sold and immediately
said, let’s do it. Later that day I received another phone call from Eric Pawlak, wanting to congratulate Gavin and me as well. I cannot say enough about WTA/TAGS and how special they made us feel. A few days later, I spoke with G.T. and was immediately impressed throughout our conversation and quickly booked the hunt with WTA. G.T. and I discussed a lot of details regarding the hunt. Most importantly we discussed how this hunt would take place at 12,000 to 13,000 feet in elevation. The elevation was a concern because we live in New Jersey and are basically at sea level. I asked G.T. what we could do to be in the best physical condition for these elevations. He said if this was him, he would come to Red River, New Mexico, a town right next to Wheeler Peak, a few days early to get acclimated. Another question G.T. asked was if we were in good physical condition. I said I’m a career firefighter and Gavin plays multiple sports (baseball, basketball and football). G.T. said good, it sounds like you both are in good shape but be prepared to hike anywhere from six to ten miles a day. I thanked him for all the information and said I’d be in touch soon.
After officially booking the hunt, it was go time. Now details were confirmed, it was time for the training to begin. I quickly put together a weekly walking/hiking exercise routine for Gavin and me. We also scheduled multiple trips to the range to get sighted in and comfortable with shooting long distances. The only thing left was our gear (pack, boots, clothing, etc.)
About a month went by and Jeremy called to explain the details of filming and who to contact. I was introduced to Arron, a WTA/ TAGs video guy. We immediately connected and discussed plans for the hunt. Arron was interested in coming a few days early as well to get acclimated to the elevation. I was surprised at the amount of work WTA/TAGS employees put in for these hunts. They cover all the bases; filming licenses, permits, gear lists and spend endless amounts of hours to make this hunt successful.
On August 3, we arrived in Red River, what a beautiful town. We enjoyed two days of hiking and fly fishing while acclimating to the elevation. On Friday August 5, we met G.T. and his crew at base camp.
We were finally in hunting camp and the anticipation for the next morning was at an all-time high. G.T. and his guides discussed what rams they had seen the past couple weeks. Two of G.T.’s guides, Willy and Dallas, were out scouting and made it back into base camp later that afternoon with great news. They had seen a bunch of rams, with one being a definite contender. To a hunter this is the best news and the anticipation continued to build throughout the night. G.T. gathered us after dinner and laid out the game plan. We would leave camp at 4 a.m. He wanted to be on the mountain by sunrise and this was music to our ears. We were ready to GO!
August 6, 3 a.m.; opening morning. I got maybe an hour of sleep; Gavin maybe a little more. We were both so excited. Base camp was alive. Everyone was up eating breakfast,
drinking coffee, packing snacks, water, getting their packs ready and loaded into the trucks. We departed base camp on schedule at 4 a.m. and arrived just outside Red River at 5 a.m. We loaded into the side-by-sides and began our trip up the mountain.
About an hour later, which felt way longer, we arrived at our stopping point, and stepped out and were met with a breathtaking view of Wheeler Peak Mountain Range. Absolutely stunning. It was an amazing day with not a cloud in the sky. Now it was GO TIME! Packs were on and trekking poles hit the ground and we were off to begin the hike up one of the most beautiful mountains I have ever seen. Almost immediately on our way up, the mountain seemed to come alive with ewes here and there. We stopped several times to glass and discuss the plan once we reached the top.
About two-and-a-half hours later we arrived at our first main spot where we wanted to set up and glass. We weren’t there more than 20 minutes when G.T. and crew located two rams, and one looked like a definite shooter. I remember thinking to myself, you have got to be kidding me. We are here literally 20 minutes, and we already have a good ram spotted. G.T. looked over to Gavin and asked, “Are you ready to go shoot your ram?” Gavin replied, “Yes. Let’s do this!” G.T. and crew quickly formulated a plan and route for us to get within what we were hoping would be a couple hundred yards from the ram.
After hiking a couple miles up and around switchbacks we were in good position to where we thought the ram would move into. After 30 minutes a ram appeared to our right. But it was the five-year-old, not the big one, but the one that was with the big one we were looking for. We watched as he fed uphill. The anticipation continued to build. It had been two hours since we got into position and were patiently waiting. Then G.T. whispered, “There he is!” Right below us, out walked what appeared to be a monster Rocky Mountain bighorn. I mean an absolute giant! He was 275 yards away and feeding in our direction. I was in the back of our group (15 feet away) and G.T. was right next to Gavin. He whispered to him to get ready and get into shooting position. I didn’t know it at the time, but as the ram stepped out Gavin kept asking G.T. if he could shoot. Wait, G.T said, first for the ram to get clear of cover; then the angle wasn’t ideal. This stud of a ram fed toward us for five minutes which felt like an eternity. He finally made his way quartering to us at 230 yards.
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He stopped and turned, giving Gavin a better angle. Gavin asked, for I don’t know how many times, Can I shoot? This time G.T.’s answer was yes.
Gavin squeezed the trigger. The ram jumped up and ran downhill. He went about 15 yards and stopped by a small pine tree and laid down. Everyone thought the shot was good, but where he was laying we didn’t have a great view so we hustled about 150 yards to reposition, only to see the ram standing. We quickly tried to get into position for Gavin to take another shot only to watch the ram fall and tumble down the mountain. Ram down! Ram down! I am not a very emotional person but having watched my 13-year-old son hike up the mountain with his gear, pack, trekking poles and harvest this ram at 230 yards with a single shot from the prone position brought me to tears as I hugged him. I felt like I was on top of the world. We shared a moment on that mountain that is indescribable and will live with me forever.
As we hiked down to this beautiful ram, all I can think of is how truly blessed we are to be able to be here. A true once-in-a-lifetime hunt with a storybook ending. As Gavin lifted the ram’s head we realized there was no ground shrinkage as you might expect, but the complete opposite. He was a stud of a ram. As Gavin said, “He’s huge.” Gavin picked up the head and began counting horns like he’d learned in base camp. G.T. rough scored the ram at 183 7/8, which was amazingly close to the official score of 183 2/8 and final score, after deductions, of 183 5/8. Over the next few hours we took what seemed like millions of photos and videos. Gavin filled out his tag and G.T. and crew field dressed, quartered, and caped the ram and packed all of the meat in packs. As G.T. said, “Now the work really begins.” Fully loaded, we started the three-and-a-half-mile hike back to the side by sides. The whole moment replayed in my head as we walked. It felt like a dream. It began to rain and I feel we got the full experience. In 2013 Gavin was diagnosed with a rare eye disease called Coats Disease. There are less than 1,000 cases in the United States. This eye disease involves abnormal development of blood vessels behind the retina which causes capillaries to break and leak fluid into his left eye. The fluids build up and leak fatty material into the retina. In Gavin’s case he needed multiple surgeries, which were done by laser (cryotherapy). The stage of Coats disease that Gavin has left him legally blind in his left eye. After years of care by some of the top doctors in the country he has gained some improvement of his peripheral vision in his Coats eye. At a young age, Gavin tackled this disease and never said “I can’t” at anything he tried. We have always pushed him to be the best person he can be and never give up. Gavin has always persevered in what he puts his mind to. I knew this hunt was going to be another life challenge that he could and would succeed in. I hope Gavin’s story inspires people to go out and do it! No excuses, no complaining and no “I cant’s”; just give it your all and do it.
I have to laugh, proudly, about Gavin. Back in base camp when we were all introducing ourselves, Gavin said those guys shake hands hard and aggressively. Wow, he said, those guys have man hands. Well, that came back at the end of the hunt as G.T. and the guides were trooping around Gavin, shaking his hand and congratulating him on how he had prepared for and handled this trip, up to and including hiking up the mountain and making a clean
one-shot kill on a magnificent ram. I got more than a little emotional, knowing the kind of kid Gavin is and how he handles challenges he faces. Now here were these professional sheep hunters initiating Gavin into their ranks, a place he had earned and will hold forever. I think Jeremy said it best in summing up the hunt. “Sheep hunters are a different breed,” he said. “They’re hard men who do hard things and a 13-year-old boy earned their respect.” I can’t imagine a higher compliment.
I would like to thank WTA/TAGS and their employees, especially Jeremy Ivie, Arron Bleise, Mark Peterson and LaNae Fehringer for all of their hard work. I would also like to thank our outfitter, G.T. and his crew, Bobby, Willy, Dallas and Quadi, for making this dream hunt a reality. Gavin and I are truly blessed for this opportunity and are so thankful to be able to share this moment with our family forever. WS
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LIGHTNING IN THE AIR
BY KRIS RAUCH
or the first time in five years of chasing bighorn sheep in Alberta, I was overcome with an undeniable feeling in the days leading up to the F opener that this trip was going to be special. I was hoping that feeling meant I would be able to harvest my first bighorn sheep ram. It was a dream that had been in the making since I was a little boy.
I grew up in a small town in British Columbia called Spences Bridge. This was a place where bighorn sheep would frequent our yard, the streets in town, and the school playground. Their horns could be heard crashing on the mountain tops during the fall rut. From a young age I was captivated by bighorn sheep, and being honored enough to harvest such an iconic and majestic animal would be the icing on the cake.
On August 23, 2020, myself, my long time sheep hunting partner, Matt, and two other friends, Sean and Joel, loaded up and left town, bouncing our way down the dusty trail to where we would leave our vehicles and head out on foot for a five-day hunt. We double checked our gear and put on our packs. I was filled with excitement as we made our way to where we would camp for the first night. The weight of a full sheep pack, is the last thing on my mind. We have a ram to find.
We set up camp in the bottom of a valley for the night and discussed the next day’s plan, which was to tackle a ridge where we had hoped to find water and set up our main camp for the trip. Later that night we are met by some other sheep hunters, a term which I use loosely, but they provided us with some entertainment none the less.
The next morning we got up, had coffee, some food and got camp packed up for the grind ahead. I was suddenly having regrets about the amount of camp whiskey consumed the previous night. But I was not letting my less-than-great choices put a damper on things, as the feeling that this trip had something special in store was still strong. We stocked up on water for the long, hot push up the steep face to our second camp location. Matt and I have hunted this area before, and know just how hot it can get in the midday sun.
We started up the face of the mountain slow and steady, the lose shale on the face and lack of any trail was making it hard to advance, my feet seemingly sliding more backwards than forwards.
A short time later we made it to a shady flat spot and dropped our packs, the flat ground felt good after an almost straight and steep push up the face. I was glad for the break. The day was already starting to heat up, and I was starting to wonder if I had it in me to make the second leg up to the next camp spot. Matt asked me if I want to camp here for the night,
or make the final push up to our intended camp spot. Despite already feeling exhausted and fearing the pounding sun we would encounter on the way up, something deep inside told me I had to push myself to the top; a decision I would later not regret.
As we broke out of the shade of the treeline and onto the steep scree covered face again, I immediately felt the heat sucking the energy out of me. I knew this was going to be a demanding grind both mentally and physically. Turning back was no longer an option in my mind. Every step on the loose shale was like walking on dinner plates, a feeling all too familiar to those who call themselves sheep hunters. The fully loaded sheep pack was not making things any easier.
While in pursuit of bighorn sheep over the past five years in the Alberta Rockies, Matt was be able to read me like a book. We had been on some serious adventures in the pursuit of a bighorn, and over those years, we learned a lot about each other’s abilities and when to tell if the other wasn’t running at 100%—something that is invaluable in a mountain hunting partner. Matt could see that I wasn’t looking so great during the push up and offered me water from his hydration bladder, which I graciously accepted.
Two and a half hours later we reached our target camp spot, We did
it! I rested in the shade and hydrated for the rest of the day, while glassing here and there. Matt and another member of our group departed to find some water, but were not sure if there was going to be water in the usual spot, as this summer seemed drier than the past.
Some time later they returned with the water bladders filled, a joyous sight as that meant we would be able to stay at our camp longer and hunt longer. It was the day before opening day.
Later in the afternoon, some clouds rolled in and it lightly started to rain. We glassed here and there, but weren’t turning up much. At about 7 p.m., one of the guys in our group told us that he has glassed up some sheep not far from camp. We all sprang up, and scrambled to grab optics! My motto is that any sheep is a ram until proven otherwise! I quickly located a group of three sheep feeding out of a small patch of trees in a gully. As I scanned I could see two young banana rams, but as I scanned to the third sheep which was facing directly away from me, I immediately saw a massive set of horns on his head! They looked like giant bagels on either side. My adrenaline dumped—I had yet to see a ram this big during any trip—and I knew there was a good chance this ram was legal. I was so jittery it was hard to stay still or stop talking out of sheer excitement. We set up the spotting scope on him. He eventually turned his head and gave us a good profile look. We were quite confident that he was a legal ram, and he was a double-broomer to boot! I immediately realized that this is the ram I had been dreaming of. He had everything I admired in a ram. He was mature, carried mass, and was evenly double-broomed. The ram I had dreamed of my whole life! I could not believe what I was looking at, and that there may actually be a chance of harvesting this ram. I felt it was too good to be true, and in some way I did not feel worthy of harvesting him. I marveled at the sight of him through the spotting scope as he laid on the mountain like a king. I felt like a kid on Christmas eve! Matt put his hand on my shoulder and said, “That’s your ram buddy. We are going to kill that ram tomorrow!” I was excited, but at the same time I felt it was too good to be true and there was no way enough stars would align for me to harvest that ram. We kept tabs on the rams, and put them to bed as the rain picked up and daylight faded. Matt and I discussed how we would make a stalk over to the ram in the morning which required descending a cliffy face and then climbing back up a steep skree slope on the other side. We made a plan to be up before legal light, and Matt and I would
stalk over into shooting distance, while our other two hunting partners would remain at camp and keep a visual on the ram. We developed a primitive signal system using a two colored sleeping pad for the guys at camp to signal if the ram was still there, or if he had moved on once daylight came. As it turned out we managed to have a bit of cell service at camp, and I sent a text to my wife that night telling her we had found a beautiful ram and with some luck we would get him tomorrow. She had more faith in me than I did.
That night I slept surprisingly well, despite it being the eve of a possible lifelong dream come true. At about four a.m., I was woken by the distant flash of lightning, followed by a delayed crash of thunder. Eventually the thunder started to happen closer to the flashes of lightning, until they became almost simultaneous. It was at this point with startling clarity I realized that myself and another member of our party were sleeping in a teepee tent with about a seven foot metal main pole—on top of a bald mountain with no trees—in a lightning storm! It then became even more startlingly clear that some very important body parts were inches away from this impromptu lightning rod in the middle of our tent. I was awake now, and there was no way I was going back to sleep. Oh well, I thought, we had a ram to kill.
We made breakfast, and had some coffee. Matt and I lightened up our packs so that we could move quicker on the steep terrain. I had butterflies in my stomach and was anxious as to whether or not this dream would actually come to fruition. Was today the day my lifelong dream comes true?
At 6:30 a.m., Matt and I departed from camp under low light and a light rain. A quick glass from camp in the faint light didn’t turn up the rams. We ridge-walked a ways then dropped down a steep cliff face into a valley bottom. The morning felt fresh from the overnight rain, it truly felt like a hunter’s morning. The cooler weather had lifted my spirits and the mountain air felt fresh. We climbed back up out of the opposite side of the drainage, dropped our packs and belly crawled to what was the best vantage point we could find. We had no eyes on any of the sheep in the group. I said to Matt that I could wait here all day if I had to. I was determined to see this through. We had come too far.
As it turns out, again we had a small bit of cell service. Matt’s phone received a text from the guys at camp saying they had eyes on the smaller rams out feeding, but they had not seen the big guy yet.
Minutes later a band of morning cloud whisked over the saddle in front of us. It could not have taken more than one or two minutes for the clouds to pass by, when suddenly
we got a text that the big guy and his younger buddies had made a move in the cloud cover and were making the slip away from us! We jumped up, left our packs, and started hustling up the steep shale face as fast as we could. From our point of view, the terrain was steep with small plateaus every so often. I approached each with extreme caution expecting to come face to face with the big guy. The next text message from camp told us to hurry up as the ram was moving farther away from us! I moved as fast as I could up the steep shale. My lungs were burning, and my legs felt like 1,000 lb weights. I used my rifle as a walking stick to help propel myself up the mountain. My tank was empty, but I knew I had to push myself harder than I ever had. “This is your chance.” I told myself. “It’s now or never!” We got another text to hurry up! The ram was about to leave the country. I popped over a hump and for the first time that day laid eyes on the band of rams. The big guy was in the lead with the two younger rams behind moving away from us at an angle. I got prone for the shot, and realized my barrel was obstructed by the landscape. I got up and moved a bit forward. As I got up the young ram in the back of the group snapped his head around and was locked on me! He started to run. The second young ram looked back and does the same. The big guy never looked back and just started running. I flicked the safety off of my rifle, and as I scanned to the shoulder of the ram, BOOM! My rifle went off right into the rock in front of the ram! Oh no! I knew I screwed up. I quickly reloaded as the ram was about to move over the ridge into the unknown. He was quartered away when I fired. I could hear the THWACK! and could see he was
hit! As he stood there staggering, I reloaded again and fired another shot. THWACK again. The ram tipped over, rolled six feet and came to rest dead. My dream just became a reality! Tears filled my eyes, and I hollered and hugged Matt. This is what we had worked for. I couldn’t have done it with a better hunting partner and friend.
As I walked up to my ram I was afraid to touch him. I was scared to have this lifelong pursuit come to an end. It’s difficult to put into words what that moment meant to me. The guys from camp came up to meet us and we soaked up the moment as the sun kissed the mountains and the clouds dispersed in the valleys below.
We headed back to camp after skinning and quartering the ram. We spent the night eating sheep ribs, enjoying drinks by the fire, and taking turns holding and marvelling at my beautiful bighorn ram. The next day we made the long hike home. A heavy pack has never felt better! I was almost floating! It was a moment I will never forget. WS
THE GOLDEN BEAR RAM
BY JIM MCENROE
Every real or aspiring mountain hunter reads Jack O’Connor sheep hunting stories about British Columbia and Alaska rams written back in the ‘70s, and I did, too. My sheep hunting career started about then when I drew and filled a oncein-a-lifetime California bighorn ram tag in North Dakota. I was 16 years old. Over the next 30 years, I was fortunate enough to shoot three Dall’s sheep and after 40 years of applying, I drew a Montana Rocky Mountain bighorn tag in the Missouri Breaks and took home a beautiful 43-inch ram.
The Stone’s was a “someday” wish-list item I had merely flirted with for years. At the 2021 Sheep Show®, my wife Ashley pushed me past flirtation to commitment as we talked to Blake Williams of Golden Bear Outfitting. “Do it,” she chanted. “When are you planning to get younger enough to go?”
Now, a few days before my 61st birthday and 44 years after harvesting my first ram, I found myself flying in a Super Cub preparing to land on a high alpine glacier-fed lake in northern British Columbia, the heart of prime Stone’s sheep country. Blake bought his camp from his father Greg Williams, who still outfits Rocky Mountain bighorns in southern BC and earlier that day had flown my wife and most of our gear into camp. Father and son bush pilots would shuttle me on two flights: a wheeled Cub Blake captained into basecamp then aboard Greg’s bright yellow float plane into the remote spike camp–two tents beside a turquoise lake.
Pulling the aircraft closer to the rocky shoreline was long, lean Ross Milton, a third-generation Stone’s sheep hunting guide with an impressive family pedigree. His two grandfathers, Leo Rutledge and Herb Leake, had both run sheep camps in the Prophet River area, and Rutledge had purchased his concession from the legendary Frank Golata. At age 25, Ross had been professionally guiding since he turned 18, the earliest age to register as a licensed guide, but in reality he had spent his entire life in the family outfitting and ranch business, hunting deer, elk, moose, caribou, sheep and mountain goats along with raising and training mountain horses. With rams in the blood, he brought plenty more experience than his youth might have suggested.
As for Greg and Blake Williams, they have outfitted and guided Stone’s hunts in northern BC for a quarter century, and they became Golden Bear Outfitting in 2008. But, it all started with young Greg working his family’s Alberta ranch, where he heard exciting sheep stories from hunters returning south from thinhorn country. He headed to the Northwest Territories in the late 1970s to guide Dall’s hunters, and since then his sheep passion never cooled. All this experience inspired confidence, as did the knowledge that some excellent hunters like WSF’s President and CEO Gray Thornton and KUIU founder, the late Jason Hairston, had taken their Stone’s rams with the crew of Golden Bear Outfitting in this same area.
Our welcome to camp wouldn’t have been complete without a bear. Walking across the lake from our tents was a hefty, beautiful goldcolored grizzly with chocolate legs who could have been the mascot for Golden Bear Outfitting. He regarded us with curiosity as we unloaded our packs then he scrambled up a snowfield.
Prior to our arrival, Ross had scouted the mountains to the west of our camp and found four rams, one of them mature and worthy of further inspection. The rams had vanished since then, and Ross believed they had migrated to the next peak eastward. We had arrived two days before season opening, so the next day we climbed 1,500 vertical feet and glassed the vast summits, snowfields and plateaus, but never found the rams. We did spy a huge silver-tipped grizzly lumbering across a saddle, plus several mountain goats on toothy crags. In all, we covered a lot of topography and were treated to some of the world’s most spectacular scenery.
The next morning, opening day, our plan was to continue searching farther east than we had gone the previous day. We hiked to several frigid rocky outposts downwind from a glacier, where the gale forced us to layer up and hunker down. Still no rams, but mountain goats dotted the cliffs in two directions. In the sweeping valley below, we spotted two wolves working toward a nanny and a kid, seemingly oblivious to the predators tracking them as they meandered toward a rock outcrop. The goats slipped behind boulders and the wolves followed, all of them never to be seen again. It was not a good sign, for we had noticed on our hike several wolf scats comprised of snarled white goat hair.
We progressed eastward for a few miles, glassing from every vantage point from morning to mid-afternoon. Ross trekked ahead to get a better view and returned with a thumbs up and a big grin. Moving forward another half mile, we snuck up behind a car-sized
rock and watched the four Stone’s rams from 700 yards away. Three were immature, but the fourth was definitely older. Ross crawled slowly ahead to confirm the ram’s age through his spotting scope. After evaluating he was at least eight years old and his horn tips broke above his nose, we decided to go after him.
The rams had started feeding toward us, then dropped into a steep scree field. We creeped ahead, closing the distance to 250 yards. I slipped my Christensen Arms 6.5 PRC on top of Ross’ backpack and chambered a round. As the blue-gray rams ambled below us across the shale, I placed my crosshairs behind the shoulder of the largest one and squeezed the trigger. Upon the whap of impact, Ross said, “Nice shot.” The ram stood unsteadily, offering me his opposite broadside, so I fired an insurance round. The ram stumbled and rolled down the steep incline. It looked like gravity might take him tumbling hundreds of feet down the slope into the funnel of a sheer drop-off, but 15 yards below a random boulder stopped his descent, much to our relief.
Now the issue was getting to the ram and getting him out without anyone falling down the avalanche chute. With hiking poles, we almost skied down the rock slide and across a snow patch. I did take a fall, landing backward on my rifle. Ross and I wedged the ram onto a large, flat rock that served as a steady ledge for photos, skinning and quartering. Bearing heavy-laden packs, Ross, Ashley and I scrambled and fought our way up to the ridge crest.
With an almost devilish smile,
Ross said, “Now, for a little walk back to camp.” It was five miles up and down, with the final mile descending 1,500 steep feet over ankle-breaker rocks. We paused to rest a few times, the last stop at a waterfall to fill our bottles and quench our thirst. By the time we returned to camp, we had logged over 13 hours of steady climbing, hiking and packing. After congratulations all around, all I really wanted was ibuprofen.
The next day, Ross caped the head and fleshed the hide for a life-sized mount and, since we were far above tree line, laid out the sheep meat to cool on rocks near the tents. Ashley and I recovered with a light day of hiking near camp to take in the views, and Ross and I traded hunting tales. The following dawn brought rain and fog, plus a skiff of snow on the surrounding peaks. It didn’t stop pouring for 12 hours, so my wife and I passed the time reading Ross’ loaned copy of Richmond P. Hobson’s Grass Beyond the Mountains (a BC classic), and we didn’t emerge from our tents until afternoon. The summits were solidly socked in, so Ashley’s hopedfor goat hunt was out for today, but Ross had some excitement to report.
The evening before, he had awakened at around 9:30 p.m. to the sound of footsteps splashing in the lake and wondered if my wife and I were enjoying a frigid swim. Ross poked his head out of his tent to discover our big gold griz standing 40 yards away between the lake shore and the sheep meat. The bear had his nose high sniffing for goodies, but when Ross emerged from his tent and yelled at him, the grizzly turned, strolled across the nearby snowfield then disappeared over a hill. Despite the fact that the weather would prevent a plane from arriving to retrieve the meat for a few days, that bruin never did return to our sheep meat buffet.
Not so fortunate was our mountain goat quest. While we found them in the gnarliest places over the next several days, we could never connect with a mature billy that range is noted for. Miles of hiking into wilder, more severe and soaring heights with glaciers gleaming on every distant horizon and big bear tracks crossing our path was exhilarating adventure.
This area, known as the Stikine region of northern BC, has been the traditional territory of the Tahltan people for at least 10,000 years. The Tahltan, in partnership with WSF and other entities, have shown their commitment to Stone’s sheep conservation with groundbreaking science leading to new wildlife management efforts. In early 2017, the Tahltan Guide & Outfitters Association (TGOA), of which Golden Bear Outfitting is a member, with support from the Tahltan
Central Government, originated and seed-funded a first-of-its-kind Stone’s sheep study in the Dease Lake/Dome Mountain area to the east of where I took my ram. WSF added funding through its grant-in-aid program to advance the study. Its purpose was to examine the impact of a mining road and offshoot backcountry trails used by hunters that cut through Stone’s sheep territory. The human effect on herd migrations, health and habitat were all part of this study. Biologists collared Stone’s sheep to track their movements, monitored what they ate and their droppings, measured the road traffic patterns and performed other investigations into issues like predators. This multiyear study revealed that the area’s Stone’s herds are being stressed and their movements affected by the road and human presence. Stress and disruption of their migration to seasonal feeding ranges have a direct impact on overall herd health and lamb survival.
As I hunted my Stone’s ram far to the west of Dease Lake/Dome Mountain, from our glassing points we could spy a former mine on a nearby mountain, cascades of tailings and gravel roads crisscrossing up from the valley below. While these remote, subalpine areas don’t have any busy highways, industrial and transportation pressures are clearly evident on the landscape shared by Stone’s sheep and other wild animals in northern BC. It’s not an isolated problem.
Going forward, the Dease Lake/ Dome Mountain study has resulted in a number of recommended actions, including controlling vehicle access and restricting road construction and other activities during sheep migration seasons, plus establishing lower speed limits and a number of other initiatives like limiting camping and overhead flights in the area, all to decrease stress on the Stone’s population. The study has identified potential protected areas in Stone’s range, and the Tahltan Central Government is working on a Tahltan Stewardship Plan to be completed in 2023, with a goal of designating Tahltan protected areas to conserve wild sheep populations. In addition, the Dease Lake/Dome Mountain study offered a baseline, leading to broader wild sheep herd and habitat study comparisons in BC’s Cassiar Range and beyond.
“The Cassiar research, similar in some ways to the Dome Mountain
study, also received support from WSF grant-in-aid and the Wild Sheep Society of BC. It has improved our overall understanding of the patterns of thinhorn sheep migrations and of what comprises the different habitats they use,” says Bill Jex, provincial wild sheep and mountain goat specialist with the BC Ministry of Forests’ Fish & Wildlife Branch.
“We are looking at the province holistically to see what we can do collectively to bolster all wild sheep species,” says British Columbian Kyle Stelter, vice chair of WSF’s board of directors. “This is one of the early studies that have looked at sheep herd health, and the science has been adapted across the province as the template for herd health assessments.”
This template is already benefitting another wild sheep treasure, the Rocky Mountain bighorns in the province’s south. With WSF as a major investor, BC’s Fraser River herds are now in year five of a test and remove program to eradicate Mycoplasma ovipneumoniae, commonly known as MOVI. While northern BC’s Stone’s population thus far has remained MOVI-free, the province’s Fraser River bighorns have experienced extreme die-offs that started in the 1990s, with a 60% population plunge in some areas and negligible recovery. According to Stelter, MOVI was the chief suspect, but it remained unconfirmed until the Dease Lake/Dome Mountain study produced the impetus and protocols to test the Fraser sheep, confirm the presence and prevalence of MOVI, and begin the process of removing diseased animals.
Now in year five of the bighorn assessment in the Fraser River zone, the management work is just beginning. The Wild Sheep Society of BC, WSF and other partners are dedicating $1.6 million over 10 years to erase the threat of MOVI from the Fraser River.
“Now, we are seeing more investment in wild sheep management than in any time in the past,” Stelter says. “We want to see more Stone’s sheep on the landscape, and we’re keen to invest in management projects—anything we can do, from prescribed burns and fertilizer programs to foster native grasses, to more science, to predator management. Anything to assure both thinhorn and bighorn populations stay strong in BC.”
Scientific assessments offer a snapshot in time, but the conservation outlook is always changing. According to Bill Jex, the conservation community needs a better understanding of many other factors, including predators affecting BC’s wild sheep and the creeping influence of climate change. During my Stone’s hunt, I witnessed wolves and grizzlies in proximity to the sheep and mountain goats, and Jex says that the chief wild sheep predators in the area are not only the grizzlies but also golden eagles and wolverines. As for wolves, they too hunt thinhorns, but if they are culled, the change might result in an influx of other predators, such as coyotes, that tend to concentrate on lambs and ewes, Jex notes.
“Any action that focuses on these predators merits a broad consideration of possible spin-off effects that might occur,” he adds.
While BC’s thinhorn numbers have remained fairly steady at 13,000 over the past several years, localized die-offs have occurred due to, for
example, late spring severe storms or warmer winters that produce spring rain instead of snow, creating ice that impedes feeding. Starvation is one of the horrific results. Ram availability is dependent on lamb survival rates 6 to 8 years before, so the deadly toll of climate change, storms, stress and disease echoes far into the future.
“Provincially, Stone’s sheep numbers remain pretty stable, but at the local level we’ve seen population declines,” Jex notes. “Due to climate change, prolonged cold springs have delayed green-up in wild sheep habitat. With successive years of delayed green-up, nutrition for ewes raising lambs could be impacted, as could lamb survival rates.”
Northern BC is unique on earth as the home of genetically pure Stone’s sheep. WSF, the Tahltan people, the TGOA, the provincial government and partners like the Wild Sheep Society of BC are committed to fulfilling their responsibility for global stewardship of this wildlife resource. In May 2022, WSF brought many of the stakeholders and scientists together for Thinhorn Sheep Summit III, where leading experts discussed issues affecting Dall’s, Stone’s and Fannin sheep across the US and Canada. Golden Bear Outfitting was a presenting sponsor at this event. These summits serve as wild-sheep think-tank gatherings, and they not only educate the conservation community but also inspire real results. This benefits not just the sheep but other creatures, including the humans like me who revere and hunt these iconic animals.
Because of BC’s stature as a vast motherland for various wild sheep subspecies, on November 16-18, 2022, the inaugural BC Wild Sheep Summit occurred in Prince George, BC, to bring major players together for a deep dive into the politics, science, challenges and future prospects for the province’s bighorns and thinhorns.
“To me, the November 2022 BC Wild Sheep Summit is an outgrowth of everything that’s been going on in the province,” says WSF Vice President for Conservation and Thinhorn Sheep Program Lead Kevin Hurley. “It’s a really robust conservation event, and WSF thoroughly supports this provincial effort.”
Stelter is particularly pleased with the upswing in fundraising for thinhorn and bighorn initiatives in BC. He is one of the co-creators of the Jurassic Classic fishing extravaganza on the Fraser River, with funds raised benefitting bighorn conservation on the same waterway. Outfitters like Golden Bear also do their share, with donated hunts each year at the Sheep Show® to promote wild sheep conservation in their home province.
“My wife and I have two young sons, and we want them to grow up and see wild sheep all their lives,” says Blake Williams. “That’s why we do what we do.”
As I stood by my Stone’s ram in that avalanche chute, I was in awe for the thrilling experience, the dazzling terrain, the impeccable guiding, the good fortune and the urging of my wife that brought me here. The invisible hand behind it all was the enduring conservation efforts of so many people in BC and beyond, including WSF. It made me grateful and proud to be a WSF life member and part of the Chadwick Ram Society. Hunting is my passion, yes, but stewardship is the mission. WS
