Only 30 minutes into the first day of the season on a brisk December morning, I am at full draw on an old battle-scarred ram. A slight breeze coming up off the North Fork of the Big Thompson River is trying its best to cut through my layers and give me a chill. The old ram feels something is nearby and raises his heavy-crowned head to test the air. It’s almost impossible to believe that this brute and I are having this dance, given all the events that have led up to this day.
Rewind to July 29, 2024. My heart sank as I was doing chores around my property and gazing westward at the billowing, black cloud of smoke. I knew it had to be close to the area where I had just drawn my archery sheep tag.
I scrambled to search local news and text friends to see where the fire was. Sure enough, it was at the mouth of Colorado’s Big Thompson Canyon on Alexander Mountain. The fire ravaged the north side of the canyon for 20 days, pushed by ultra-dry conditions and hazardous winds. The final burned area totaled 9,668 acres of prime bighorn sheep habitat.
Rumors began swirling that sheep had been caught in the blaze and perished. Close friends warned that the Division of Parks and Wildlife might be calling to discuss suspending my hunt due to the wildfire. I was greatly relieved when I spoke to a wildlife officer at the main Division of Parks and Wildlife office in Fort Collins who assured me that my hunt would not be canceled.
A few weeks went by, residents were all back in their homes, and the usual mob of tourist traffic was flowing up and down the canyon to Estes Park. I braved the crowds and took my first drive up through the unit. The areas I had hoped to hunt were all burned to a crisp. The hillsides once covered in vegetation looked more like the surface of the moon. Where were these sheep going to rut? Where were they going to find food? How many were lost in the fire?
A kind of panic began to overcome me as I knew it was going to take a lot of local intelligence and a change of plan to be successful. My good friends, Tracy and Geff, had both harvested incredible rams in the unit in 2019 and 2022, respectively. We brainstormed possible locations where the fire could have displaced the sheep and ultimately devised a plan that focused solely on the upper levels of the canyon that were unaffected.
Sheep began moving into the canyons in late October. Very small bands of ewes and playful, fuzzy lambs shadowed by roving rams began to hang out among the rock walls lining the roads. With my good friend and wildlife photographer, Fred McClanahan, we began to inventory the rams that we could see. We would stare at rams for hours trying to determine their age by the length of their curl or the mass of their bases. From a distance, it was difficult to count the growth rings on their horns, similar to rings on a tree.
We were impressed by the number of 4- to 7-year-old rams that were in bachelor groups. Soon, a few older 8- to 10-year-old rams began showing up.
One ram in particular garnered our attention. He was a curious loner, chocolate brown and red in color, with massive, light-brown headgear. He was quite underweight but grazing away and very alert. We nicknamed the old guy “Bones.”
In the unit, I knew there were two other tag-holders, but I didn’t know who the individuals were. Bones was located on a road off the beaten path, so I hoped he would remain under the radar until opening day. I continued my scouting and compiling of my hit list of possible rams, such as “Archie” and another we named “Waltonia.” But I always made sure to keep tabs on Bones.
As we watched a nice ram in the Narrows one day, I met a longtime friend of Fred’s named Julie Bender. A talented wildlife artist and photographer, she enjoys traveling these mountains to observe wild sheep and other animals.
After a quick conversation with Julie, I was not sure if she was against my hunting her beloved bighorns. In her paintings, Julie had been chronicling the bighorn sheep in this unit. We told her about Bones, how he was no longer a breeding ram, and that I would try my best to go after him as he was the oldest we’d seen. We took Julie back up the road to where we’d seen Bones earlier that day and there he was, sunning himself on the open hillside. It became her mission as well to maintain a close eye on this remarkable animal.
I spent a lot of time in November monitoring Bones: Watching where he came to the river for water. Where he rested in the morning or afternoon sunshine. He was like an old-timer in his little nursing home. He had food, water, trees for shelter and was living out his last days on this mountain.
In sheep hunting, and hunting in general, when you get a target animal in your head and focus solely on him, things can end up in disappointment. I made sure to keep tabs on Archie and the Waltonia ram, but my dreams revolved around Bones. He became a sort of celebrity to my wife and kids and, on the weekends, they would ask to go for a drive to see if we could find Bones. The days were flying by, and the season opener was closing in fast.
My whole life I have dreamed of hunting sheep. Growing up, I would stare at the majestic Dall sheep mount that adorned my grandparents’ living room wall. I would take time to look at the mounts that circled my uncle’s living room. Over the years, he had taken Stone, Dall and bighorn sheep and I always enjoyed his stories that came along with them. I knew I wanted to chase a ram just like my heroes did and create my own stories. Now was my chance. I had put in the time, my equipment was triple-checked, and I had the most important advantage of all—my circle of close friends and family backing me.
The season opened on December 1 and, within 30 minutes after sunrise, I was at full draw on the old battle-scarred ram. I glanced down to see Fred, his camera pointed directly at me. No pressure at all. I focused back through the peep sight to the pins, centering the yellow 20-yard pin on the front shoulder of Bones. I know he is going to take a step to get a better view. When he did, exposing his broad side, I released my arrow. The shot struck a bit low but was a solid hit.
The old warrior ram tried to climb away, but he got wobbly and laid down. Fred had now moved below the ram who was about 30 yards from me. I nocked another arrow as the old ram scrambled to his feet. The next arrow landed just above the first and did the job. The ram spun and then toppled from the rock outcropping where I lost sight of him. I could hear him crash as he landed below and then I knew our dance was over.
I worked my way down until I found him, wedged up against a tree about 40 yards from my first shot. The old ram was missing his right horn, which had apparently struck a rock and popped loose from his head. Fred had seen the ram fall from below and said later that it was about a 30-foot drop. Upon impact, the horn separated from the ram and tumbled down the rest of the hillside, sometimes bouncing more than 20 feet in the air!
The most meaningful part of my hunt came next. I looked down to see Fred holding the missing horn, which had rolled down the hillside. He was grinning from ear to ear. I also spotted Tracy, Helen and Geff coming toward Fred, waving and cheering. A truck appeared and parked nearby. My uncle Carl and cousin Katie piled out. Soon they are all looking up with excitement.
There I was, an almost 40-year-old man, with happy tears running down my face. I was in awe of the comradery and love I was feeling. Carl, Geff and Tracy, who had the other horn in hand, scurried up the rocks and began taking celebratory pictures before working on getting the ram off the hill. Back at the vehicles, we capped off the hunt with many high fives and joyful congratulations, including Julie Bender who showed up as we were packing out.
My dream hunt was complete. Opening day, the best friends and family around me, a 10 1/2-year-old bruiser of a ram, beautiful mountains, gorgeous weather and a treasure trove of memories made for this once-in-a-lifetime experience. Instead of the pursuit of my ram going up in flames, it went out in a blaze of glory.