One of my favorite things has always been sitting in the backseat of a truck or the booth of a small town diner, just listening in on two ol’ boys B.S. over coffee. There is a certain type of man who, whether by choice or accident, earns the reputation of “a good ol’ boy.” Though I have never figured out exactly what it is that earns him this title, there are certain traits that each one seems to exhibit. Is it the calluses on his hand or the leather on his neck? Does it have something to do with that long-bed pickup truck he surely drives around or the scuffed and scratched wood grain rifle riding on his passenger seat? Maybe. But there is one thing that has always stood out in my mind shared by these peculiar characters – an old folding buck knife. Like the good ol’ boy, that knife has seen it all. It has accompanied him on every one of the stories told from a life in a different time. When he pulls that knife out of the pocket of his worn-in workpants, I know I am in the presence of a good ol’ boy.
More than sheep, this story is about two inseparable brothers, Scott and Todd Lemley. As a newcomer to the family, I have only been fortunate enough to hear a handful of their stories, but each one has left me starry-eyed and hungry for more. From ranching in Oklahoma to bodybuilding on Muscle Beach in Venice, California, it seemed these two had traveled to the moon and back together. Pictures hanging in their parents’ house of tractors and dirt bikes, lion hounds and bird dogs, and Alaska trips and big bucks and bulls all seemed to have one thing in common – Scott and Todd side by side.
In 2019, Todd drew his once-in-a-lifetime Desert bighorn tag in Utah. After previously harvesting a Dall ram, this put him one sheep closer to his Grand Slam. Shortly after he was diagnosed with cancer, the outlook was bleak. Still enthusiastic, he and Scott scouted that unit every chance they had in between doctor visits and treatments to find the best ram on the mountain. As opening day neared, Todd’s condition worsened and just getting in and out of the truck was a struggle. Still, they continued, and finally on November 11th they turned up their target ram and were able to punch a tag. Days later, Todd passed, leaving behind daughters, parents, and Scott without the best friend he’d had by his side since birth.
Losing somebody is never easy, and on top of the heartbreak, Scott was left to deal with the business they shared, the custody of Todd’s children, and everything else that comes with losing a loved one. One year later, on the anniversary of Todd’s death, Scott sat at his computer sipping on his morning coffee, going over everything that had happened in the year since Todd’s passing. He fired up his computer and started going through emails but noticed something unusual. It was an email from the DWR saying he had drawn the Sportsman’s tag for Rocky Mountain bighorn in Utah. Immediately, he texted me and I thought it was some kind of joke. I wasn’t going to fall for it. When I realized he was serious, I was shocked. Nobody draws those tags, and what are the odds he draws the year after hunting sheep with his brother? It leaves you to wonder if the universe has some warped sense of humor or if Todd pulled some strings to make something like this happen. Either way, I knew we had a ton of research to do.
If you couldn’t have already guessed it, Scott has always been a self-guided kind of guy. I knew finding him a sheep worthy of this tag without some kind of professional help would be a tall task, but for the first couple months, we were both convinced we were up for it. As time went on, we realized we might have been in over our heads. Finding a sheep to shoot wasn’t the problem. I wasn’t even the one with a tag in my pocket, and the pressure to make the most of an opportunity like this was the biggest hurdle. Finally, we decided hiring an outfitter would be our best option for a giant ram worthy of this tag, and everywhere we looked pointed to the same one – Coby Hunt with Utah Big Game Outfitters. Everybody said he was the guy to go to for sheep in Utah.
Over the summer, Scott and I read every article and watched every video we could find on hunting and field judging sheep. Rumors of giant rams in other parts of the state had us questioning everything we had planned, but finally, after months of anticipation, it was time to go hunting. Originally, we had planned to float down the Green River, but the water levels didn’t cooperate, so we made last-minute plans with Coby to hunt other areas he was familiar with. Scott and I met up the night before and found a couple decent rams following ewes around, but nothing was worth hanging a Sportsman’s tag on. After a long, sleepless night, we were headed down the road with Coby and his partner, Devin. We figured our best chance was to split up and glass different drainages, so I went with Devin and Scott went with Coby.
As we walked out on the knife ridge with cliffs on either side, light slowly started to illuminate the jagged landscape that sheep call home. Immediately, we were spotting sheep, and after looking over a smaller ram, Devin and I spotted one with potential. Judging sheep is a chore in and of itself, but when you’re looking over a mile and a half away through the mirage in your spotting scope, it becomes exponentially harder. Devin and I went back and forth for what seemed like hours on how big this ram actually was while Coby and Scott worked into a position they would be able to see and potentially shoot from. At the time, I would have bet money Scott was going to pass on this ram and Devin would have bet against me. I knew he was good, but we had a Sportsman’s tag in our pocket and it was the first day.
After what felt like an eternity, we finally had Scott and Coby working to the edge of the cliff above the ram. I had eyes on the sheep while Devin watched the guide and hunter. While waiting for a response over the radio as to their thoughts, I watched the ram and all of his ewes jump to their feet. Several seconds later, we heard the report of Scott’s old Winchester .264. I panicked. Did he hit him? Did he get a good look at it? Was it a good ram? The ram started to wobble, and I could tell he was hit. Several more shots rang out, and the ram was still on his feet, shaking his head. We heard Coby yelling through the radio that he was running back to where they dropped the backpack to get more bullets. Scott only had what was in his rifle. Seconds later, the ram tipped over motionless. I didn’t blink. I didn’t want to take my eyes off him in case he got up or rolled to the bottom of the deep canyon. As Coby returned with the bullets, the last thing I heard over the radio was, “That’s a beautiful sheep, Scott,” and my heart sank. In my mind, that is what guides say to clients when they shoot an animal that is smaller or younger than what was set out for.
Devin and I packed up our optics and made the trek back to the side-by-side and started heading around to the other two. The whole time, I couldn’t help but think that Scott had shot an average ram and was sitting over there disappointed. I was sick. Size isn’t the only measure of a hunt, but there are so few opportunities to kill true trophy animals, and this was one of those opportunities. That dirt road didn’t seem to end, and as Devin and I nearly ran all the way to the edge of that cliff where the sheep lay, the anticipation was building.
We started the descent, and as we crested over the last rock, I could see Scott sitting there with very little expression. My heart sank even further into my stomach. I couldn’t see the ram yet, so I hollered over to ask him what he thought. He told me to be the judge as the ram slowly came into view. My eyes grew with each step I took. The view I had all morning did this sheep no justice at all, and I had severely underjudged him. Scott killed a giant.
After pictures and processing the sheep, we started back out of the canyon, giant smiles across each of our faces. As we got close, the sun began to set, lighting up the sky in every shade of pink and purple you can imagine. It was a perfect ending to a perfect sheep hunt.
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