January 2026
Dall Sheep Hunting | Alaska
Story By: Cassie Hulse
Sheep hunting was never in my forecast. For most hunters, just getting the chance is tough—draw odds are brutal, the cost is high, and the physical demands are real. Any of those can keep a hunter from chasing the dream, including me. But by a stroke of luck, I was thrown into the sheep hunting world and haven’t looked back.
Like most sheep hunts, mine was years in the making. It started at the Western Hunting & Conservation Expo in Salt Lake City about a year and a half earlier. At Sheep Camp, they raffle off fully guided sheep hunts, some reserved for hunters who have never taken a ram. I tossed my name in with zero expectations. When the announcer called out, “If you’re from Idaho, stand up… I think our winner is a woman…” and then said my name, I was in shock. I had just won a fully guided Dall sheep hunt with Alaska Wilderness Enterprises. My husband nearly lifted me through the roof in celebration.
The work started immediately. PTO requests, gear purchases, and airfare all fell into place, followed by months of waiting. The day finally came when it was time to fly out and I was a bit anxious. I was about to experience a once in a lifetime adventure, who wouldn’t be? Because of Alaska’s unpredictable weather, we had to wait for a break before taking off in a SuperCub, a tiny plane with just the pilot and one passenger. I flew out first since I had the tag. As we descended over endless mountains, all I could think was, “Where does he plan on landing this thing?” The pilot set us down on a rocky river bottom, and I stepped out into some of the biggest country I had ever seen.
One of the guides met us at the “airstrip” and helped me haul everything over to base camp. Unfortunately, we ran out of daylight and my husband wasn’t able to make it in that day. Luckily, I had his inReach so I was still able to communicate with him out in the field. Unluckily, we swapped packs for the time being since it made more sense to send his bigger and heavier pack on my flight. Little did we know, my husband wasn’t going to make it to camp till day six.
We had a quick meet and greet over dinner before I settled into my tent and fell into a restless sleep. Morning came, and it was officially day one of my ten-day hunt. After breakfast, we packed our bags with snacks and hit the trail. Mentally, I was off to a rough start. I hadn’t slept well, my husband’s pack was way too big for me, and he wasn’t with me. My guide and I headed up the first drainage for a day hunt, hoping to give him time to arrive. After the usual river crossing, we worked our way slowly up the bottom, stopping to rest and glass. We were taking a break when my guide suddenly said, “There’s a sheep.” Sure enough, up the drainage was a yellowish-white spot. Not only a Dall sheep, but a good ram. My heart started pounding. We quietly packed up and eased closer, crawling through a crevice in the mountainside until we lost sight of him. Knowing how elusive they are, we climbed higher hoping to relocate him, but he slipped away. We hiked back to camp in the dark, tired but thrilled to have seen a promising ram on the very first day.
Our plan for day two was to pack our bags and head for spike camp. We figured that whenever my husband made it in, he could meet us there with the packer. I really struggled during this hike, but my guide was fantastic at keeping my spirits high. He always said, “Sheep hunting is all between the ears,” and it really resonated with me. Being physically capable was necessary, but the mental game was just as important. This was some of the biggest country I had ever seen. You could hike for what felt like hours, then look up and realize you had covered very little ground. During this trek, there were plenty of sheep to see, but only ewes, lambs, or small rams. We finally made it to our new base camp, soaked and exhausted, but it still felt like a successful day. Day three came and went with nothing but dense fog throughout the entire valley. It turned into a rest day of playing cards, drying clothes, and talking about life. Honestly, it was just what I needed.
Day four, we were back at it. Overnight, a fresh blanket of snow had fallen. I figured it would make the sheep harder to spot, but it improved visibility. We hiked upriver to the next crack and picked a spot across the river to glass from. After some time, my guide spotted a group of sheep—two rams and a handful of ewes and lambs. They were feeding across the hillside when they suddenly started running. A brown bear had decided to barrel down the drainage and onto the next ridge. Luckily, the sheep stayed in the general area. We continued to watch the rams, and one caught my guide’s eye. He wanted a closer look, but the bear was still between us and the sheep. So, we waited. For hours we watched that bear tear up the mountainside, bed down, and finally move on. When he did, we made our move. It was not an ideal approach since we had to come from below, but it was our only option. We crawled in as close as we could, careful not to skyline ourselves. The rams eventually sensed something and worked their way farther up the drainage. We decided not to push it and backed out before blowing them out of the country. The wind howled all day, and my husband was still unable to make it in.
Day six came, and we decided to trek farther up the canyon where rams were known to hang out. Luck was on our side. Those same two rams from a couple of days earlier were bedded in a grassy patch within our view. Dall sheep were kings of the mountain and did not take kindly to anything approaching from beneath them. We climbed carefully up a crevice, trying not to be seen, heard, or winded. If everything went perfectly, we would pop over a small rise and the rams would be right there—but when does that ever happen? We peeked over, and they were gone. We were confident we had not spooked them, so we continued up into the bowl on top where we thought they had gone, but we never turned them up again. I started to feel really discouraged. Then, as we hiked back down, we spotted two figures making their way toward us. My husband had finally caught a flight in, and it gave me a new burst of energy and optimism.
All of this effort had been for a potentially legal ram. At that point, we still had not gotten close enough to determine legality, but one ram looked promising enough that my guide wanted to do everything possible to get a better look. On day seven, we hiked back to where those rams had been hanging out, and again they were bedded on the same hillside. We made our play and eventually got within 800 yards. We spent the entire day curled up in the cold, spotting scopes fixed on that one ram, trying to determine if he was legal. I had not realized how much work went into making that call. My guide studied every possible angle before deciding. To be legal, a ram had to be at least eight years old, full curl on one side, or double broomed. This one was tricky to judge because his horns flared outward. As darkness settled in, my guide finally said he was confident the ram was legal. It was “go time”.