ovis2
Well-known member
Congratulations on what I am sure was an excellent adventure and look forward to the details!
Bury Me In The Mackenzie Mountains
- Thread starter Big Fin
- Start date
Just walked in the door. Marcus high-graded and edited 275 of his 6,000 images from the trip. Sorry for the cell phone pics in the first post.
Gotta get dinner with Mrs. Fin. A few images from Marcus until I start telling the story in details.
Riley, my guide for the trip, getting horses ready.
Jason, Andy's guide, doing the same.
Harold, owner and operator of Gana River Outfitters, getting us ready.
Jesse, the cook and Ty, the wrangler.
Andy, as good of a guy as you could ever spend camp with. So glad he won the sweepstakes. A volunteer, conservation leader, hunter, husband, father, and all around great guy.
Accountants, on horses, in the mountains - the reason liability insurance premiums are so high for outfitters using horses to transport people like me.
I'll skip all the details of the drive (August 7th), customs, and the unique aspects of the Canadian equivalent of TSA (August 8th). Got there on August 9th, via drive to Edmonton, then fly from Edmonton to Yellowknife, to Inuvik, to Norman Wells, then to base camp.
By August 10th, all of us were more than ready to hit the trail for the seven hour ride to camp - 17 horses, 2 hunters, 2 guides, 1 wangler, 1 cook, and 1 very talented camera guy.
Gotta get dinner with Mrs. Fin. A few images from Marcus until I start telling the story in details.
Riley, my guide for the trip, getting horses ready.
Jason, Andy's guide, doing the same.
Harold, owner and operator of Gana River Outfitters, getting us ready.
Jesse, the cook and Ty, the wrangler.
Andy, as good of a guy as you could ever spend camp with. So glad he won the sweepstakes. A volunteer, conservation leader, hunter, husband, father, and all around great guy.
Accountants, on horses, in the mountains - the reason liability insurance premiums are so high for outfitters using horses to transport people like me.
I'll skip all the details of the drive (August 7th), customs, and the unique aspects of the Canadian equivalent of TSA (August 8th). Got there on August 9th, via drive to Edmonton, then fly from Edmonton to Yellowknife, to Inuvik, to Norman Wells, then to base camp.
By August 10th, all of us were more than ready to hit the trail for the seven hour ride to camp - 17 horses, 2 hunters, 2 guides, 1 wangler, 1 cook, and 1 very talented camera guy.
August 10th (ride in day)
Once the horses were loaded, it became apparent why the guides and wrangler wanted them in a certain order. So long as they were confined by a corridor of trees along the trail they stayed in that trailing order, even without being tethered to each other. Yet, once we hit an opening, they all wanted to be the lead horse and the race was on. Seriously, this was the closest thing to a horse race as I've ever been a part of. For folks who ride horses, it was a big smile. For me, it was "Hold on and don't get hurt."
I am sure it was funny for others to see me bouncing and jostling as though I was on an amusement park ride. I was mostly focused on the amazing country I was seeing. The geological colors are as diverse as I've ever seen - orange, purple, red, black, blue, white, and all colors in between. The water, silted in some area, was a deep aqua when given enough berth to shed the sediment. Waterfalls, creeks, caribou and grizzly tracks, deadheads, berries of every sort, spruce grouse dumb enough I could probably catch them by hand, and many other mesmerizing sights that made it hard to focus on riding a horse and dodging the willows slapping at my staring eyes.
As good as Marcus' images are and as talented as he is at capturing video, I don't know how video or photos can do justice to this landscape. Add to the fact that you know you are 90 miles from the nearest village, no roads, no motorized trails, no noises beyond the clicking of hooves and the gurgle of water pouring over rocks. I know there is not a chance my words will do justice to the vast beauty that I might try to describe of this landscape.
About half way we dismounted for a bit of a break. We were at an area with an old run down cabin and another newly constructed cabin. The guides told us we would come back here for the last few days of the hunt, given the area we were camping first only had enough grass for this many horses for five days, six at most. It was a nice break.
As is always the case when you spend your first day with new people, there's a lot of acclimation. I ask a ton of questions. I'm thankful for the patience with my continual inquiries. Just so much to absorb. I wish my buddy, Jim Baichtal, a trained geologist, was with me. He could likely answer a few of the many questions I posed.
As the horses widened their gap between each other, people were granted a reprieve from my questions. I just bounced along, eye alternating from the ridge lines to the tracks in the mud, soaking in the beauty. Even with the sound of horses, wind, and running water, my mind seemed to block out all the noises as I tried to absorb the visuals.
The ruggedness of the ridges made this place look like it was recent platonic shifting that created these slopes. Mostly forming mountains that run NW to SE, with the west slopes rising steadily, without much break to the slope until it reached the breaking point, where the east slope looked as if it had broke off a 500' thick layer and dropped it down into the valley. These east slopes were not just steep, but in most cases, unscalable without technical climbing gear.
Spruce dominated the trees where bog has formed over the eons since these mountains thrust upward. Many spruce along the horse trail were rubbed hard by grizzlies, with balls of bear fur stuck to the pitch and bark. Any place with creeks or water were mostly willows, with a few cottonwoods somehow finding a toehold. Every place with bog or moss was also covered with berries; soap berries, low bush cranberries, and blueberries thick enough to stain your clothes when you sit to glass.
"Easy on the eye, hard on the legs" would be the best first impression I took from this place. One often wonders if decades of dreaming would be adequately satisfied by the actual experience of being there. The Mackenzies are too stunning for my human mind to even conjure.
When we arrived at the camp site, known as "Lower Fritz," my questioning was deferred until we had horses unloaded, tents set, and camp arranged. A fine spot overlooking a long stretch of river that looked to be frequently flooded, given the scubby trees that barely found footing on the ever changing gravel bars. I was told it was a good place to catch the meandering caribou or to observe a foraging grizzly. The hills to the east look like sheep mountains if I'd ever seen any.
With camp arranged, Jesse put together a great caribou steak dinner. Takes a special talent to do all of this with a metal grate over a fire stoked by wood.
Before retiring to tents, the plan for tomorrow was discussed. I told the guides that this hunt is about Andy getting a sheep and telling a cool story about him, his volunteerism, and the work of the Arizona Desert Bighorn Sheep Society, the organization that put together the sweepstakes I helped with. To do that and do it well, we needed at least two days with Marcus filming both of us, after which I would depart and film myself with the large array of cameras the crew had instructed me to carry. So, even though we had two guides and the idea was that this would be 1 guide to 1 hunter, for purposes of the storyline, I asked if we could all go together for the first two days.
Both guides were willing to do that. They explained that splitting up would allow for covering more ground and likely encountering more sheep. I accepted that. I had a caribou tag, so if I ended up with a caribou for the cost of a sheep hunt, I'd accept that as a good outcome, so long as Andy got a ram.
We parted to our tents with Riley explaining that temps were to cool a bit and rain was likely for the next few days. Better hunting weather than the warm heat we endured while riding to camp on this day.
A few images on the ride in. Almost impossible to keep an eye on the trail. Just too much to absorb. Fortunately, my ride this day, Flash, was a big strong horse with a steady stride.
Around every corner was a new ridgeline reaching for the clouds, bearing teeth-like pinnacles along its spine, and discarding billions of tons of scree that gravity would eventually take down to the river. This landscape cares nothing about the human battle with gravity, or age. If landscapes fascinate you, as they do me, the Mackenzies will leave you speechless on most days.
Once the horses were loaded, it became apparent why the guides and wrangler wanted them in a certain order. So long as they were confined by a corridor of trees along the trail they stayed in that trailing order, even without being tethered to each other. Yet, once we hit an opening, they all wanted to be the lead horse and the race was on. Seriously, this was the closest thing to a horse race as I've ever been a part of. For folks who ride horses, it was a big smile. For me, it was "Hold on and don't get hurt."
I am sure it was funny for others to see me bouncing and jostling as though I was on an amusement park ride. I was mostly focused on the amazing country I was seeing. The geological colors are as diverse as I've ever seen - orange, purple, red, black, blue, white, and all colors in between. The water, silted in some area, was a deep aqua when given enough berth to shed the sediment. Waterfalls, creeks, caribou and grizzly tracks, deadheads, berries of every sort, spruce grouse dumb enough I could probably catch them by hand, and many other mesmerizing sights that made it hard to focus on riding a horse and dodging the willows slapping at my staring eyes.
As good as Marcus' images are and as talented as he is at capturing video, I don't know how video or photos can do justice to this landscape. Add to the fact that you know you are 90 miles from the nearest village, no roads, no motorized trails, no noises beyond the clicking of hooves and the gurgle of water pouring over rocks. I know there is not a chance my words will do justice to the vast beauty that I might try to describe of this landscape.
About half way we dismounted for a bit of a break. We were at an area with an old run down cabin and another newly constructed cabin. The guides told us we would come back here for the last few days of the hunt, given the area we were camping first only had enough grass for this many horses for five days, six at most. It was a nice break.
As is always the case when you spend your first day with new people, there's a lot of acclimation. I ask a ton of questions. I'm thankful for the patience with my continual inquiries. Just so much to absorb. I wish my buddy, Jim Baichtal, a trained geologist, was with me. He could likely answer a few of the many questions I posed.
As the horses widened their gap between each other, people were granted a reprieve from my questions. I just bounced along, eye alternating from the ridge lines to the tracks in the mud, soaking in the beauty. Even with the sound of horses, wind, and running water, my mind seemed to block out all the noises as I tried to absorb the visuals.
The ruggedness of the ridges made this place look like it was recent platonic shifting that created these slopes. Mostly forming mountains that run NW to SE, with the west slopes rising steadily, without much break to the slope until it reached the breaking point, where the east slope looked as if it had broke off a 500' thick layer and dropped it down into the valley. These east slopes were not just steep, but in most cases, unscalable without technical climbing gear.
Spruce dominated the trees where bog has formed over the eons since these mountains thrust upward. Many spruce along the horse trail were rubbed hard by grizzlies, with balls of bear fur stuck to the pitch and bark. Any place with creeks or water were mostly willows, with a few cottonwoods somehow finding a toehold. Every place with bog or moss was also covered with berries; soap berries, low bush cranberries, and blueberries thick enough to stain your clothes when you sit to glass.
"Easy on the eye, hard on the legs" would be the best first impression I took from this place. One often wonders if decades of dreaming would be adequately satisfied by the actual experience of being there. The Mackenzies are too stunning for my human mind to even conjure.
When we arrived at the camp site, known as "Lower Fritz," my questioning was deferred until we had horses unloaded, tents set, and camp arranged. A fine spot overlooking a long stretch of river that looked to be frequently flooded, given the scubby trees that barely found footing on the ever changing gravel bars. I was told it was a good place to catch the meandering caribou or to observe a foraging grizzly. The hills to the east look like sheep mountains if I'd ever seen any.
With camp arranged, Jesse put together a great caribou steak dinner. Takes a special talent to do all of this with a metal grate over a fire stoked by wood.
Before retiring to tents, the plan for tomorrow was discussed. I told the guides that this hunt is about Andy getting a sheep and telling a cool story about him, his volunteerism, and the work of the Arizona Desert Bighorn Sheep Society, the organization that put together the sweepstakes I helped with. To do that and do it well, we needed at least two days with Marcus filming both of us, after which I would depart and film myself with the large array of cameras the crew had instructed me to carry. So, even though we had two guides and the idea was that this would be 1 guide to 1 hunter, for purposes of the storyline, I asked if we could all go together for the first two days.
Both guides were willing to do that. They explained that splitting up would allow for covering more ground and likely encountering more sheep. I accepted that. I had a caribou tag, so if I ended up with a caribou for the cost of a sheep hunt, I'd accept that as a good outcome, so long as Andy got a ram.
We parted to our tents with Riley explaining that temps were to cool a bit and rain was likely for the next few days. Better hunting weather than the warm heat we endured while riding to camp on this day.
A few images on the ride in. Almost impossible to keep an eye on the trail. Just too much to absorb. Fortunately, my ride this day, Flash, was a big strong horse with a steady stride.
Around every corner was a new ridgeline reaching for the clouds, bearing teeth-like pinnacles along its spine, and discarding billions of tons of scree that gravity would eventually take down to the river. This landscape cares nothing about the human battle with gravity, or age. If landscapes fascinate you, as they do me, the Mackenzies will leave you speechless on most days.
Bambistew
Well-known member
That's some fine writing, very fine!
Great story so far.
Great story so far.
Last edited:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
August 12 (Hunting Day #2, Part 1)
Once again, the morning wake up was the bells and hooves of horses being rounded up. The rain had pelted the tent pretty hard last night. When I woke I could see the wall tent roof drooping near the eaves, where the tarp over the tent had retained many gallons of water. I stood from my sleeping bag and pushed. A lot of water rolled off the tent, warning me of the need for rain gear today.
Given the weight restrictions of the flight in, I had packed my Sitka Dew Point raingear rather than my normal bomb-proof Stormfront. Given the brush, rocks, and horses rubbing me against spruce trees, I was hoping I wouldn't regret opting for lightweight and packable. Oh well, nothing I can do about it now, so I lace my boots and head over for some French Toast, sausage, and scrambled eggs.
I pronounce to the crew that I'm the luckiest hunter they've ever had in a camp. They all chuckle. I shrug, indicating, "Well, it's just a state of mind, so I might as well feel lucky." They look at Marcus. He looks at them and nods his head towards me while wolfing down his breakfast. He knows this is one of my ways to mentally deal with my dislike for hunting in the rain. He and I smile in our mutual understanding of my quirks.
With breakfast devoured and the temptation for coffee again resisted, I jump (mostly climb) on the back of a new horse. Today, I have Tarzan. As I get atop, I thump my chest and do my best Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan call. All I get is strange glances, other than Andy, who smiles without breaking into all out laughter. Obviously we have a "generation gap" this morning, with me being 25 years older than Marcus, who happens to be a couple years older than the most elderly of our crew.
Riley and Jason informed us that we'd follow part of yesterday's track but rather than cutting up the tight canyon, we'd cross that river and continue further down the valley to the next big drainage that flows into the main river along which we've set our camp. Sounds good to me, but if we don't get a lift in the cloud cover, we're not gonna see much.
The horses know the trail. They take us way faster than a man could walk, especially with a heavy pack in the rock and water. We cross the riverbed we had followed upstream yesterday. We're now in the saddle for about an hour when we finally hit the next drainage coming in from our left, the west.
About this time my mind, when not immersed in the wonder of this place, is thinking about the near impossibility of hunting this country without quality horses. I am thankful to have such at my disposal on this cloudy morning
We get to a big rock wash, known by these guys as Desolation. It flows from a high drainage far to our southwest, getting wider and tamer as it confluences with the main river. This openness found at this wide delta, just before joining the bigger river, makes for good glassing in all directions.
We all dismount and tie off. Low cloud levels obscure the best looking "sheepy" peaks. We're all looking east and southeast to the huge slopes of rock and screen that are interrupted by green streaks where grass somehow finds enough soil and water to provide sheep with fresh forage. The clouds are coming and going, making a grid pattern difficult to maintain.
Andy gets up and moves to the other end of the gravel bar and starts looking northeast. As I turn to ask him a question, he whistles for Jason and Riley. He's spotted a lone sheep on the edge of a finger of spruce flowing down the mountain. Everyone turns their glass to that direction.
It's hard to see. The spruce are obscuring a good look. Add in the drizzle, and judging a ram at two miles is not feasible. As we wait for a better view, two more white dots are moving around further below in even thicker spruce.
The clouds and mist start to open. The ram higher up the slope looks decent. We just need a better look. After a bit the upper ram feeds through a small opening, taking him uphill and away from us. I'm not a sheep judge, but he looked very good. Flared wide with good mass. I know enough to never judge any species from behind, but this guy surely seemed to exceed what I was looking for.
I look at Riley. He gives the "could have potential" look. I wait for Andy and Jason to give their thoughts. As I would come to learn, Jason isn't one to waste excitement on unknowns and uncertainty. Andy raises his eyebrows as if to say, "I'd like to check him out from a closer distance."
It takes a little while for the other two rams to follow the leader. As they cross, it's plain to all that the lead ram is the biggest. Just how big, we'll have to get closer to find out.
With all the rams around the corner of that spruce ridge, the guides mount and we ride our horses a mile to a long curving rock slide where we tie off. The plan is made that we'll all go up the mountain, with Andy and Jason making the last of the stalk in the event this ram meets Andy's wishes. Marcus will follow to film. Riley, me, and Ty will tag along for most of the stalk, short stopping behind the ridge forming the basin we suspect the sheep have fed into.
Before we leave I hear the guys talking that their might have been other rams ahead of the bigger ram. Someone makes reference about a two-fer possibility. I tell them that Marcus and I tried that on our Alaska Dall sheep hunt, only to turn a "two-fer" an "0-fer." I tell Marcus that I am not bringing my rifle. This is Andy's stalk and I'm not risking the temptation to get greedy and hope for a 2-fer. I also stash my spotter and tripod in some trees next to my rifle.
We've got to hike up this rock chute for another mile. Everyone is pretty excited, so the pace is brisk. I'm following along, enjoying a close-to-empty pack, hoping I can fill it with sheep meat after Andy shoots this ram. Ty is behind me, smiling every time I look back to see where he's at. No worries, this 20 year-old is easily staying on my heels.
Though we are hiking close to each other Andy and I don't really say anything on the hike up. Our minds are occupied and I suspect we are both thinking about a lot of things. I'm thinking about it being Day Two of a ten-day hunt, about the low-visibility weather that can cut ten-day sheep hunts in half, about the pressure to get two nice rams in the next nine days, and how exciting it will be if Andy gets this ram.
We get to the elevation we suspect the sheep are at. Jason is going to lead Andy higher and hope that he can get a good view down into that basin littered with spruce trees. Riley tells Jason that he will stay here with me and Ty. "Come get us when the shootin's over, eh."
I see the guys disappear in the mist. Riley and I visit and he tells me stories about hunts on many slopes that are barely visible in these clouds. The mist starts to turn to steady rain. This weather sucks, but if I'm going to endure crappy weather the Mackenzies are the place I'd like to "suffer" through it. After a half hour Riley breaks out his small stove, boils some water, and starts asking what tea I want. I opt for the Pomegranate-Raspberry. He looks at me, "I didn't read you for a Pomegranate kind of guy." I smile, happy to be getting hot fluid on this cool, wet, day.
(continued)
Once again, the morning wake up was the bells and hooves of horses being rounded up. The rain had pelted the tent pretty hard last night. When I woke I could see the wall tent roof drooping near the eaves, where the tarp over the tent had retained many gallons of water. I stood from my sleeping bag and pushed. A lot of water rolled off the tent, warning me of the need for rain gear today.
Given the weight restrictions of the flight in, I had packed my Sitka Dew Point raingear rather than my normal bomb-proof Stormfront. Given the brush, rocks, and horses rubbing me against spruce trees, I was hoping I wouldn't regret opting for lightweight and packable. Oh well, nothing I can do about it now, so I lace my boots and head over for some French Toast, sausage, and scrambled eggs.
I pronounce to the crew that I'm the luckiest hunter they've ever had in a camp. They all chuckle. I shrug, indicating, "Well, it's just a state of mind, so I might as well feel lucky." They look at Marcus. He looks at them and nods his head towards me while wolfing down his breakfast. He knows this is one of my ways to mentally deal with my dislike for hunting in the rain. He and I smile in our mutual understanding of my quirks.
With breakfast devoured and the temptation for coffee again resisted, I jump (mostly climb) on the back of a new horse. Today, I have Tarzan. As I get atop, I thump my chest and do my best Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan call. All I get is strange glances, other than Andy, who smiles without breaking into all out laughter. Obviously we have a "generation gap" this morning, with me being 25 years older than Marcus, who happens to be a couple years older than the most elderly of our crew.
Riley and Jason informed us that we'd follow part of yesterday's track but rather than cutting up the tight canyon, we'd cross that river and continue further down the valley to the next big drainage that flows into the main river along which we've set our camp. Sounds good to me, but if we don't get a lift in the cloud cover, we're not gonna see much.
The horses know the trail. They take us way faster than a man could walk, especially with a heavy pack in the rock and water. We cross the riverbed we had followed upstream yesterday. We're now in the saddle for about an hour when we finally hit the next drainage coming in from our left, the west.
About this time my mind, when not immersed in the wonder of this place, is thinking about the near impossibility of hunting this country without quality horses. I am thankful to have such at my disposal on this cloudy morning
We get to a big rock wash, known by these guys as Desolation. It flows from a high drainage far to our southwest, getting wider and tamer as it confluences with the main river. This openness found at this wide delta, just before joining the bigger river, makes for good glassing in all directions.
We all dismount and tie off. Low cloud levels obscure the best looking "sheepy" peaks. We're all looking east and southeast to the huge slopes of rock and screen that are interrupted by green streaks where grass somehow finds enough soil and water to provide sheep with fresh forage. The clouds are coming and going, making a grid pattern difficult to maintain.
Andy gets up and moves to the other end of the gravel bar and starts looking northeast. As I turn to ask him a question, he whistles for Jason and Riley. He's spotted a lone sheep on the edge of a finger of spruce flowing down the mountain. Everyone turns their glass to that direction.
It's hard to see. The spruce are obscuring a good look. Add in the drizzle, and judging a ram at two miles is not feasible. As we wait for a better view, two more white dots are moving around further below in even thicker spruce.
The clouds and mist start to open. The ram higher up the slope looks decent. We just need a better look. After a bit the upper ram feeds through a small opening, taking him uphill and away from us. I'm not a sheep judge, but he looked very good. Flared wide with good mass. I know enough to never judge any species from behind, but this guy surely seemed to exceed what I was looking for.
I look at Riley. He gives the "could have potential" look. I wait for Andy and Jason to give their thoughts. As I would come to learn, Jason isn't one to waste excitement on unknowns and uncertainty. Andy raises his eyebrows as if to say, "I'd like to check him out from a closer distance."
It takes a little while for the other two rams to follow the leader. As they cross, it's plain to all that the lead ram is the biggest. Just how big, we'll have to get closer to find out.
With all the rams around the corner of that spruce ridge, the guides mount and we ride our horses a mile to a long curving rock slide where we tie off. The plan is made that we'll all go up the mountain, with Andy and Jason making the last of the stalk in the event this ram meets Andy's wishes. Marcus will follow to film. Riley, me, and Ty will tag along for most of the stalk, short stopping behind the ridge forming the basin we suspect the sheep have fed into.
Before we leave I hear the guys talking that their might have been other rams ahead of the bigger ram. Someone makes reference about a two-fer possibility. I tell them that Marcus and I tried that on our Alaska Dall sheep hunt, only to turn a "two-fer" an "0-fer." I tell Marcus that I am not bringing my rifle. This is Andy's stalk and I'm not risking the temptation to get greedy and hope for a 2-fer. I also stash my spotter and tripod in some trees next to my rifle.
We've got to hike up this rock chute for another mile. Everyone is pretty excited, so the pace is brisk. I'm following along, enjoying a close-to-empty pack, hoping I can fill it with sheep meat after Andy shoots this ram. Ty is behind me, smiling every time I look back to see where he's at. No worries, this 20 year-old is easily staying on my heels.
Though we are hiking close to each other Andy and I don't really say anything on the hike up. Our minds are occupied and I suspect we are both thinking about a lot of things. I'm thinking about it being Day Two of a ten-day hunt, about the low-visibility weather that can cut ten-day sheep hunts in half, about the pressure to get two nice rams in the next nine days, and how exciting it will be if Andy gets this ram.
We get to the elevation we suspect the sheep are at. Jason is going to lead Andy higher and hope that he can get a good view down into that basin littered with spruce trees. Riley tells Jason that he will stay here with me and Ty. "Come get us when the shootin's over, eh."
I see the guys disappear in the mist. Riley and I visit and he tells me stories about hunts on many slopes that are barely visible in these clouds. The mist starts to turn to steady rain. This weather sucks, but if I'm going to endure crappy weather the Mackenzies are the place I'd like to "suffer" through it. After a half hour Riley breaks out his small stove, boils some water, and starts asking what tea I want. I opt for the Pomegranate-Raspberry. He looks at me, "I didn't read you for a Pomegranate kind of guy." I smile, happy to be getting hot fluid on this cool, wet, day.
(continued)
Bluffgruff
Well-known member
I really appreciate your taking the time to write us a story to go along with the pictures! It gives a sense of what's going on in your head while you're on the journey that allows us to join you vicariously. It's my favorite kind of reading, and I'm looking forward to the rest!
August 12 (Hunting Day #2, Part 2)
Another half hour passes I see Jason sneaking back to our position. Riley climbs a small bit to meet him. They talk for a few minutes. With rain pelting the hood of my rain gear, I'm not sure of their conversation. I see hand gestures and it looks like they are pointing at me.
Riley comes to me, “Jason says Andy is passing on this ram. Marcus thinks it might be something you might shoot. We should go check him out.”
Even with my rifle at the horses, I know Andy has his Howa up on the ridge with Marcus. I look at Riley with a big smile, "Sounds good to me. Let's go." Or as those familiar with Canadian hockey vernacular would say, "Skoden."
We move forward; Riley, me, Jason, followed by Ty. Jason points to a rock Riley might be able to get a look from. It's about 30 yards below where we see Andy and Marcus glassing hard down into the basin. It's now pelting rain and the wind is blowing downhill at a good clip.
Riley has his spotter set up and turns to me. He waves me up. I climb the ten yards to his position. Riley looks from his spotter and points for me to look at the ram in his spotter. I crawl forward while he leans aside. I take a look through the rain and spruce, seeing only a ram's neck and head.
My immediate impression is, "Damn, that thing looks really big through a spotting scope at 280 yards." Riley correctly reads my "Is he as big as I think" expression, and nods his head. We peel off the ridge a couple steps where we can talk and not be seen.
Riley asks, "Do you like that ram?"
Me, ”Yes, I’d shoot that ram the first morning. I just need Andy’s rifle.”
Riley, "What do you mean? Where's your rifle?"
Me, "I left it with the horses. I didn't want to mess up Andy's stalk. Andy has the same Howa and scope that I use. I have many of that model. It'll be fine."
Riley seems in disbelief. His hunter hikes up the hill without his rifle. I assure him it's no big deal.
I start doing a game of charades with hand and arm signals to tell Andy that I need him to bring his rifle down to me. Finally he interprets my signals and starts sneaking as low to the rocks as possible. Little do we know that the lower ram is looking right at Andy and Marcus.
Riley moves forward and starts ranging. He motions to Andy to stop his descent. It's too late. My instructions to Andy were the wrong thing at the wrong time. We all watch as the rams trot up the spruce line and disappear.
Riley is obviously disappointed, but he does a good job of hiding it. He drops down to talk to Jason. I look up and Marcus is waiving us up to his position. The sheep have stopped and in range of him. When we get there the sheep are going uphill through a small cut that takes them out of view.
If they’re out of our view, we are out of their view. Riley starts across the scree slope as Andy finishes handing me his rifle with eight rounds. Maybe we’ll get to see if I can hit anything with this Randy Newberg signature series Howa.
I follow Riley across the scree, with Marcus on my heels. It’s tough going. Riley scrambles uphill to a sheep trail that takes us across the scree with far less noise and time.
We quickly get to other side where a small string of trees runs uphill for about two hundred yards. Riley heads straight uphill. Damn, this is steep. Marcus is behind Riley. I’m trying to keep up with two guys whose combined age is about my own. Gotta keep climbing.
Riley and Marcus see the sheep emerge from the cut above and to our left, angling uphill ahead of us, taking a vector slightly to our right that has them crossing ahead 250 yards.
Riley turns to look for me. I'm right behind him, dropping my pack and working on a shooting position, should the chance present. There they are. Bunched together on the skyline.
Better get ready, Randy, this could happen. The best shooting location is still a terrible shooting position. I'm adjust packs and trying not to slide down this steep wet slope. I go prone. It's my only option.
The sheep keep moving. Riley reads out, “248. They’re skylined, don’t shoot. Ok, they’re moving. He’s the one in front. 270. The big one’s in lead.”
While he’s doing this I’m trying to firm up my shooting position. My mind goes back to 2021 when I botched a steep angle opportunity on a Montana mountain goat; two days in a row. Focus and address the rifle properly, Randy; you don't need a repeat of that mistake.
I’m prone, digging in my toes and knees to not slide further down this 35 degree slope. My pack, my only option for a rest, is trying to succumb to gravity. I fight to reposition it.
The sheep stay bunched up at 270 yards, offering no shot. Riley continues to caution me not to shoot. That short time is helpful. My crosshairs are finally starting to stabilize after several breathing cycles. Adrenaline and a steep climb to get here are a hard mix with this difficult shooting position.
The rams are grouped tightly, looking down, I suspect trying to see through the rain as to what is below them. That gives time for a test of my streadiness. Through the rain hammering my objective lens, I find that by using my bino harness and a fist as my elevation stabilizer and my pack lid as my windage stabilizer, I can hold pretty firm at the bottom of my breathing cycle. This is probably as good as it’s gonna get.
Riley tells me they are moving again, “He’s back in the lead. Take him if he stops.”
Marcus confirms he’s on them and rolling on what has to be one of the craziest rodeos he's ever had to film. In a pouring rain, nonetheless.
The ram stops. Riley gives me, “298.”
I check the dial. It’s at 300. The lead ram stops a few steps ahead of the others. I hold for a lower third shot, just behind the front shoulder.
Instinct takes over. As the breathing cycle is about to bottom out the crosshairs are where I want them. The trigger breaks and the 142 grain AccuBond LR from a 6.5 PRC is on its way. The ram drops. Riley proclaims a good hit. The ram is quickly back on his feet stumbling right and tries to find balance in a cluster of three scrubby spruce that somehow found purchase on this steep scree slope.
The ram staggers and wobbles. Riley instructs to stay on him. I have no option for a follow up as the ram struggles to stay level and presents no shot angle. I keep the crosshairs on him. He falls to his side and gives a couple kicks. He gives one last buck that sends him starting down the rocks towards us.
As the ram gains some speed Riley announces, “Here he comes.”
Amazingly, his horn tips dig into a patch of dirt and scree. He comes to a stop, face planted downhill. He’s still a long ways above. I hope he stays there. If he starts rolling again, he’ll be doing Mach 1 by the time he bounces past our position.
Unbelievable. I look at Riley and Marcus. Huge smiles and excitement. I look down below to my right. Andy, Jason, and Ty are watching. I raise my hands to give them the signal of a great outcome.
With a running exit to follow Riley's pursuit, Marcus could only grab the few things he needed for the task and left the rest behind. How he captured this is beyond me. As he scrambled down to the position of the other guys to gather up the items he left behind, I again thanked my lucky stars that I have someone as talented as Marcus always ready to film the most difficult hunts, smiling all the while.
Riley and I move up, slowly, to a small flat spot from which the rams first emerged. We wait for the crew there with Riley explaining how we’d slowly ease the ram down the scree to this flatter location, a place far more suited to quartering and caping. How he intended to do that, I wasn’t sure. It was at least 200 yards down a very treacherous pitch.
By the time the rest of the crew got to this small bench, it was raining even harder.
We climbed to where the ram was hung up.
He was bigger than I thought, though my amateur eyes aren’t a qualified judge of a standing ram at 280 yards. From the look of Riley, Jason, and Andy, I suspect the ram was bigger than any of us expected. A few photos at that location and the ram was starting to slide.
Riley, Jason, and Ty claimed they could ease him the 200 yards down this scree without damaging anything. I thought they were just going to let him roll. Nope. I’d call it a controlled skid, with one guy doing his best to hold up the back legs while the other two each lifted from a horn. It is obvious that they’ve done this before.
(continued)
Another half hour passes I see Jason sneaking back to our position. Riley climbs a small bit to meet him. They talk for a few minutes. With rain pelting the hood of my rain gear, I'm not sure of their conversation. I see hand gestures and it looks like they are pointing at me.
Riley comes to me, “Jason says Andy is passing on this ram. Marcus thinks it might be something you might shoot. We should go check him out.”
Even with my rifle at the horses, I know Andy has his Howa up on the ridge with Marcus. I look at Riley with a big smile, "Sounds good to me. Let's go." Or as those familiar with Canadian hockey vernacular would say, "Skoden."
We move forward; Riley, me, Jason, followed by Ty. Jason points to a rock Riley might be able to get a look from. It's about 30 yards below where we see Andy and Marcus glassing hard down into the basin. It's now pelting rain and the wind is blowing downhill at a good clip.
Riley has his spotter set up and turns to me. He waves me up. I climb the ten yards to his position. Riley looks from his spotter and points for me to look at the ram in his spotter. I crawl forward while he leans aside. I take a look through the rain and spruce, seeing only a ram's neck and head.
My immediate impression is, "Damn, that thing looks really big through a spotting scope at 280 yards." Riley correctly reads my "Is he as big as I think" expression, and nods his head. We peel off the ridge a couple steps where we can talk and not be seen.
Riley asks, "Do you like that ram?"
Me, ”Yes, I’d shoot that ram the first morning. I just need Andy’s rifle.”
Riley, "What do you mean? Where's your rifle?"
Me, "I left it with the horses. I didn't want to mess up Andy's stalk. Andy has the same Howa and scope that I use. I have many of that model. It'll be fine."
Riley seems in disbelief. His hunter hikes up the hill without his rifle. I assure him it's no big deal.
I start doing a game of charades with hand and arm signals to tell Andy that I need him to bring his rifle down to me. Finally he interprets my signals and starts sneaking as low to the rocks as possible. Little do we know that the lower ram is looking right at Andy and Marcus.
Riley moves forward and starts ranging. He motions to Andy to stop his descent. It's too late. My instructions to Andy were the wrong thing at the wrong time. We all watch as the rams trot up the spruce line and disappear.
Riley is obviously disappointed, but he does a good job of hiding it. He drops down to talk to Jason. I look up and Marcus is waiving us up to his position. The sheep have stopped and in range of him. When we get there the sheep are going uphill through a small cut that takes them out of view.
If they’re out of our view, we are out of their view. Riley starts across the scree slope as Andy finishes handing me his rifle with eight rounds. Maybe we’ll get to see if I can hit anything with this Randy Newberg signature series Howa.
I follow Riley across the scree, with Marcus on my heels. It’s tough going. Riley scrambles uphill to a sheep trail that takes us across the scree with far less noise and time.
We quickly get to other side where a small string of trees runs uphill for about two hundred yards. Riley heads straight uphill. Damn, this is steep. Marcus is behind Riley. I’m trying to keep up with two guys whose combined age is about my own. Gotta keep climbing.
Riley and Marcus see the sheep emerge from the cut above and to our left, angling uphill ahead of us, taking a vector slightly to our right that has them crossing ahead 250 yards.
Riley turns to look for me. I'm right behind him, dropping my pack and working on a shooting position, should the chance present. There they are. Bunched together on the skyline.
Better get ready, Randy, this could happen. The best shooting location is still a terrible shooting position. I'm adjust packs and trying not to slide down this steep wet slope. I go prone. It's my only option.
The sheep keep moving. Riley reads out, “248. They’re skylined, don’t shoot. Ok, they’re moving. He’s the one in front. 270. The big one’s in lead.”
While he’s doing this I’m trying to firm up my shooting position. My mind goes back to 2021 when I botched a steep angle opportunity on a Montana mountain goat; two days in a row. Focus and address the rifle properly, Randy; you don't need a repeat of that mistake.
I’m prone, digging in my toes and knees to not slide further down this 35 degree slope. My pack, my only option for a rest, is trying to succumb to gravity. I fight to reposition it.
The sheep stay bunched up at 270 yards, offering no shot. Riley continues to caution me not to shoot. That short time is helpful. My crosshairs are finally starting to stabilize after several breathing cycles. Adrenaline and a steep climb to get here are a hard mix with this difficult shooting position.
The rams are grouped tightly, looking down, I suspect trying to see through the rain as to what is below them. That gives time for a test of my streadiness. Through the rain hammering my objective lens, I find that by using my bino harness and a fist as my elevation stabilizer and my pack lid as my windage stabilizer, I can hold pretty firm at the bottom of my breathing cycle. This is probably as good as it’s gonna get.
Riley tells me they are moving again, “He’s back in the lead. Take him if he stops.”
Marcus confirms he’s on them and rolling on what has to be one of the craziest rodeos he's ever had to film. In a pouring rain, nonetheless.
The ram stops. Riley gives me, “298.”
I check the dial. It’s at 300. The lead ram stops a few steps ahead of the others. I hold for a lower third shot, just behind the front shoulder.
Instinct takes over. As the breathing cycle is about to bottom out the crosshairs are where I want them. The trigger breaks and the 142 grain AccuBond LR from a 6.5 PRC is on its way. The ram drops. Riley proclaims a good hit. The ram is quickly back on his feet stumbling right and tries to find balance in a cluster of three scrubby spruce that somehow found purchase on this steep scree slope.
The ram staggers and wobbles. Riley instructs to stay on him. I have no option for a follow up as the ram struggles to stay level and presents no shot angle. I keep the crosshairs on him. He falls to his side and gives a couple kicks. He gives one last buck that sends him starting down the rocks towards us.
As the ram gains some speed Riley announces, “Here he comes.”
Amazingly, his horn tips dig into a patch of dirt and scree. He comes to a stop, face planted downhill. He’s still a long ways above. I hope he stays there. If he starts rolling again, he’ll be doing Mach 1 by the time he bounces past our position.
Unbelievable. I look at Riley and Marcus. Huge smiles and excitement. I look down below to my right. Andy, Jason, and Ty are watching. I raise my hands to give them the signal of a great outcome.
With a running exit to follow Riley's pursuit, Marcus could only grab the few things he needed for the task and left the rest behind. How he captured this is beyond me. As he scrambled down to the position of the other guys to gather up the items he left behind, I again thanked my lucky stars that I have someone as talented as Marcus always ready to film the most difficult hunts, smiling all the while.
Riley and I move up, slowly, to a small flat spot from which the rams first emerged. We wait for the crew there with Riley explaining how we’d slowly ease the ram down the scree to this flatter location, a place far more suited to quartering and caping. How he intended to do that, I wasn’t sure. It was at least 200 yards down a very treacherous pitch.
By the time the rest of the crew got to this small bench, it was raining even harder.
We climbed to where the ram was hung up.
He was bigger than I thought, though my amateur eyes aren’t a qualified judge of a standing ram at 280 yards. From the look of Riley, Jason, and Andy, I suspect the ram was bigger than any of us expected. A few photos at that location and the ram was starting to slide.
Riley, Jason, and Ty claimed they could ease him the 200 yards down this scree without damaging anything. I thought they were just going to let him roll. Nope. I’d call it a controlled skid, with one guy doing his best to hold up the back legs while the other two each lifted from a horn. It is obvious that they’ve done this before.
(continued)
August 12 (Hunting Day #2, Part 3)
From above, Andy and I marveled at how these guys did this. Marcus joined us for the “scree skiing” down a chute far enough aside so any rocks we displaced wouldn’t endanger the crew moving the ram.
Everyone got to this flat perch with far more ease than the climb up. Now time for photos and skinning in some serious rain and wind. With the tag notched, Marcus started with his big camera and then took bursts with the new iPhone 15s we decided to use a lot on this hunt. These are from his big camera.
Now it was skinning time. I’m normally one to demand that I get to do the guttin’ and gillin’. Riley talked about how he did it and I was interested to learn. So I was content to hold legs, pull on hide, and take notes. Always interesting to see the many different ways to cape, skin, and quarter an animal. Riley and Jason have some effective manners that I was interested to see.
(continued)
From above, Andy and I marveled at how these guys did this. Marcus joined us for the “scree skiing” down a chute far enough aside so any rocks we displaced wouldn’t endanger the crew moving the ram.
Everyone got to this flat perch with far more ease than the climb up. Now time for photos and skinning in some serious rain and wind. With the tag notched, Marcus started with his big camera and then took bursts with the new iPhone 15s we decided to use a lot on this hunt. These are from his big camera.
Now it was skinning time. I’m normally one to demand that I get to do the guttin’ and gillin’. Riley talked about how he did it and I was interested to learn. So I was content to hold legs, pull on hide, and take notes. Always interesting to see the many different ways to cape, skin, and quarter an animal. Riley and Jason have some effective manners that I was interested to see.
(continued)
August 12 (Hunting Day #2, Part 4)
About half way through the skinning the rain stopped. A few minutes later and the sun burst through. My first unclouded look at this country from above. Stunning, simply stunning; beyond words.
Marcus siezed this rare combination of light and landscapes to take images that are incredible. He’s done some great work, though I suspect he’d agree this was a rare opportunity for epic results.
With more images to be captured, we split the sheep load among five of us, Andy taking the biggest load. Marcus filmed and photo’d as we each picked our own trail through a mile of boulders and scree. Easy does it.
I was the last in line, trying to absorb a lot of things. How did I get so lucky to be in such an incredible place with five great people and a ram of my dreams on my back?
Even the bittersweet reality that I never again get to do this and that I'll likely never again ride horse and hike through this world class landscape could not remove the smile, maybe even a smirk, from my face.
Hiking out, I thought about my Uncle Elton, the equivalent of my older brother, taken too soon by brain cancer. He always planned to do things when he retired, rolling the dice his health would last. It didn’t. He lost that gamble.
The last time we spent together in the field was him joining me on a trapline in Montana. The final afternoon of that trip our eyes met. I saw a body ravaged by a fight for life, with cancer, chemo, and radiation extracting an unfair toll.
When our eyes met, he knew me well enough that I was assessing his chances and my assessment was bleak. While still locked in each other’s focus he told me something that has stuck with me since then and changed a lot of how I approach life.
With all the honesty he could muster and the disappointment he couldn’t hide, Elton laid down profound words to live by, “Randy, don’t ever confuse breathing’ with livin’. I might be breathin', but I ain’t livin.”
In our last embrace a month before he died, he couldn’t stand. He moved to the edge of his recliner, reached up with his arms. I knelt down and whispered in his ear how much he’d done to make my life what it is. I let him know I loved him.
He was whispered back, “Keep livin’. I love you too.”
Well, thanks to Uncle Elton, this trip, and much of my life, is about “livin.” We’re all breathin’. I promised him I’d keep livin’ and that’s what I intend to do.
As I lagged behind the crew chattering down through the rocks, I smiled even bigger. I don’t know how long I’ll be on this planet, but so long as I am, I intend to do all the livin’ I can. And we've got eight more days to do a lot of that.
None of this landscape story would be here for the rest of the world to see if not for Marcus, the hardest working, most enthusiastic, and most talented person in this industry. Daily, I am grateful he is on our team.
About half way through the skinning the rain stopped. A few minutes later and the sun burst through. My first unclouded look at this country from above. Stunning, simply stunning; beyond words.
Marcus siezed this rare combination of light and landscapes to take images that are incredible. He’s done some great work, though I suspect he’d agree this was a rare opportunity for epic results.
With more images to be captured, we split the sheep load among five of us, Andy taking the biggest load. Marcus filmed and photo’d as we each picked our own trail through a mile of boulders and scree. Easy does it.
I was the last in line, trying to absorb a lot of things. How did I get so lucky to be in such an incredible place with five great people and a ram of my dreams on my back?
Even the bittersweet reality that I never again get to do this and that I'll likely never again ride horse and hike through this world class landscape could not remove the smile, maybe even a smirk, from my face.
Hiking out, I thought about my Uncle Elton, the equivalent of my older brother, taken too soon by brain cancer. He always planned to do things when he retired, rolling the dice his health would last. It didn’t. He lost that gamble.
The last time we spent together in the field was him joining me on a trapline in Montana. The final afternoon of that trip our eyes met. I saw a body ravaged by a fight for life, with cancer, chemo, and radiation extracting an unfair toll.
When our eyes met, he knew me well enough that I was assessing his chances and my assessment was bleak. While still locked in each other’s focus he told me something that has stuck with me since then and changed a lot of how I approach life.
With all the honesty he could muster and the disappointment he couldn’t hide, Elton laid down profound words to live by, “Randy, don’t ever confuse breathing’ with livin’. I might be breathin', but I ain’t livin.”
In our last embrace a month before he died, he couldn’t stand. He moved to the edge of his recliner, reached up with his arms. I knelt down and whispered in his ear how much he’d done to make my life what it is. I let him know I loved him.
He was whispered back, “Keep livin’. I love you too.”
Well, thanks to Uncle Elton, this trip, and much of my life, is about “livin.” We’re all breathin’. I promised him I’d keep livin’ and that’s what I intend to do.
As I lagged behind the crew chattering down through the rocks, I smiled even bigger. I don’t know how long I’ll be on this planet, but so long as I am, I intend to do all the livin’ I can. And we've got eight more days to do a lot of that.
None of this landscape story would be here for the rest of the world to see if not for Marcus, the hardest working, most enthusiastic, and most talented person in this industry. Daily, I am grateful he is on our team.
Addicting
Well-known member
Very cool Randy, I am envious of you living out your dreams.
Hilljackoutlaw
Well-known member
- Joined
- Jan 15, 2019
- Messages
- 7,481
Captivating writing Randy. Really feel like I'm there with you. Just unbelievable landscape I can't wrap my head around how big and beautiful it looks. Thanks for taking the time to share it in this manner.
BAKPAKR
Well-known member
You are taking “livin’” to the extreme! Congrats, and thanks for sharing your adventure.
duckhunt
Well-known member
What an awsome hunt of a lifetime. That quote from your uncle really makes a guy think about life a little differently.
Salmonchaser
Well-known member
- Joined
- Nov 12, 2019
- Messages
- 3,143
Wow!
Awesome story so far and a great trophy! I'm always amazed at country like that and how rugged it can be. You are always so humble and brag up others like Marcus but you set a pretty high bar for grit and determination yourself! Congratulations, and thank you for sharing this wonderful story. Can't wait to read more.
MTHunter1321
Well-known member
Fantastic way to spend a Sunday morning drinking coffee. Amazing Ram and even better pictures to document your adventure! Congrats to all.
Taking Mrs. Fin for here morning coffee. Eight days of hunting yet to write about when I return. One more sheep tag, two caribou tags, and four wolf tags yet to fill.
Hope I can wrap it up today.
If ever I’ve felt I was hunting in the Pleistocene, it was this trip. I wouldn’t have been surprised if a Cave Bear, Saber Toothed Tiger, or Irish Elk appeared.
A place so incredible that it allows the mind to wander like no places my imagination has never been. More to come.
Hope I can wrap it up today.
If ever I’ve felt I was hunting in the Pleistocene, it was this trip. I wouldn’t have been surprised if a Cave Bear, Saber Toothed Tiger, or Irish Elk appeared.
A place so incredible that it allows the mind to wander like no places my imagination has never been. More to come.
perma
Well-known member
Your worst day of hunting there is far better than my best day of fishing this year. Thanks for sharing, full of envy. What a great ram.
