No Country For Old Men
By T.J. Schwanky
There comes a point in everyone’s life when they
have to come to terms with their own mortality. For many, this epiphany comes
with the loss of a close loved one and for others, a bad accident or other
near-death experience brings with it the realization that they won’t live
forever. And, as I sat in the rocky creek bottom, sweat stinging my eyes, I too
was beginning to realize that I was old. I was hunting the
I was half way through my 50th year of life, with 26
of those years spent chasing sheep in the mountains of Alberta ,
British Columbia and the Yukon .
I’d been fortunate to take a handful of rams during those years and I’d been
along on another dozen or so successful kills. The mountains had been good to
me but then again, time has a way of erasing the hardships. My Stone ram had
come on day 18 of a 14-day hunt but I didn’t remember it as being that bad. I’d
suffered severe frostbite on my feet on a bighorn hunt in Alberta
but my feet only bothered me when it got cold outside. It really wasn’t that
bad. But, this hunt seemed different. I was physically drained and mentally
exhausted. I was feeling old. I was
feeling wore out. Trevor made a move to get up. I grunted as I brought the big
pack to my shoulder. I felt as if I were just entering a 12-step program for
addiction as I mumbled to myself, “One step at a time.”
Perhaps the words were somewhat prophetic. Sheep
hunting is an addiction to me. I wondered how much longer my body would allow
me to pursue my passion. Turning 50 is not all it’s cracked up to be. You are
too young to get a discount at the buffets in Vegas, there is no monthly
government check and not everything works like it used to. Foreplay begins with
a glass of water and a blue pill and somehow polyester pants and shoes with
Velcro laces seem fashionable. I pulled the waistband of my pants a little
closer to my armpits and trudged on.
Backpack sheep hunts are an endeavour for the young.
Old bodies aren’t meant to carry big loads for days on end. They are better
suited to a stroll around the golf course or sitting on a lawn chair waiting
for a fish to take a bait. “Watch out,”
Trevor called back to me over the sound of another 700 pound rock sliding out
from beneath his feet. I could see he wasn’t impressed. There didn’t appear to
be a solid piece of footing on the entire mountainside.
It was late afternoon when we reached the base of
the ridge. Black clouds building in the west threatened of impending rain.
Trevor and I hurried to set our tents up. Flat spots on the rocky creek bottom
were at a premium so we settled for “not too rocky” in our choice of locations.
The first raindrops of the trip began to fall. “You want anything to eat?”
Trevor asked.
“Not really but we better.” I knew we would be stuck
in our tents for a long time if the storm settled in. A crack of thunder from
the west reconfirmed my thoughts.
It’s funny but I never really tire of eating meals
from a foil pouch. Some years I’m sure I ingest 50 or 60 of them over the
course of the season but I treat each one as a gourmet dining experience. Food
is definitely a necessity on a backpack trip and I long ago learned that your
body cannot afford to skip one. Food was the last thing on my mind at that
moment but my body needed fuel and I dug through the nylon bag, examining each
package as carefully as I’d study the menu at a fancy French restaurant.
“Lasagne tonight,” I proclaimed. Trevor laughed.
The rain was falling at a steady pace now. I lapped
up my lasagne and crawled into the confines of my tent. Little did I know that
it would become home for the next 18 hours. The rain continued throughout the
night and the occasional clap of thunder and blinding flash of lightning was a
stark reminder that we were at the mercy of the elements; and time was running
out on the hunt. I huddled in my down sleeping bag and said a silent prayer
that the morning would bring improved weather. It did not!
It wasn’t until around three in the afternoon that
the weather broke enough for us to emerge from our tents. We discussed our
options and seeing as it was light until midnight, we decided to head north
over a high ridge and see where our travels took us. It was all unexplored
territory but with only a couple days remaining, it was the only country left
to look at. While neither of us said it, we both knew that it could be a long
time until we saw our cozy little camp again.
Our journey took us up and over three ridges and
several miles to the north before we finally spotted some rams. There were
seven of them but all appeared to be fairly young. They were spread out across
a grassy ridge and we both agreed that it was quite possible that additional rams
remained unseen. Getting closer for a better look, however, was out of the
question. There was absolutely no way to approach unseen. We hadn’t come this
far to screw it up now. There were two additional basins to the east still to
check out so we decided that was our best option. We both agreed the rams we
were looking at weren’t likely to go far.
We had to side hill our way around a mountain to
reach the next basin. Walking on the steep, unstable slopes had become routine
and one barely even noticed when a rock of several hundred pounds would slip
out beneath your feet. It was one foot after the other on a slope covered in
200-pound marbles. I was almost surprised every time my foot came to rest on a
rock that didn’t move. It was nearly 11:00 pm
when we reached a shale saddle on the far side of the mountain. Trevor picked
up several rams in his binoculars right away. I quickly found them in mine too.
There were five in total and they were rapidly disappearing from sight. One of
the rams looked mature but that was all either of us could tell. It was going
to take another three hour journey around yet another unstable mountain to get
a better look at them.
With twilight nearly upon us, neither Trevor nor I
were keen on following the rams nor were we keen on making the four-hour
journey back to camp. We looked around for a soft spot in the rocks and
resigned ourselves to a long cold night on the mountain. Neither of us had our
sleeping bags so we donned every piece of clothing we had with us and bedded
down on the cold ground beneath a tarp. I’ve never had a good night’s sleep on
one of these impromptu camping adventures and this night was to be no different
and somewhere around 4:00 am, we were both shivering so bad
that we knew we had to get up. I facetiously asked Trevor if he’d slept well.
“I did not!” was all he replied.
After some calisthenics and hot tea, we loaded up
our gear and started around the next mountain for a look into the basin where
the rams had headed the evening before. The journey took a couple hours but we
soon found ourselves overlooking seven rams, about 500 yards below. One ram was
definitely worth a closer look and we soon had the spotting scope set up.
Trevor took the first look and I could tell it was not what he was hoping to
see. “Here you take a look,” he said while passing me the spotting scope.
As I focused on the ram, I could see that he was
easily full curl and likely stretched the tape to 36 inches. “Eight?” I
whispered.
“Yup”
It was a ram that I’d have not given a second glance
on day two or three of the hunt but here it was day seven and we had a two day
pack out. Basically we had one more day to hunt. “What do you think?” I asked
Trevor?
“Your call but just answer yourself one question….is
that the ram you came all the way up here to kill?”
I handed the scope back to Trevor. “Let’s go see if
we can find those rams we saw yesterday.”
It was late in the afternoon on day seven before we
were finally looking at the object of our quest; a big, old Dall sheep ram. My
Zeiss binoculars read 479 yards. I’d been shooting out to 600 yards all summer
and as I settled the 500 yard crosshair low on the ram’s shoulder, I couldn’t
believe how good everything felt. The crosshair was rock solid on the perfectly
broadside ram. The world around me disappeared. I caressed the trigger with my
index finger, knowing that a scant two pounds of pressure would cause it to
unleash the firing pin and set in motion a series of events that would be
catastrophic for one of us. If my aim was true, the results of the 140-grain
bullet striking the ram’s shoulder would be devastating. If my aim wasn’t true,
the past seven days of blood and sweat would have been in vain. I felt as
though the weight of the world rested on my shoulders and I’d placed it there.
Trevor’s voice snapped me out of my trance. “Wadda
ya think? Trevor asked.
What did I think indeed. After some 26 years of
hunting sheep and nearly four decades of chasing big game, I’ve come to
understand that not only is it important to learn when to take the shot, it’s
equally, if not more important to know when not to take the shot. My mind had
been like a computer from the first moment we spotted the ram, computing the
angle, distance, wind speed and host of other variables. If there is one thing
that long-range shooting has taught me, it’s to be patient and to assess all of
the variables. A stiff breeze caressed the back of my neck. “I think we should
wait,” I responded.
While I was well practiced at the range, there were
two things working against me: the wind and the severe angle of the shot, both
of which can drastically affect your point of impact. There were three rams in
total and they were right in the middle of a basin that more closely resembled
the dark side of the moon than quality sheep range. There were a few scattered
patches of grass here and there but both Trevor and I felt the rams had to
move. And, no matter which direction they went, it put us in a position for a
better shot.
While we were content to wait, time was running out
quickly. Trevor and I sat on the Dall rams for the remainder of the day and
they never left the safety of the basin. I put the crosshairs on the big boy
several times but I just had a nagging feeling that I should wait. So just
before dark we elected to make the long descent to camp. Neither of us was in any
condition to spend another night on the mountain but the prospect of another
long climb back to the basin in the morning didn’t thrill us either. Common
sense finally overruled desire and we descended to the tents several thousand
feet below. It was a restless night in the tent as I constantly second guessed
my decision.
We were up early the next morning and overlooking
the basin once again. The rams had moved closer to the ridge on the east side of
the basin so we decided to make our way around the mountain and hopefully
intercept them as they ascended the ridge. It took us nearly three hours to
reach the ridge above them and much to our relief, they were still in the
bottom, right at the base of the ridge. The rangefinder now read 391 yards. I
was feeling much more confident. We assessed the situation and decided to make
our way down the ridge as far as we could without being detected.
It was a couple hours later when the largest ram,
the object of our attention, started to climb the ridge. He was coming up
further to the north than we had anticipated but we were pinned down and just
had to let things play out. I kept track of the ram through the binoculars. He
was 371 yards when I felt the wind brush the back of my neck. The ram came to
attention a few seconds later. Steadying the rifle on a rock, I found the ram
in the scope and placed the 350 yards crosshair high on his shoulder. While not
shooting had been the right decision till now, the time had come to shoot or
the ram would be gone. At the report of the 270WSM, the ram literally flipped
over in the air and landed with all four feet pointing skyward.
Sitting in the comfort of my office chair writing
this story, I have to admit that the hunt really wasn’t that bad. Sure, it took
us two days to get the ram and camp down to the river bottom where Bill could
pick us up with the Super Cub and sure Trevor strained his back so badly on the
pack out that he was forced to miss the next hunt because he basically couldn’t
walk but honestly it wasn’t that bad...not for a young guy like me anyhow. It’s
funny how time has a way of taking the harsh realities of hunts gone by and
leaving only those fond memories in the grey recesses of our minds. I’m already
planning this season’s backpack adventures. The polyester pants and Velcro
shoes are just going to have to wait and I’ve never really liked golf anyhow.
No comments:
Post a Comment