Late Season Sheep Hunting

Late-season sheep hunting at its best...... -20 temperatures, a blizzard that dropped over a foot of snow, dehydration, lack of food and good times with a good buddy . No rams but did see a few. Dropped 9 pounds in four days. Had one hell of a scary trip out in some country that is best only accessed in the summer. One more kick at the cat tomorrow and the 2013 sheep season is a wrap.

Gana River Dall Sheep

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 Mackenzie Mountains for Dall sheep with Gana River Outfitters and it was day 5 or 6, I don’t remember exactly but I was exhausted. We’d covered well over 40 miles already, including moving camp three times and the 80 pound pack was taking its toll. We were in the process of yet another big move with full packs, hoping that a look over the 3,000 foot ridge to the north would yield the ever elusive rams we sought. Trevor Shulist, my guide, mumbled something about setting the record for the most miles that he’d ever covered on a backpack hunt. It was a record I was pleased not to hold but it seemed the sheep had other plans.

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.

 

 

The author hunted Dall sheep in 2010 with Gana River Outfitters, www.ganariver.com. He used a Rocky Mountain Rifle Thinhorn chambered in 270WSM and topped with a Zeiss 4.5-14x44 Conquest scope with Rapid Z 800 reticle. He was shooting Winchester Supreme ammunition with 140-grain Accubond bullets. He also used a set of Zeiss 10x45 Victory binoculars with integrated rangefinder

 

Tough as Nails

Well, we were supposed to be goat hunting this week but Vanessa took a very innocent looking fall on the way into goat camp and ended up breaking both her radius and ulna on her left arm. She was wearing a 55 pound pack at the time which likely caused the break. We fashioned a splint out of some branches and a tensor, made a sling out of one of my shirts and loaded her up with Tylenol before beginning the long journey out. We had a 2.5 hike through some very steep and very nasty terrain, then a one-hour quad ride on a very rough and sketchy trail, then 16 kms in the truck on a rough logging trail and finally a three hour drive on pavement to the hospital. She was one tough cookie and took it all in stride.

It just goes to show, however, that one needs to be prepared for the worst when out hunting because things can.....and will go wrong. Knowledge of first aid is critical, as is having the right gear with you paramount. It's a very bad injury that will require surgery but as always, it could have been worse.