Nothing comes easy, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. My
toenails have almost grown back now. The unforgiving mountains plucked them
loose off my blackened toes. The Mountains also laid claim to a black Iphone,
lost forever amongst similarly sized black shale. The Iphone was everything but
a phone for me. In order of importance it was: a topo map, a camera, and a
watch. I have but one extremely out of focus Go-Pro photo and no one to share memories with, only stories to tell.
I was on a solo backpacking bow hunt for dall sheep. I was slithering
through the grass like a snake towards a group of rams. I couldn’t close the
distance to within bow range so I changed my tactic. I was now stripped down to
my white, wool long underwear, crawling as sheep-like as possible, while angling towards the rams. As it turns out, I’m not a very convincing sheep.
Next I found myself with bow in hand, silent as a whisper, descending a cliff I wouldn't dare tackle without ropes, a harness, and a belay buddy... but for the the perfect shot, I'd do anything. The rams
were just out of range beneath me. As I sat perched on a ledge I was too
focused on the sheep below to see a different ram ambling along the very ledge I was on! I looked through my rangefinder: a full curl ram at 20 yards! This
was it, I’m deadly out to 70 when practicing. I knocked an arrow and went to draw
when I realized I wasn’t wearing my release! I’ve never fumbled with anything
so much in my life. By the time I had it on, the ram had seen me and was at a considerable
further distance. Being too frantic to re-range him I launched an arrow two inches
over his back. After missing such an opportunity, the walk of shame back to
where I’d left my pack for the stalk was far and felt even farther.
The following day, more vigorous hiking rewarded me with
another opportunity on a ram bedded at tree line. I was crab walking towards
him and almost within range. I accidently crab walked right into a big red ant
town. I held it together for quite some time but was being pinched to death and for once
it was almost a relief when the ram spooked and disappeared overtop the next creek drainage. His keen wit told me he was probably the same ram I had seen yesterday.
The next couple days I hiked from sun up to sun down- in the
land of the midnight sun, that’s saying something. I came close on a few more
stalks, one in particular it was foggy and pouring rain. I’d spotted a lone ram
and was able to walk right towards him when the fog rolled in, but as luck would
have it, the fog lifted when I was wide in the open. I laid flat on my back in the
pouring rain, soaked and hypothermic. I was shivering uncontrollably but was
trying to be completely motionless until the fog provided some cover. When I
finally got my opportunity I ranged the ram. Laser range finders it turns out, are
completely useless in the fog (I suppose the "laser" that normally bounces off the object and back, giving the distance, gets to disrupted). I guessed the sheep to be about 45 yards but
after my misjudgment on the first day I wasn’t going to risk it.
I woke up to raindrops on my face. The thought of carrying
an extra four pounds outweighed the luxury of a tent. And so I sat shivering under an
overhanging rock face until the sun started to rise. I watched far-off rams
butt heads. The resulting crack
reached me seconds later. Before long I was stalking those very rams. They were
below tree line so it was easy to stay out of sight. I knew exactly which ram I
was after. As I neared the sheep I caught a glimpse of white out of the corner
of my eye. Instinctively I ducked behind the buck brush. He wasn’t the one I
was after, but it was a legal ram walking right towards me. It was too good to
pass up. I made no mistake this time. I saw the arrow connect and after a short
pursuit I released the second and fatal shot. People say: “this is when the
real work begins”. I hate that saying. I was in total bliss as I trudged
through unimaginable willow thickets, creek beds, swamps and old burns with
150 pound pack of sheep on my back.
