Story By: Tyler Zimmerman
September 14, 2024, it was a gorgeous morning and as good a day as any to shoot a Desert bighorn sheep. It was early morning, and the sun was just breaking over the rock cliffs in Southern Utah. The big ram and pair of ewes that we were watching had bedded down. We watched as the sun hit the top of the mountains and made that big ram’s horns light up. At only 150 yards away, we could see every detail as he looked around. It was an easy choice to know he was the one. We sat and watched him for a long time as this was opening morning and it just seemed too soon for such a wonderful hunt to end. My brother-in-law, Lance, and I talked about the ram, smiled, and laughed. We both knew what we were going to end up doing, but we talked about it anyway. Did we really want him? Was he really the one? He was for sure, but I just didn’t want the hunt of a lifetime to end so soon.
Finally, I told Lance that as soon as the ram stood up, I was going to go ahead and shoot him. I had the perfect rest on a rock, and I had the perfect rifle, my grandpa’s .257 Weatherby. The ram rose, and I gave him a well-placed shot right behind the front shoulder. He dropped, rolled down the hill, caught himself, and then it was all over. I smiled, breathed a deep breath, and reached for my cell phone in my pocket. However, the call I wanted to make, the call I usually made for the last 30 years, I couldn’t make. I could feel myself getting choked up, so I stood up and took a deep breath and a couple of steps. It was just too much, and I dropped to my knees and could feel the tears.
I need to take you back to when this story really started 35 years ago. I was a young boy, and it was my time to finally get to go on the annual pack-in hunting trip with the family. For many years, all the men that I looked up to as a boy went on that trip – uncles, Dad, family friends, and of course, Grandpa Jim. Every year, the anticipation built and I couldn’t wait for them to get home so I could hear the stories, see the big bucks, and help process the meat.
The whole trip was quite the adventure for a young boy. Setting up a pack string, packing up the boxes on the mules, riding the horses, and getting to meet the pack string cowboys I had heard so much about. It was all I had ever dreamed of doing, getting to go on that pack trip. Once at camp, we got the wall tents up, firewood cut, and buckets of water from the creek. Opening day was the next day, and I was sure there was a monster 4-point waiting for me.
Now there were many adventures on the first couple days of that hunt, but those stories will have to wait until another day. By day three, I had already shot a black bear and several grouse and was pretty certain I was destined to become a mountain man and live the rest of my days roaming the mountains of the Pasayten Wilderness, looking for monster mule deer and living off the land like Jeramiah Johnson.
Day three was an especially good day because it was the first day that I got to go out huntin’ with Grandpa Jim. The plan for the day was for us to hike up the hill to a legendary place called “the knob with the big rock.” As luck would have it, about 200 yards behind camp, right where the hill started to get steep, we looked up at the top and there were two bucks looking down at us.
I asked, “Can I shoot one, Grandpa?”
He said, “You sure can. Get a rest on that branch and aim just a little bit high.”
I got my little Remington 6mm all settled in on a branch to an old snag, popped the scope covers off, and steadied up. I clicked the safety off and tried to gently squeeze the trigger, but nothing happened. I squeezed harder and harder but still nothing. The bucks started walking over the hill, and panic started setting in. My gun had frozen up overnight! Grandpa handed me his brand new .257 Weatherby, and I got lined back up. The two little bucks were just going over the hill, and I squeezed one off at the “big” buck on the left.
Regaining my composure, I asked, “Did I get it, Grandpa?”
He paused, fired up a Marlboro, looked up the hill, and said, “Well, I don’t know. Let’s go check it out.”
As we got to the top, my grandpa grabbed me by the shoulder and turned me. Pointing across the hill, he said, “There he is, all right! All right!” That was the most excited I had ever heard or seen my grandpa. I was so busy sucking oxygen into my burning lungs from the steep climb that I was having a hard time being super excited, but I managed to at least crack a smile, being happy just as much for being done hiking up that humongous mountain as I was for finding the buck.
I walked up to it, held the head up, and asked Grandpa, “What do you think? Is he a nice one?” I was really excited but worried that spike by two might not meet his expectations. He didn’t skip a beat, and with a big smile, he said, “They are ALL big bucks!” We hugged, laughed, and celebrated that day. That was the first and last day I ever hunted with my grandpa.
Now, Grandpa Jim may not have hunted with us anymore, but from that day on, whenever I shot something, he was the first one I called. He was always excited and would listen intently to my story, ask questions about the hunt, wanting to know all the details, and would always remind me that I couldn’t eat the horns.
Before I went off to college, I stopped by to see him. He told me I should take that .257 Weatherby and use it for deer hunting that year. I did just that and then held onto it for the next 30 years. I shot mule deer, whitetail deer, and bears with that gun, and every time, Grandpa Jim was the first one to hear about it. Over the last five or six years, that tradition was passed along to my boys as they started hunting and using that .257 and calling Great Grandpa Jim to tell him the story.
A year and a half ago, Grandpa Jim passed, which brings me back to the sheep hunt. There I was on my knees, looking up the hill at that sheep with tears in my eyes, overwhelmed by the joy and sadness, just wanting to make that phone call. With a pat on the back from my brother-in-law, I got to my feet, gave him a high five, smiled, and headed up the hill. I never imagined I would draw a Desert bighorn sheep tag, but there I was, living every big game hunter’s dream. He was a warrior ram and everything I could have ever asked for, 8 years old and rough scored 155”.
The pursuit, the hunt, the love of the outdoors, and the traditions are so much more than can ever be explained. My boys now call my dad, their grandpa, to tell him, “Big buck down!” The tradition lives on.