September 2026
Where Mountains Test the Soul: An Alaska Dall Sheep Hunt
Hunter: Dylan Hitner
Species: Dall Sheep
Location: Alaska
Method: Rifle, guided hunt
The dream began years ago—a vision of sharp ridgelines and endless sky, of a white ram standing against a world of stone and ice. This fall, that dream became real when I traveled to Alaska to hunt Dall sheep.
All through the offseason, I’d been training—running ultramarathons, lifting weights, pushing my body until it knew what exhaustion felt like and how to move past it. I wanted to be ready for whatever the Alaskan mountains could throw at me.
My guide, Ivan, was in his first year as a head guide—young, strong, and mountain-savvy. From the start, we set a relentless pace. For the first few days, we hiked through the unforgiving mountains, crossing glaciers and climbing through scree fields that shifted like sand. We glassed for hours and spotted a few borderline-legal rams, but we were chasing something older, heavier—a true monarch of the range.
Spotting the Ram in the Next Basin
On the fourth day, we began a brutal climb up a loose shale slope—the kind that makes you question every decision that got you there. At the top, through the spotting scope, we found what we’d been looking for: an exceptional ram in the next basin. He was bedded on a green slope perched high in a jagged basin. Although we were looking at him from quite a distance, his horn tips gleamed in the sun as they pointed skyward. He was the kind of ram that had filled my dreams throughout the last three and a half years since I’d booked this hunt.
The only problem? Reaching him before dark would mean a race against the mountain itself. We could easily descend off the mountain, rest for the night, and make a push toward the ram’s location tomorrow. But we didn’t know for sure where the ram would be tomorrow—we knew where he was now. The decision was easy.
A Race Against Daylight
That’s when the training paid off. We plunged down scree slopes, half-running, half-sliding, then jogged through miles of boulder-strewn drainages. By the time we reached the basin, daylight was slipping away. As we eased our way toward where the ram was bedded, a group of eight rams exploded from the rocks just in front of us. As they climbed out of the basin, they would occasionally stop and look back, giving us just enough time to study each ram and come to the conclusion that our ram wasn’t in the group.
I jerked my head out of the scope to scan our surroundings. To our left, on the other side of the basin, I spotted a different group of four rams running away. One quick glance through the spotting scope confirmed that the ram we were after was with them. And just like that, our target vanished, disappearing into the upper basin and likely over an impassable ridge full of hanging glaciers.
We spent the last of our light scouring every crease of the mountain, unwilling to admit defeat. We used every last ounce of strength in our legs to push into the upper reaches of the basin to confirm our fears: our ram was gone. Finally, we dropped to the ground, exhausted, and watched the shadows climb the peaks. The silence that followed was thick with fatigue and frustration.
One Last Push Over the Moraine
I noticed it when we sat down—one last mound of glacial till on the moraine above us with a small pocket behind it we hadn’t checked. I didn’t want to climb another step, but something in me said we had to. As we got up to start our descent from the mountain in defeat, I told Ivan that I felt like we had to make one last push to check the backside of that moraine pile. Ivan led the way. As he crested the top, he froze.
Eighty Yards with the Scope on 25X
“Rams,” he whispered. They stood eighty yards away. I pulled the rifle to my shoulder and realized I had made a mistake I’d been warned against ever since I was a young boy learning the ropes of hunting: my scope was still on its max power of 25X! I cranked it down and dropped prone as the rams began to move off, heart hammering. When they paused at 130 yards, I found my mark and squeezed the trigger. The shot cracked through the basin, echoing off the ice and rock. The ram stumbled and fell—a magnificent nine-year-old.
It took a second or two to process everything. The wind whispered through the rocks, carrying the weight of what we’d just done. In that instant, every step, every mile, every rain-soaked run, every drop of sweat from the offseason came rushing back, proof that preparation meets opportunity only when you refuse to quit. I had spent those countless hours of physical and mental toil over the prior year knowing they might prove unnecessary for the success of this hunt. But for this ram—for this stalk—they were essential.
Packing the Ram Out Through the Night
We spent the night packing the ram off the mountain, the heavy load biting into our shoulders. Loose rocks shifted underfoot, each step threatening a painfully rapid descent off the mountain. We stopped at intervals to relieve the strain from our backs and sip from the melting glacier water running by our feet. I knew it was time to start moving again when I felt myself slipping into a dream, my body grasping for the sleep it desperately needed. When we reached camp, the first light of dawn was breaking over the peaks—twenty-four hours after we’d started our climb.
It was one of the hardest hunts of my life—and one of the most rewarding. Alaska tested everything I had, and in return, it gave me a moment I’ll carry forever.
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