Sheep hunting is addictive. Once you have been there, you have to go back. The mountains call to you, and the wild sheep embody the call of the mountains. Never mind the pain, the feelings of hopelessness, deep disappointment, and even complete failure that almost inevitably come. Put behind you the remembrance of 65-year-old hips set on fire by long, hard rides through rough country. Don’t let 50 miles in and 50 miles out deter you. Only remember what it is like to stand on the summit with the cold north wind blowing in your face and be thankful.
I have three great sons, and one was with me to hunt the bighorns of Alberta. He is a good companion. He possesses some of the traits of my father. Three 30"+ cedar bucks that hung in our home attested to Dad’s hunting skill and ability. Scott Carter, our outfitter, reminds me of my father as well with his old time cowboy honesty. It runs deep with him. If he tells you something, you know it is the truth as he understands it. If he tells you there are sheep on the mountain, there are. Three years ago, I took an 11-year-old ram with Scott.
Richard, the guides, and I hunted for four days but saw nothing except some goats. We carefully glassed some of the best looking sheep country anywhere without results. We split up and covered even more country but only saw tracks in old snow on steep ridges miles away.
On the fifth day, a winter storm rolled in. We left the high camp and rode in heavy snowfall through some of the roughest country I have ever seen. There was no real trail, and visibility was only hoped for. After numerous attempts, we found passage through the spruce thickets to the river and trailed into the main camp hours later.
That night, it cleared and the temperature dropped sharply. The little stove in the outfitter’s tent took the edge off of the biting cold. The snow was not deep enough to end our trip, and we talked about how to extend the hunt if the weather held.
The next morning, Jim and Richard went south on foot into the mountains behind the main camp while Lee and I rode west for several miles and began glassing. We saw sheep several miles away. Their dark color was easier to see in the new fallen snow. We received a message that Jim and Rich had spotted a band of five rams through their spotting scopes across a canyon and high above us on a little plateau. They bailed off the mountain, caught two horses, and rode to us within three hours.
When they arrived, a quick plan was devised. I would shoot first and then if I missed, Richard had the green light to shoot the big ram they had seen. We tied the horses up and went up the mountain with great expectations. The doubts that had nagged us at times quickly dissipated. We checked our gear and made final adjustments. Fortunately, a very small patch of stunted spruce trees afforded us sufficient cover at the edge of an open expanse of rocks and sparse grass that characterized the small, angled plateau. Jim and Lee glassed and spotted the five rams, three of which were legal. They were 300 yards away. We shot at the same time and two great rams went down. We all started high fiving, shaking hands, and hugging. There were congratulations all around.
We stood with our guides in amazement at what had just happened – a father and son sheep hunt almost beyond belief. What a blessing it was to take those two nice rams in the same group at the same time. Later that evening around the campfire, I whispered to my son, “When you speak at my funeral someday, you tell them about this hunt.” He nodded his head. Like my father, he is honest and he will tell them.
For now, the mountains are still calling and I am not done listening. There is nothing comparable to standing on the summit of a mountain with the cold wind blowing in your face. You feel like you will live forever.