Story By: Jack Cail
My name is Jack Cail, an 11-year-old from Salmon Arm, British Columbia. In August 2024, my dad and I set out on a Stone Sheep hunt in Northern B.C., a dream we had nurtured since I was 10. The journey began in 2023, when we planned a 10-day trip with Dad’s friends, Joey and Chris. The devastating North Shuswap fire destroyed our lake house that year, nearly canceling our plans. Heartbroken but determined, we scrambled to go. Chris bagged a fine ram on day five, but snow forced us off the mountain before I could harvest one. That grueling trip taught me the physical and mental demands of sheep hunting.
In 2024, we booked a float plane for August 17, just Dad, me, and my dog, Honey, for a 16-day adventure with 12 hunting days. Another fire near Salmon Arm threatened our plans, prompting Dad to cancel with the pilot. Once the fire was contained, we reconsidered. On August 16, we loaded the truck and began the 18-hour drive north, splitting it over two days. We stopped at rivers and creeks to fish and stretch. At Christina Lake, I snagged a free Milwaukee spoon lure and caught a rainbow trout on my first cast. Mom’s meal-prepped food kept us fueled. I was excited but nervous, haunted by last year’s bugs that left my ears swollen and bleeding. This time, I had a bug net. I skipped most of Dad’s training hikes, worrying about my fitness for the rugged terrain.
We reached the float plane base by 1:30 p.m. on day two. The pilot flew us out that afternoon in a Beaver on floats. My first bush plane ride was thrilling but terrifying. Thoughts of The Hatchet made me fear a crash. The hour-long flight offered stunning views of mountains and lakes, but nausea hit hard. The pilot, joking he’d feel sick too if not flying, handed me a bag. I made it without vomiting, unlike Honey, who seemed to love the ride. We landed at a remote lake, relieved to find no other hunters. We set a pickup date for day 13, then spent the evening fishing, catching two rainbows we released. Our tent sat on the lake shore, the sunset painting the peaks. Dad pointed to our target mountain, far and rugged. He reassured me we could take our time, easing my fears about the climb.
The next morning, after cards and fishing, we packed up. Dad’s pack weighed 95 pounds, mine 25, and Honey’s would carry 25 pounds once we left the valley, loaded with water, her food, and treats. We brought my 6.5 PRC, 40 rounds, and bear spray, a first after Dad’s safety concerns. The hike started well, and I enjoyed the progress, telling Dad the pack felt fine. But Honey got a porcupine quill in her lip, which we removed with a multi-tool. She didn’t flinch. By afternoon, exhaustion hit. Bugs, brush, and steep terrain drained me mentally, a struggle I knew from past hunts. At a rest stop, I put on my bug net, and Dad’s encouragement lifted me. By 6:00 p.m., we found a camp spot. Snacks, a fire, and Honey’s snuggles revived my spirits. We ate my favorite, Mountain House chicken and mashed potatoes, and played cards, laughing into the night.
On day two, we broke the tree line into sheep country after a brutal climb through thick brush. Honey powered through, impressing us with her strength. Over three days, we moved along mountain tops, glassing through evening and morning rain. Day five was foggy, limiting visibility. Dad, wary of spooking sheep, suggested we wait. We hiked for water instead, collecting 20 liters, more than Dad had ever carried on a hunt. That evening, the fog cleared, revealing a giant ram bedded on a bluff, basking in the sun. Dad confirmed he was legal, likely nine years old. We took photos, but with little cover and fading light, we watched him feed over a ridge by 8:00 p.m., planning to pursue him at dawn.
After a sleepless night of anticipation, we set out before light. Basin after basin was empty, and doubt crept in. Finally, we spotted the ram in a classic “ram hole,” feeding at 900 yards. He bedded down, and we began a long stalk through treacherous terrain. Dad paused at a risky descent, prioritizing safety. I convinced him we could manage, scouting a safer exit route. Our stalk succeeded, closing to 220 yards. One shot from my 6.5 PRC dropped the ram, a nine-year-old beauty with a broomed right horn and a left just shy of 40 inches. Exhausted and emotional, we celebrated my first Stone Sheep, a ram of a lifetime.
Packing out took three days. I carried the horns, Honey the fronts, and Dad the rest. The trek back to the lake was grueling but rewarding. We celebrated with Mom’s cached treats: A&W root beers, Twizzlers, and wine gums. I requested lasagna for home, craving real food after freeze-dried meals. We spent a day at the lake, fishing without luck, and requested an early pickup. Bad weather delayed the pilot, initially devastating me. Dad explained the value of a cautious pilot, avoiding risky flights. We reset camp, caught two rainbow trout for a fireside dinner, and enjoyed cards and audiobooks. Honey tangled with another porcupine, her third quill incident, proving she hadn’t learned. The pilot arrived the next morning. The bumpy flight reignited my nausea, but Honey’s snuggles helped. We drove 18 hours home, arriving at 3:00 a.m. I slept past Prince George, waking to Mom’s promised day-old lasagna, the best meal I’d ever tasted.
This hunt with Dad and Honey taught me resilience and the joy of the wilderness. It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever, fueling dreams of future adventures.