Wild sheep. No hunting adventure strikes deeper into your soul than stalking wild rams – those majestic monarchs who rule fortresses of stone and ice in some of the most stunning and unforgiving terrain on earth. Blocky shouldered, square-chested and crowned with rock-hard helmets for brain-rattling battle, wild sheep are gifted with an awe-inspiring nimbleness for negotiating their sheer, cloud-shrouded kingdoms.
Rare is the hunter who gets the chance to match wits, guts and will against a trophy ram, which explains my shock when I was drawn for a Colorado bighorn tag. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever laid eyes on. Pure gold.
There are no “do-overs” or “better luck next year” in bighorn sheep hunting. I knew it would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, though little did I know that my hunt would change my life forever.
For the sheep hunter, gathering information on a specific area or finding a tag-along partner is easy. With one phone call I enlisted Ken Larson, a longtime hunting buddy, who had taken a good ram in the same Cripple Creek area I’d drawn. Ken was excited about the prospect of chasing rams again. There would be no guides, just Ken and myself.
I had scouted with Ken several times prior to his hunt and we quickly discovered that bighorns live in scary haunts high above where eagles soar. The thousand-foot cliffs, precarious boulders and life-threatening storms can chew up and spit out hunters who fool themselves into thinking they’re ready to scale these treacherous heights where the rarefied air can scorch your lungs and strangle your heart.
I remember Ken telling me: “After I got my ram down, the blizzard started . . . by the time I staggered out, I was totally blown out. It was all I could do to keep going and put one foot in front of the other.”
The detective work for my own hunt produced rumors of “ghost rams,” canny old-timers that were rarely seen. Once hunting season rolled around, these big boys supposedly disappeared into deep holes and dark timber.
Studying a map is a great way to learn an area before the serious boot leather comes out. Looking at the map, I knew what those stacked elevation lines meant when they’re so jammed together they look like a chocolate smudge on the paper. My map spelled out nightmarish places like the “Bottomless Pit,” “Windy Point,” “The Crater” and “The Devil’s Playground.” Not places for the faint of heart.
My first scouting expedition was in early May. There was too much snow for sheep to be back up high, but it was exciting to be in the country where I’d be hunting. I looked out across the rugged mountains and wondered what adventures would unfold once the season opened in October.
For those lucky few who held a tag, the Colorado Division of Wildlife sent out invitations to attend a “Sheep and Goat Seminar.” When I arrived at the meeting there was a real buzz in the air, like hanging out in a room of Powerball winners. Speaker after speaker started their presentations with, “You’re the luckiest guys in Colorado.”
I ran into one hunter who told me he was quitting his job because his boss wouldn’t allow him to take the time off he needed to scout and hunt his area. “I can always get another job,” he said, “but I’ll probably never get another sheep tag.” Logic like that is a sure symptom of the festering infection called “sheep fever.”
The seminar confirmed what I already suspected and knew from a lifetime of hunting: Success comes to the hardcore sheep hunter who is willing to scout, glass, never give up, and be in the best shape of his life. Everyone agreed there was no such thing as an easy ram.
On one of my pre-season scouting trips, I found a band of 28 rams high in a flower-filled summer basin. According to sheep counts, the herd included about half the rams in my unit. Most of them were immature, but three stood out. They were bigger and blockier and hanging out in a tight group. Two were approaching full curl, but the one I liked the most was an old battle-scarred bruiser sporting a heavy three-quarter curl with broomed tips. Some dashing princes and a local tough guy I’d be happy with, but not the massive Ghost Ram I’d been dreaming of.
My tag was for the second season; there would be four other hunters who would have first shot. The word was, after any pressure the oldest rams would head into the thickest timber or drop into scary hell-holes where sane men wouldn’t dare to follow. My growing obsession was becoming littered with insane thoughts of Spartan cliffside bivouacs, rappelling with technical climbing gear, and stashing away food and water – anything to enhance my chances for taking a big ram.
Patience is truly a virtue for the sheep hunter who typically spends endless hours and days glassing windswept rocks looking for the Holy Grail.
After a full day of glassing from opposite sides of a huge ridge, Ken and I met up just before sunset for our hike out. Ken was wide-eyed, saying he’d seen a band of five rams walk across a saddle and out of sight. He only caught a brief glimpse of the animals, but there appeared to be a some big rams in the herd. It was time to back out, regroup and come up with a plan for the next day.
My hunting unit was unique in that we could drive to a 14,000-foot summit and hunt from there. A clear, chilly dawn found Ken and I hiking down off the mountain-top into the steep, sweeping basin where he’d seen the rams. Nothing. As we dropped farther and farther, giving up precious elevation, I was getting that sinking feeling that the rams had left the basin.
We decided to check a small, hidden drop-off and there they were: all five of the rams on a cliff directly below us. The sheep were close to 400 yards away, too far for a sure shot in the stiff breeze and at such a steep angle. We watched them mill about, and there were definitely a couple studs in the group.
Sheep can be hard to judge; they look bigger or smaller at different angles, but one stood out. He was broomed, yet still a massive full curl with a boxer’s Roman nose. The kind of ram I’d dreamed about.
The rams eventually bedded down in the small saddle where Ken had seen them the evening before. All were facing in different directions, with a keen eye for danger. Each ram rested with his head tilted back to support his heavy headgear, just like Jack O’Connor had written about in stories I’d read and re-read as a boy. But now everything was real and not just a dream. I was looking at five big rams, with my .270 in hand and a tag in my pocket.
The Rams got up after a few minutes and moved down a rocky ridge, hopping from boulder to boulder, then bedding down on a scattering of truck-sized rocks. I watched the big ram’s head nod a few times in the warm morning sun before lowering his head for a quick catnap.
Decision time. Although the rams were roughly a thousand yards away, my only possible approach would leave me exposed for about 75 yards. Skirting the sheer cliffs in the opposite direction was impossible. Should I wait for the rams to move or try to make a stalk? I decided to go for it.
Ken and I worked out a series of hand signals and I set off in the direction of the herd. As I walked, I tried hard to appear nonchalant and avoided looking directly at the sheep. Finally, after dropping several thousand feet, I was out of sight behind the ridge where I started to double back.
After slipping through a jumble of huge boulders, I paused to check back with Ken. He was frantically pointing hard to my right and indicated that the rams were up and moving. I continued weaving through the boulders, banging knees and elbows while trying to steal brief peeks over the ridge.
Now the rams were close! I lifted my rifle and through the scope there was no missing the heavy full curl of the lead ram. In a few split seconds I struggled to calm my shattered nerves and slow my racing heart. The wind was swirling, and the breeze on the back of my neck was a chilly reminder that there was no time to wait. I had to take the shot – now. Breathe slowly . . . squeeze . . .
At the crack of my rifle, the big ram dropped hard while his companions raced away in different directions. He was mine! My once-in-a-lifetime trophy was down, and I couldn’t have been happier.
He was an old warrior. Smelling of pinesap and juniper, his horns were the history of his life. Twelve growth rings, with some five inches broomed off, would make him at least 13 years old. The rings were almost worn smooth and the horns were chipped from countless fights.
I kept wondering about his 13 years in these mountains – how many close calls from mountain lions, the hard winters, wicked lighting storms, droughts, rockslides, other hunters, bloody busted noses from fighting the rams he hung out with and the lambs he fathered. This craggy old gladiator had been around. His few remaining teeth were worn completely to the gums, and his skinny haunches and brisket had lost most of their hair from endless hours of lying on the rocks.
At that moment in my hunt, less than an hour before sunset, it appeared the Devil himself was cooking up the weather. By the time we were done with pictures, caping and boning, our sunny skies and cotton candy clouds of midday had turned a wicked black. Those once cheery clouds of midday were suddenly low, mean and muscular, looking for trouble. First we were pummeled with a cold, steely rain, which then froze, leaving the rocks and cliffs covered with an icy glaze. Beautiful to look at, but a deadly tease of what was to come.
The storm soon became an awesome force. The wind-driven sleet whipped at us in stinging bitter lashes, supercharged by brutal thunderclaps echoing off the cliffs and lightning that ripped the darkening skies. Forget about just being cold, wet and miserable, this was the kind of storm that could kill you.
There was no cover to speak of and hunkering down to wait out the storm was not an option. It would be like waiting in the open during an artillery assault, hoping the enemy would run out of shells. Nighttime was lurking and we had to keep moving. Straight up and into the teeth of the storm.
Each step brought thinner and thinner air, and wearier and wearier backs and legs. The storm had become hellish, almost surreal in its intensity. The thunder became a deathly roar of electrical chaos, the rank, sweet smell of voltage in the air. But feeling the weight of the ram’s full-curl horns on my pack, I knew that if I was to die on this mountain, I would die happy.
It was well after dark when we finally broke through the storm high atop the summit where the moon burned brightly, casting a lunar glow across the cliffs and tumbled stones. Here the air was dead still, clean and cold. The storm continued marching to the east, tangerine flashes of lightning and the low throbbing of thunder marking its way. Far off to the west we could see the twinkling lights of Cripple Creek.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think about my sheep hunt. I now know that sheep fever is real, and I’ve got a full-blown case. The antidote is tough to come by when sheep hunts call for deeper pockets than mine or a long shot at drawing another tag. I haven’t figured out the cure yet, but someday, somehow, I’ll go sheep hunting again.
Until then, I’ll have to keep the fever to a warm itch, reading the stories of sheep hunters like Jack O’Connor and his adventures in the Northwest Territories, Alaska, the Yukon and Wind River. Tales of square-faced Indian guides with ponytails and Pendleton shirts, stout mountain horses, hobnail boots, bacon, black coffee and fresh sheep ribs over an open flame. Their stories will have to do until I can return to those heavenly kingdoms of rock and ice where wild rams wear crowns of spiraled stone.
Note: This article originally appeared in the 2012 September/October issue of Sporting Classics magazine.
Ted Schnack is a talented sculptor, and this limited bronze, entitled Ghost Ram, was inspired by the ram in this story. View all of Ted’s portfolio at www.schnackfinearts.com.