It was February, and I was speaking with my friend about setting up a New Mexico archery elk hunt in the fall when I received a call from Alaska. Hesitant, I cut my friend off and responded to the caller. “Hello, this is Lance Kronberger from Freelance Outdoor Adventures. Congratulations on getting selected in the draw for Dall sheep!” I was sitting on the other end of the line not knowing how to reply. I quickly jumped on the ADFG website and couldn’t believe my eyes. Thanks to the Huntin’ Fool License Application Service, I was now the proud, albeit overwhelmed, owner of a 14C non-resident Chugach Dall sheep tag. Now the real planning began.
First, I had to break the news to my wife. In biochemistry, this is a rate limiting step. If this step is unsuccessful, you are a “NOGO.” “Hey, love of my life. Something wonderful has just happened. More for me than you. Okay, mostly me.” Without her understanding and support, this adventure would have stopped right there. We sometimes overlook this and should truly appreciate the sacrifices of our loved ones so we can go live a dream.
I had the pleasure of working with a guide service with a vast wealth of experience. Clothing recommendations, gear lists, and even training programs were provided. Over the next six months, specified gear was collected. I was also becoming proficient with my rifle. Every weekend, I would target 8” and 10” steel plates out to 500 yards. I would do this from a prone position with my backpack as the rest for my rifle. Numerous friends made all this possible and were part of this journey. The more support you have, the more likely you are to stick with it.
It was the morning after landing in Anchorage, and I had met my guide, Brandon Hamilton, and packer, Charlie “Chuck” Bullock. The combined age of these two men equaled seven years my junior. Bring it on. With gear and rifle layout performed, off we went to the trailhead. The hike to the first night’s camp was relatively short, around three miles, but it was definitely an increase in elevation. We came through a pass, and two miles away, I could see the mountain holding all the sheep. It seemed out of place compared to the rolling slopes of the mountains surrounding it. The lower third looked pleasant, but the upper two-thirds looked like Godzilla had scraped away any soil with his clawed hand. After our tents were up, we sidehilled another mile so we could glass the mountain for sheep. Brandon confirmed the mountain we were interested in was also interesting to Dall sheep.
The next morning at 5 a.m., we packed up for another sidehilling journey. We slipped off the tundra into head-high grass and alders, forded the creek, and traversed more timber as we began a quarter mile ascent to our base camp. With camp set up, my guide and packer went upslope to a vantage point 1.25 miles away to glass for a shooter.
Brandon and Charlie returned with crazy news. They came out of the brush at the base of the steep stuff and spotted what was to be our 10-year-old full curl ram at no less than 50 yards. They backed out and watched him ascend. The ram positioned himself on a rocky ledge two-thirds of the way up the mountain. The rock was an easy reference point on a slope of brown because half the triangle was tan as if someone drew a line down the center and colored both sides different shades. Whenever our ram would disappear amongst the spires and reappear, we would always base direction and distance from the two-tone rock. We watched that ram the following day, and my guide and packer ascended again to watch him bed.
At 3:30 on the opener, we woke up, suited up, and marched up the hill. We made pretty good time and waited 30 minutes at the base of the rocky portion of the slope on the soft tundra until the light came up and we could glass the prize. Sure enough, he was not 100 yards from where he had bedded last night. In typical fashion, he was also higher than he was the prior two days. After four hours of climbing and glassing, we were finally close. Suddenly, Brandon went still and ducked. “I see him,” he whispered. We waited, legs shaking in a half squat on the side of a ravine.
Brandon scurried to the top of the rock chute, threw down his backpack, and signaled me to advance. I low crawled like a spider on the slope and quietly laid my rifle on his backpack and assumed a solid shooting position with his jacket under the butt stock of my rifle.
“Where is he?” I whispered.
“He went behind that ledge 260 yards out, near that slope of the only green grass in the ravine,” was his reply.
I settled my reticle on the passage and slowed my breathing. A flash of white appeared in the top of my reticle. It was the ram! He was so much larger than the steel plates I had been shooting. The guide whispered, “290 yards.” I asked him to verify because I could hardly believe it. He confirmed, and the ram bedded down right in the crosshairs. Brandon told me to wait until he stood and I had to hit him high in the shoulder. I assumed it was because we didn’t want him to try to run off the precipice he was resting on. Now we waited for him to rise and accept my attempt to determine his fate.
Ten minutes went by, and it started to get colder. Brandon started ripping at his Velcro in the hope the ram would stand. At 15 minutes, the ram showed some movement. His hind legs raised his derriere, and then the front legs straightened and pushed the ram to a standing position. Brandon uttered the words, “Take him.” My breathing paused on the exhale, and I squeezed the trigger. The report and recoil totally surprised me to the point I felt as if I had failed. That was quickly drowned out by Brandon and Chuck’s response of joy. The 150 grain Hornady SST projectile from my Hill Country 30-06 hammered the ram with precision. He dropped to his left side and never got up. He remained on the ledge. The next hour was utilized to get across the remaining 290 yards to the ram. The emotional cascade hit me, and I could no longer contain it. My eyes were welling up as the culmination of seven months was now in my hands for the first time.
It was time for pictures, and then the ram was processed and our packs were full. The horns were held one last time in reverence as we planned for the trek down. Four hours and 30 minutes later, we were back at camp. We dropped our packs, inhaled some freeze-dried delicacy, and crashed in our tents by 18:30.
Early the next morning, camp was broken down and we were packed. The hike out was all the way back to the trailhead. It started to rain heavier once we got past the first night’s camp. Now everything was wet and cold, except my soul. My soul felt complete. That completeness was justified in the parking lot when we all piled into the ride.
This was a novice’s first experience with sheep hunting, and I learned so much about myself through this entire journey. The patience, determination, planning, coordination, and support were all needed to accomplish this task. I would hope these skills are lifelong and make me a better human being.
Special thanks to my wife, Heather. Twenty-two years and she is the only one. Thanks to Huntin’ Fool for your recommendations through the application process; Freelance Outdoor Adventures owner, Lance Kronberger, for his knowledge, passion, gear selection, and training advice; guide Brandon Hamilton for his passionate, no-nonsense approach towards strategic and tactical sheep hunting, which culminated in a textbook setup on a tough to reach ram; and Charlie “Chuck” Bullock. At only 18 years old, he is as mature and professional as men two times his age. Packers don’t get enough credit either, and that’s why my ram carries the name “2-Tone Chuck.”
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