August 11th (Hunting Day #1)
Given the sun didn't really set last night, rather started to dim around 11pm, daylight had been present for a couple hours before I was rousted by the sounds of hobbled horses being rounded up by Ty. He would get up around 5am, look for where the horses fed that night, then move them toward camp where the freshest of the group would be saddled for the day's ride. No way to do that quietly, with the clanging of bells the horses wear at night and the thunder of their hooves when they realize a morning dose of grain might be had.
When I rolled from the tent, Jesse had coffee boiling, pancakes and bacon ready, with pannier boxes set for chairs. I was the last to emerge, with Riley and Jason helping Ty saddle the chosen horses for the day. Andy and Marcus were already one cup of coffee into the morning. I declined, knowing how my bum liver struggles to process caffeine, impacting my shooting when combined with the doses of adrenaline an encounter might provide. Morning coffee is my after-success-treat.
The guys explained that we'd likely ride for three hours, glassing along the way. They said it would be some "technical" riding, then smiled at my response. I asked what I should expect as "technical" riding terrain. It got a good laugh as we finished breakfast and grabbed our packs.
I was again on Flash. No longer worried about getting ahead of his friend "Chief," he was far more mellow today. I was thankful for his calmer demeanor and smoother stride, as today we were wearing full packs, compared to riding without packs on yesterday's trip to camp. Jason led the team, followed by whatever horse wanted to claim their place in the parade, which put me third in line, following behind Marcus, and ahead of Andy, Riley, and Ty, in that order.
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The first forty-five minutes took us through thick stuff, in a down-valley direction, eventually breaking out into a wide river course that was now only a few water braids each about 25-30 yards across and none more than a foot deep. From the scars high where rock walls redirected the river it was obvious this was a lower-than-normal flow for water that normally floods over this quarter-mile wide series of gravel bars.
We stopped to glass, using the river opening as a break from what otherwise was vegetation too thick to glass through or around. Way too much sheep terrain to cover thoroughly. Yet, when the guides broke out spotters, it was apparent that "thorough" was what they intended. So, five of us spent the next hour scouring the rocks and spines for white dots.
With nothing spotted, it was decided we'd follow this riverbed upstream to places the guides had previously seen sheep in other years. Each camp is only hunted once per season, sometimes only every other season. The area we could cover with horses was well over 100 square miles and it was exciting to know that nobody had hunted it since they took a ram last season. I'd come to witness how this strategy of resting immense areas for a year or two would provide an age class of sheep that was far beyond what I expected.
Before saddling, Riley showed me a wolverine track in the mud. As a trapper, tracks always gain my attention, especially tracks of rare critters. The number of grizzly tracks we'd seen so far quickly removed any novelty in seeing their tracks. Riley told me on his last hunt they had seen 16 different grizzlies.
Within about a half hour of riding, I got to see what they meant by technical riding. Actually, not real technical, just letting the horses slowly pick their way through the rocks that were growing in size and the pools that deepened as we climbed.
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Not long after the photo above, Riley found a wider corner in the river and climbed his horse a bit higher on the north berm, glassing a big cut to our south. He quickly dismounted and pointed at a steep angle to something on the cut running down from the spire's south side. We all followed his actions and looked for a place to tie off horses.
That white spot up there turned out to be a 3/4 curl ram. Bedded and all alone, he paid us no mind. The guides estimated him to be six years old. Each of us pecked around for glassing angles that might expose a hiding spot for another ram. After about a half hour it was determined that this guy was alone and we should continue upstream where after a very tight canyon the valley opened back up with a good glassing bench above a sweeping corner in the river course.
If I had to guess by looking at the path ahead, I would have expected the canyon to get tighter, not open wider. As we cleared this tight squeeze a ewe, a lamb, and a yearling watched from a couple hundred yards directly above our left side.
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Another hour of letting experienced mountain horses pick their way through the rocks, boulders, and pools, and the valley eventually widened as they had said it would, almost inviting a hunter to let his eyes explore this mostly unhunted expanse. On the north bank above that wide-arching corner was a great glassing bench. The horses were happy to leave the rocks and sidehill through some willows, the leaves of which they stripped and ate with remarkable dexterity as we rode along. Quickly we were on the boggy bench and tying off the horses to direct our glass to the many slopes that presented themselves.
I interrupt this hunt segment of the story to show Flash's favorite activity when we stopped to glass. Like me, he enjoys a nap, and he likes to do so in the prone position. Not aware of this trait, I had not taken my rifle from the scabbard. Jason, seeing Flash was about to lay down, rescued my Howa Superlite from a 2,000+ pound horse. I didn't have what it took to get Flash to stop napping, so I just went back to glassing.
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We spent a couple hours here. No sheep. Yet, a group of five caribou bulls sought refuge from heat and bugs on a mid-mountain bench about a mile to our east. And another pair of bulls lounged way higher up the mountain. None worth a Day One distraction from our sheep efforts.
We saddle up and retraced our route. It was now past 6pm. Riley texted Jesse with his inReach, advising her we'd likely be back to camp around 8:30. He was very close. When we returned, a hot dinner of caribou stew was waiting. Given the logistics (and extreme cost) of flying meat home from this hunt, a lot of caribou gets left behind as lower priority to sheep meat that gets taken home. That is to the benefit of hunters and the great meals filled with caribou meat.
It was a great day. Some rain, but nothing drenching. Enough wind to keep the bugs away. More amazing country that is so unique and so endless that it is hard to comprehend how many sheep, moose, and caribou must be in this hunting area.
Good stories were told by the guides. We were learning more of each other and I was thoroughly enjoying having Riley as my guide. He is 100% Canadian, Albertan, and with me growing up on the Canadian border of Minnesota, I think he enjoyed my indepth understanding of the quirks and fineries of Canadian culture. I suspect I even surprised him with a few of my anecdotes and experiences with Canadian foods, language, sports, and entertainment. It surely gave some good laughs.
A great camp in amazing country is enhanced even more with great campmates, which in this camp I had in great abundance. About 10:30, I had to retire to the tent. The morning called for steady rain, my least favorite hunting weather. Yet, to spend a day hunting in this country, I'd withstand a hurricane.
