Story By: Waylon Vipond
We first saw Houdini the day before opener—a Stone ram so massive his horns looked like they were the size of car tires. In nearly two decades of sheep hunting together, Chase and I had never seen anything like him.
THE LEAD-UP
July 27, the day after my oldest daughter’s birthday, we headed north with the truck bed loaded and our minds set on the 2025 Stone sheep season. The drive was a familiar ritual: coffee too hot to drink, talk of old hunts, the silent hope that this year would bring something special.
By July 30, we’d reached our camp spot—a high knob tucked into the timber with a commanding view of the hills. From here, we could watch miles of country without giving away our position. That first night, we glassed hard, turning up only one young three- or four-year-old ram. Still, we went to bed with high hopes for our own version of Christmas Eve: the day before sheep opener.
THE STRANGER ON THE SKYLINE
Morning broke, and we glassed every inch of our range. Nothing. Early afternoon, a lone figure appeared on the skyline, walking openly for an incredible distance. Chase and I stared at each other: What the flip was he doing?
Minutes after the stranger dropped off the ridge, three rams appeared, moving out—though not in full panic. Among them was the biggest ram we’d ever laid eyes on, thick horns sweeping low and deep. Our target. Houdini.
The stranger had unknowingly pushed him, but we marked the direction and prayed he wouldn’t leave the country. That night, I lay awake replaying every second, picturing those massive horns over and over.
THE HUNT BEGINS
We were up at 4 a.m. on opener. The sheep weren’t in their previous spot, so we decided to keep glassing until 10 a.m. then move during the quiet part of the day.
By early afternoon, the land paid us back. At two miles out, I spotted two ewes, a lamb, two young rams . . . and Houdini himself. We set up to watch. When he finally bedded, it looked like he was there for the long haul. Time to move.
The stalk would be brutal: down the mountain and through a tangle of buckbrush and prickly undergrowth before clawing up the far side into position. Four hours of sweat, bruises, and constant wind checking. Every step could undo everything.
CLOSING IN
The last ridge was the worst—steep, loose, and silent as a church. I crept around the mountain’s shoulder, knowing one wrong move would send him vanishing for good.
At 110 yards, I glassed him again. Eight years old—legal and then some. My heart pounded in my ears. Breath steady. Crosshairs settled.
The shot broke clean.
THE CELEBRATION
When I walked up, Houdini somehow looked bigger than through the glass. No ground shrinkage here—he had grown in my mind and grown again in my hands. The weight of the hunt hit me all at once, and I let the emotion go.
Chase and I hugged like brothers. Two decades of sheep hunting together, lucky enough to harvest over a dozen respectable rams together, and we both knew this was the hardest, most satisfying one yet.
Houdini had lived up to the name the outfitters gave him—always just barely slipping away—but, this time, the escape artist didn’t get away.