GOD WINKS

BY STEVEN AUSTIN

“God winks.” Yes, God winks, are those moments in life that are bestowed upon you to show you an open door, an opportunity, a blessing. They are a moment where you’re given a blessing by earthly parties and those divine. It was truly a blessing to be given this chance at a lifetime event and the pressure to succeed was on.

God Wink. Being awarded a Wyoming bighorn sheep tag is one of the most sought-after tags and one that drives envy from any party. I was blessed with this chance and I didn’t want to spoil it.

I hid it from friends and family. I wanted to remain humble and appreciative but my anxieties of fulfilling this lifelong dream were imminent. I’ve wanted this hunt pretty much my whole life. I was always intrigued by the American antelope and the Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep—both iconic big game animals.

In the summer of June 1988, I arrived at Fort Sill, Oklahoma for Army Basic Training two days after graduating high school. It was here that I was introduced to who would become my “combat buddy.” Larry was from Idaho and grew up chasing elk. We were close. We befriended one another and became pretty much inseparable. After basic training, we attended Airborne School together at Fort Benning, Georgia, followed one another into the Ranger

Indoctrination Program, and then were assigned to the same Artillery Regiment at Fort Bragg, North Carolina with the 82nd Airborne Division.

God Wink. It was at Fort Bragg that both Larry and I found that we were among a group of paratroopers known as the “breakfast club.” This led to becoming very close friends with two fellow troopers named Paul and Giff. Both Paul and Giff enjoyed hunting as a youthful passion too. Giff was from Virginia, and like me, grew up hunting turkey and whitetail deer. Paul was from Michigan and grew up trapping, hunting deer, and ice fishing.

The four of us quickly established a pastime routine of hunting and fishing during our off times, when training and deployments allowed. I was first introduced to Western big game when the three of us joined Larry on a trip back home to Idaho. There, crossing the Montana state line into Idaho, I saw my first live Rocky Mountain bighorn. Nothing took my breath away such as an animal like this.

The four of us pretty much came up with big game animals we longed to hunt. They ranged from moose, to brown bear, to caribou, to sheep.

We made those youthful pacts to help each other achieve our dreams in chasing and harvesting our dream animals.

During my twenty-one-year military career, we each found ourselves being called to do our country’s duty. Assignments found us going separate ways and coming back together. Giff committed suicide in 1992 shortly after returning home from Desert Storm. Larry was killed in 1996 while home on leave, ironically by an elk on his way to go elk hunting when one came through his windshield on a blinding stretch of mountain road. Paul and I were the last of the four.

Paul and I continued to hunt and fish while we both tried to raise young families. Those moments were enjoyable but never the same. We would entertain our conversations with the “pacts” we had made years before. Then September 11, 2001 happened.

Paul was killed when a rocket hit the vehicle he was traveling in while in Iraq in 2004. After being injured myself in a vehicle explosion in 2004, I retired from the Army’s Wounded Transition Barracks in 2009 after serving twenty-one years of active duty service.

I struggle with depression, anxiety due to combat related PTSDs, physical ailments, and just fitting in with society. My family felt the brunt of these issues and I felt the burden. I became disconnected and alone. I became extremely apathetic to life. I hit rock bottom, mentally and physically. I finally agreed to seek therapy in 2019.

God Wink. My wife, Amanda, suggested that I rekindle my love for hunting. I once again began to feel its healing powers and spent time alone afield. I then began to hunt big game again. Casual conversations had me once again speaking of Larry, Paul, and Giff. I felt that guilt, the sadness, of not being able to fulfill the dreams we once made. I’d thought about Larry and the others for years and always wondered if I’d have the opportunity at a ram, not necessarily for myself, but also for my friends. I settled for watching YouTube shows and living vicariously through the victors of the shows.

God Wink. In July 2022, I received a call that I was the recipient of a Wyoming Resident Disabled Veteran Tag for a bighorn sheep. As I came out of the shock of such a gesture, I began researching and doing my “e-scouting,” and inquiring with local biologists, and game wardens. I was trying to figure out how to make the best of this opportunity. I personally could not afford a hunt of such; I was going to have to do this on my own.

Amanda saw that I was beginning to feel the pressures and stress of feeling hopeless to the opportunity. She reached out to veteran organizations through the Veterans

Affairs and I felt that my opportunity began to slip away. It wasn’t that she didn’t think I could do a hunt of such caliber on my own, but it was the environment I was looking at putting myself into that worried her. I’m the guy who doesn’t seek help—I have a “do-or-die” attitude—and what are a few hungry bears going to do to me?

I begged her not to tell anyone. Then a close friend of mine one night, Craig Cowley, sat at my dinner table. I had been prodding him for information on how he hunted his ram when Amanda told him of my opportunity. Craig immediately called a friend of his he knew from years previous: Bjoe Coy.

God Wink. Turns out, Bjoe Coy is a living legend in these parts of eastern Wyoming. Craig explained to him my situation and wondered if there was anything he would know to try—or where to go to find my ram. With a somewhat secret encrypted text the following morning, I was instructed to call a number in the text. The message said, Have your guy call this number and talk to the guy who answers the phone.”

God Wink. It was a Sunday when I made the call to the random phone number I was given. A voice answered on the second ring and I introduced myself. Jimmy Owens, owner, and operator of Lost Creek Outfitters located in Cody, Wyoming, replied, “I was expecting your call.” We chatted briefly about how I came about a bighorn sheep tag and all I remember Jimmy saying was, “How cool is this?”

I explained to Jimmy my situation and thanked him for taking my call. I told him of Larry, Giff, and Paul and why this hunt meant so much to me. I asked Jimmy about his terms and without hesitation, Jimmy said that that wasn’t important as much as tagging my ram was and to not worry. He explained that he was off to British Columbia to work on some Stone’s sheep and would be back within a few weeks, but in the meantime, to send him my contact information. I did with both overwhelming disbelief and guilt. This man supports his family with hunts, but I was extremely excited for the opportunity. I was introduced to Jozie, his lovely wife, and business partner. Jozie’s communication with me until my arrival was phenomenal and attention to detail was impeccable. Based on the required information she needed, I wondered if I was up for the challenge! So…

I prepared for this hunt. I visited a rifle range darn near daily, placing rounds on target, getting to know my rifle better than ever before. I began picking out its intricacies, how it felt in my hand, how it sounded when I chambered a round, whether it was jammed up or inserted smoothly. I became one with my rifle just as I had done years before in the military. I fired it so much that I asked a friend to build me the best ammo to really bring out what I wanted from this rifle—no, what I needed this rifle to do. I had my wife walking up to 13 miles per day and I carried a fortyfive pound bag of chicken scratch in my rucksack. This is a once-in-alifetime event. I’ll never have such an opportunity again. Ever.

God Wink. Lost Creek Outfitters was providing me an opportunity to harvest a ram in the Absaroka Mountains of Wyoming—knee-deep in grizzly bear country—and all that I knew, was what Jimmy said, “It takes however long it takes.”

My family was as eager as I was. For the first time in many years, my family felt an excitement in me that had been so absent for years before. I hugged my wife and son. Amanda took a picture of me as I climbed in my truck and pointed my nose northwest from Cheyenne. I called my older boys, one who is in the Navy, and the other in the Army, to tell them that I loved them, and I would call sometime soon to deliver any positive or negative news.

I drove northward to Cody in such a manner I thought something was wrong. I was taking my time. I normally drive much faster, but I wanted this time to reflect on a plethora of thoughts racing through my mind. I recalled memories of deer hunting in the North Carolina woods with Larry, moments in the military comparable to attending a college fraternity party, or at least it seemed. I asked myself what I could have done to help Giff and how long he had been gone. I remembered the last few words shared with Paul. I watched the clouds drift by, and the miles got shorter. The emotions got stronger.

God Wink. Sunday, I arrived at the driveway of Lost Creek Outfitters in Cody, Wyoming. Jimmy personally met me as I got out of my truck. He immediately made me feel welcomed and at home. That’s hard to do when you meet someone for the first time—and especially for me. I was introduced to a lovely family and invited into their home and lodge. Amazed by the animal mounts that adorn the living space, I was shown my room for the night. I was told to make myself at home. It felt surreal. I called Amanda and told her that Lost Creek Outfitters is truly an A+ outfitter. I really had no idea.

Monday, we started our horseback hunt. I found myself in the front of Jimmy’s pickup truck bouncing up a Forest Service Road into a beautiful drainage. We found a group of ewes up high and separately saw two sows and their two cubs galloping up the side of a draw. We returned to the lodge for the night.

Tuesday, I was greeted at the breakfast table by Cameron, a guide who was born and raised in Cody. He works for Jimmy and you could tell from the start the two of them feed off one another’s motivation. They knew each other as well as many of the groups I dealt with in the military. They were good. Each had their own responsibility, and both were as committed to me as they were the business. I was their business.

We rode our way up into a high plateau that overlooked another drainage. There we sat and glassed like so many of you have done looking at elusive animals such as bighorn sheep. It was warm enough that a small nap was in order, but eagerness couldn’t keep me from checking the binoculars or spotting scope. To the accolades of both Jimmy and Cameron, I found the first rams of the hunt in my binoculars. Jimmy confirmed their identity with his 95mm spotting scope and offered it up to me to watch. I wondered why we weren’t ready for the chase, but neither of these rams would be potential targets. These young guys needed some more gym time. We saw another sow and her two cubs, multiple elk, and some mule deer. On my first night under those stars in years, I slept like a baby.

Wednesday, we rose early and gathered the ponies up from within the corral. Our destination this day was over in another area. We glassed high up into the mountains and I looked at little dots against a grayish green backdrop. We made our push from the trailhead heading into the high country. We split at camp to better our efforts in finding the ram I was after. Just like we had the previous two days, we sat, we watched, waiting, knowing that my prey would soon show itself.

After a couple of hours, Jimmy smiled at me and said, “We have the banger.” There, among a group of twelve “rambos,” sat the rambo that I would consider mine. We would “put our ram to sleep” and be back by morning to move into position.

On our way out, we ran into our next three sets of sows with two cubs each, a sow with one cub, and a boar grizzly. Each set was attempting to enjoy a portion of the elk kill meal that lay on the ground. The boar appeared to be as big as a modern-day truck!

Know that every time we ran into bears, both Jimmy and Cameron were instrumental in ensuring the safety of the party and each other. Bears are just a part of the adventure and seeing them in their natural habitat was icing on the cake! We slept on the ground under stars with no tents less than a mile from our hairy friends. My wife says I am nuts, but I slept like a baby again that night.

Thursday, I slumbered out of my sleeping bag ready for the ram’s wakeup call. Today was my day. A day that I have dreamt about for decades, yes, decades. We saddled up and filled the panniers, ready to ride back high into the basins of the Absaroka. We once again paid a visit to our grizzly friends as they continued to eat on the elk carcass and eased our way higher into the steep rock outcroppings of the mountains. My two guides and

I climbed our way to 10,900 feet to spot our group of rams and to make the decision on which one would be my quarry. Cameron stayed behind to provide herd updates while Jimmy led me across the treacherous and steep drop-offs along the ridge to conceal our every movement.

Finally, in place at the summit of the ridge, I was seeing something I’d never thought I’d have a real chance to see. I was being instructed to place the biggest ram in my sights. I finally had a bighorn sheep in my rifle crosshairs! In all this excitement, my buddies were there. It was a vision as vivid as the reality of the moment. They were there. Right there. With me.

Jimmy asked if I had a good rest...to take my time...and placed his hand on my shoulder while he looked through his binoculars. His calm demeanor was that of experience; he’d been in this very position with tons of clients I am sure. I’ve looked through crosshairs plenty of times and many of the visions I relive on a day to day basis isn’t one I care to remember, but in this moment, I had the weight of three men and my dreams on the line. Jimmy instructed me to wait until the ram turned broadside, and within seconds, my fatal shot hit the ram. The ram was dead on his feet, but we placed another round in him to seal the deal. I laid my firearm down, and to the accolades of both Jimmy and Cameron coming through on the radio, I celebrated, and then the emotions rose. I thought about the hours of physical and mental preparation, the events it took just getting here on this ridgeline, and most of all, the love of strangers and family. I thought about this very moment. My combat buddies.

My ram fell at 237 yards and it was the longest descent I believe I have ever made. I cried tears of joy and thanked God for the God Wink. I was prepared to handle, for the first time, a bighorn sheep. My guides and I shared hugs, smiles, and laughter. They too knew why I was there.

As always, we took pictures. Tons of pictures. I held a picture of Larry, Giff, and Paul next to my ram. They too were there. I tried to withhold my emotions. I tried. I wanted to do my part to prepare my sheep for the haul out, but Jimmy insisted I take in the moment. I sat, watching Jimmy and Cameron cape a sheep with the efficiency of a pack of wolves, and I sat looking down the basin back to where we had departed just a couple of hours before and thought: Larry may not have harvested his moose, Giff his caribou, or Paul his brown bear, but they were there with me when I took out my ram.

I sent an inReach message of my news to my wife back in Carpenter, Wyoming while she was teaching school. She simply responded that she was so happy for me and that the boys are cheering. She told me that God is good and said that without Jimmy, Jozie, Cameron of Lost Creek Outfitters, my God Wink would have never been fulfilled. There are no words to describe my appreciation for the kindness and gesture bestowed upon me by Lost Creek Outfitters.

We rode out of the mountains in pure darkness, talking the whole way so that our grizzly friends would know we had decided to depart the party. Under the blanket of the Milky Way, I wondered if my successes of the day were being measured with a number, a ratio, by my guides?

I think not. It was measured by their hearts during those four days of hunting.

God Winks. Despite all the negatives I have witnessed in my life, and despite all the dark days and trying times getting through life, I have learned to look once again at the positives in life. I have learned to enjoy the moments God gives you... the people He brings into and out of your life. He winks all the time—you just need to know when that wink is bestowed upon you. He’s great, He’s good, He winks at you. It’s time to wink back and say, “thank you.”

If you are looking for the perfect outfitter dedicated to putting you on game, look no further than Lost Creek Outfitters. It may seem like it’s just a way of life for them and their guides, but it is their mission to make every second of that adventure a memorable and lasting one. WS

What separates posers from the real deal?

This badge.

BY KARL BLANCHARD

he legendary adventurer/ author Jack O’Connor once wrote, “The wild ram embodies the mystery and magic of the mountains, the rocky canyons, the snowy peaks, the fragrant alpine meadows, the gray slide rock, the icy, dancing rills fed by snowbank and glacier, the sweet, clean air of the high places, and the sense of being alone on the top of the world with the eagles, the marmots, and the wild sheep themselves.”

When setting out on our first sheep hunt, my brother Michael and I never could have imagined how accurate a statement that would be. We landed in Bettles, Alaska on a rainy Saturday morning with stars in our eyes and white sheep on our minds. We hastily made our way to the air taxi office to check in and find out the odds of departing to the hunt location we had selected after months of meticulous research. Our greeting came in the form of a swift kick to the gut with news that an outfitter had set up shop on the exact lake we had picked after e-scouting all year.

The Brooks Range is vast, and throwing a metaphorical dart at a map is not how we envisioned starting our trip. But indecisiveness has no place in Alaska mountain hunting, so we chose a new lake as we dashed to the hangar to get ready.

The Cessna 185 was skipping down the lake by 3:00 PM, and a short flight later, we were touching down. We had a five-mile hike from the lake to where we wanted to cache our extra food and gear and make our base camp. We trimmed our packs down, ate dinner, and hit the sack.

Light shining through the tent welcomed us to our first day of hunting. Delicate fog blanketed the tundra, but we were optimistic. We ate breakfast, pitched the bear fence, and set off. Just as we entered an adjoining drainage, the sun burned through, and we could see for miles. We sat down to glass and almost immediately spotted four rams. They were three miles away, so we grabbed packs and beat feet farther up the drainage to get a better look. At one mile away we set up again to see if we could make out horns better—and could we ever!

There were two banana rams, a three-quarter curl ram, and one older ram with a long driver side and a broomed off passenger side. They were still too far away to determine legality and we were out of cover. When a big fog bank rolled in, we used the opportunity to cut distance. With the drifting fog as concealment, we slipped to within 500-yards of the rams. Off and on the fog would blow out enough to catch glimpses of them, but never enough to pull an accurate range for a precise shot. The stakes were too high for Kentucky- windage. As we sat in the fog, awaiting a clear view of the mountain and our ram, the rain set in. We pitched our tarp for some muchneeded shelter just as the rain turned to blinding snow.

Thirty minutes later, the snow stopped, and the fog broke long enough to get eyes back on the ram and we determined he was in fact legal, but once again with mist and fog we couldn’t get an accurate range. A bit past 9:00 PM, we decided we weren’t going to get our break and returned to our tent at the base of the drainage—a four-mile slog through boggy muskeg that pulled at our legs with every step.

The morning of day four was a welcome sight, with broken skies and sunshine as we made our way back to our rams. They had moved far back into a high green basin and were comfortably bedded. Working up and out of their line of sight, we gained our needed elevation and closed the distance. When heavy fog moved in, we used it to get across from them. We were now inside 600-yards and had a perfect ambush spot set up. All day we sat under the tarp in the driving rain, mist, and dense fog. Around 6:00 PM we finally got our break, but, to our disappointment, there were no sheep to be seen. With no clue which direction they went we just started picking our way up through the rocky canyon.

About a mile in, Michael hissed, “There they are, up on the rock wall!” They were 915-yards away— too far. We backed out and picked our way up another 700 vertical feet and moved up to within rifle range. Michael got on the spotter, and I got down on the rifle. They knew something was up, so there was no time to waste. I got a range, dialed my scope, and settled in. With nothing to read wind off except for the icy breeze on my own face, I made my call and held accordingly, checked level, and sent a round, hitting the ram squarely in the shoulders.

He hobbled behind a large boulder with only the top of his horns giving away his position. Those horns began to sway, and, in an instant, he tumbled a short distance to his final resting place at the top of a waterfall high in the canyon. It was a nail-biting ascent up to him. Lichen covered cliff faces, scree slides, and boulder fields lay in our path. It took us over an hour to find a safe path to reach him.

When we got to him, he was lying in the water. The cliffs that once offered him sanctuary now stood above what would be his tomb. Never in my life had I seen such a regal beast with my own two eyes.

We sat without speaking for some time, admiring before us on that flat slab of God’s rugged earth, our ram! Not the ram of someone from a video or magazine, but ours! We had flown over 2,000 miles on three planes. We had planned and dreamed for years. We prepared physically and mentally for the grueling terrain and weather. All that work brought us to this moment and oh, how sweet it was! The odds said it was to be an impossible task, but fate had other plans and deemed us worthy. We were now—sheep hunters!

With pictures taken, and careful knife work complete, we shouldered our packs a bit after 10:30 PM as it began to rain, and the autumn Alaskan sun started to fade. The same obstacles that we had to traverse to reach the ram we now had to navigate down, but this time, it was more wet. It was downhill for hours in the rock, rain, and now-soupy fog. Our progress was painstakingly slow. When we reached the valley floor the same fog we had fought through for hours entirely surrounded us.

The mental and physical strain were taking their toll and by 2:00 AM, I couldn’t take another step without unshouldering my pack and eating something. As our freeze-dried dinners rehydrated, we erected our now beloved tarp. We inhaled our food and tried to sleep, but it was no use. We were soaked through and cold. This was no place to succumb to hypothermia. The impenetrable fog cut visibility down to mere yards, but the river to our left and cliffs to our right meant we were moving in the right direction toward our camp.

We finished our 8.5-mile ordeal of cliff, rock, and bog a few minutes before 7:00 AM. Meat, cape, and horns fell every which way as we dove into our sleeping bags and sank into glorious warmth. The hardest physical event of our lives was now over, and sleep swept over us in an instant.

We slept hard until driving rain beat us out of our slumber. With sore legs and backs we reorganized gear, laid out meat and cape to dry and did our best to rehydrate and catch up on calories.

Dense fog and drizzle made resting easy. We did glass up a small group of two rams, three ewes, and three lambs from the tent, but thankfully for our sore legs, neither of the rams were legal. Back in our sleeping bags with the remainder of our wet gear we drank coffee, looked at pictures of our ram, and retold each other the story of the hunt a million and one times. We were on cloud nine with no plans of getting off.

The following day was chore day. We needed to get the head skinned off and cape fleshed. It was the first time fleshing a hide for either of us, so we went slow, and it took a long time. Mid-afternoon we concluded that we needed to get some stuff back to the lake to be a one-and-done trip if we got another ram. So, we loaded up bear fence, the ram, and a few other non-essentials and made the 8.2-mile round trip across the muskeg.

Back at the lake we needed to devise a plan to keep the meat and cape good. We did an initial salting of the hide then went to work building a raised rack out of caribou shed antlers to keep the meat bags off the ground and allow air underneath them. With several more sheds we made additional space above the meat. Shaking the cape free of the wet salt, we then applied a second, generous coat, folded it skin on skin, and placed it on the rack with the meat. We covered it all with a blue tarp making sure to build up openings on either end to allow air flow and piled the ram head and many more shed antlers on top of the tarp to pin it down. We surrounded all this bounty with our bear fence and bid it farewell. It was agonizing to leave such precious treasure unattended, but we had one more ram to find and we were hell-bent on achieving the impossible a second time.

We woke early the next day, but thick fog and rain pinned us down. We finally got a window mid-day, so we packed camp and forded the river to make our ascent up a new valley. A bit before 9:00 PM, we spotted two rams through the fog. We found a flat spot and set our tent for the night. Leaving this area wasn’t an option until we got a good look at these rams and any friends they might have.

As light pulled us from our slumber, a layer of fog laid across the mountains like a white ribbon. We nicknamed this elevation “ram line.” The fog was always right where the sheep wanted to be or maybe the sheep always wanted to be concealed in the fog, but either way it always hung at “ram line.” As the fog rolled over the ridges, two rams appeared straight across the valley. We recognized them from the night before and quickly determined neither was legal. We glassed everything we could and then moved up valley a few miles to keep looking. Of course, the fog returned with a vengeance, and we spent the day hunkered under the tarp staring at nothing once again. Finally, we called it and hiked back to our tent.

Frigid rain and fog forced us into the security of our sleeping bags a bit before 9:00 PM. A stiff northern wind, misting fog, and frozen tundra greeted us as we awoke to zero visibility once again. After hours of staring at nothing we decided to make a move. We hiked down valley to the last bit of food we cached just as the rain started again. We hurriedly set up the tent and eventually gave up on going anywhere as the rain pounded away.

Day 10 greeted us with blue skies! We packed camp and started our ascent up and over into the neighboring valley. Six miles in, Michael spotted a lone ram high up in the rocky cliffs at the top of a peak. We worked our way closer and closer. We edged as close as we were going to get without being on slope with him, but we still couldn’t determine legality. Knowing he was a loner and looking like he was probably full curl, we decided to make the stalk in on him to determine if he was indeed the ram we needed him to be.

The stalk was intensely physical: 1,600 feet of vertical in a bit more than half a mile up shale, boulders, and cliff bands. After hours of climbing, we just couldn’t get an angle on his little slice of heaven. With nothing to gain from more elevation, we dropped 100 feet and scaled up and over a medium-sized rock wall that was blocking our path. Once back out of sight, we pushed forward. Another 200-yards put us up against another rock wall that made the south wall of the ram’s avalanche chute. As Michael slowly crested the top, he immediately retreated with a look on his face I will never forget.

On the other side, at a mere 60-yards stood our ram. Head down and feeding, he had no idea we were there. Michael eased his rifle over the top of the wall. Through his scope he could easily count nine annuli. At 60-yards, Michael squeezed the trigger and put one wellplaced bullet behind the crease of the big ram’s shoulder. His final moments passed quickly and with a wild thrash of his head, he toppled over backwards, crashing into a large boulder which, luckily, hung him up from preventing a great fall. My brother has wanted to hunt sheep since he was a little boy. Watching him reach down and touch the horn of this ram brought me to tears. Here stood a man whom I admire and love more than anyone on this earth. I was moved to see him accomplishing what might be his oldest lifelong goal. I choked back my emotions as to not ruin the excitement. We hugged, we highfived, and we counted annuli another ten times just to be safe.

It was a nasty, steep spot, so after many pictures, we carefully and methodically skinned and deboned his ram. With heavy packs we started our descent. Down, down, down we climbed until we were safely on the valley floor. Before we set off after Michael’s ram, we had pitched our tent and offloaded extras, so we had a two-mile hike back to camp.

With camp already set I began caping out the head, while Michael made dinner and refilled water. Smiles never left our faces as we tended to our chores knowing we had just tagged out on Dall’s sheep in the Brooks Range on the worst year to be hunting sheep in Alaska! It was an intense but amazing day—one I will think back on forever.

Day 11 sent us through 10.6 miles of swamp with heavy packs to get back to the lake. We awoke early, ate, and packed camp, meat, and head. Six hours later we had made it to the lake to find everything as we left it. My ram’s meat was still good, and the cape was intact. I have never been so relieved. The unknown condition of my ram had kept us in a constant state of concern, but we could rest easy knowing all our prep work had paid off.

We set camp, unpacked Michael’s ram, and kicked back for a leisurely evening. We roasted backstrap over a sad fire made from twigs scavenged around the lake. Though it was labor-intensive, it was a delicious meal and worth the effort. With fresh meat in our bellies, we called it a night.

The following day we ate, drank copious amounts of coffee, and stared at our rams. Around noon the air taxi messaged and said, “We can fly, plane will be there by 1:30, so be ready!” We packed everything up and hauled it over to the beach.

We drank in the grand scale of this wild country one last time as the Cessna 185 floated to a stop in front of us. Loading gear, meat, and horns, we bid farewell to our wild home of two weeks, thankful it allowed us to visit and take from her our bounty of meat and yellow horn.

The flight home was hair-raising. The furious wind blew our little plane to and fro, up, and down. For over an hour our pilot Brendan kept us pointed as straight as he could. We overcame terror and nausea to land safely at the float dock. I’ve never been so happy to be out of the sky!

Back in Bettles, we paid our tab, grabbed four diet Pepsi’s and a bag of chips, and headed back to the hangar to unscramble our world and get meat cut up and frozen.

A group of five rafters from New York and Massachusetts were very interested in these two guys that could fit their entire world in two backpacks. The following night I pan-seared to medium rare a large piece of backstrap, which we sliced thin and shared with everyone in the hangar. It was gone in mere seconds as our non-hunting friends tasted their first wild game. It was rewarding to unwind with some good company on our final days away from the “civilized” world and to help be ambassadors for our way of life.

Friday morning, we flew to Fairbanks, rented a car, and raced off to the Alaska Department of Fish & Game to get our rams checked. They aged Michael’s ram at nine years and mine at twelve, with both passing the full curl mark. They took tissue samples, measurements, and finally plugged our horns, signifying that both rams were legal. With a handshake and a congratulations from the biologists we bid them farewell.

Saturday morning, we went to breakfast for sourdough pancakes to honor the post-hunt breakfast tradition we started in Kodiak after our first Alaska hunt years ago. It was no King’s Diner, but it was plenty good for a couple of brothers who now call themselves sheep hunters. WS