For two bone-chilling days, he pursued the rams unrelentingly, from dawn to dark, scaling precipitous cliffs, inching across narrow ledges and sliding down icy slopes.
March 9. While climbing the mountains the past few days, I had been uncomfortable because of warmer weather. It was a delight therefore to start out in the snapping cold, with the accompanying feeling of exhilaration. Several foxes had been running about and I noticed that one pair had kept together, ranging the lower slopes, always on the run. They were probably hunting ptarmigan. A large wolverine had eaten the poisoned bait and signs on the snow indicated that it had been very sick, yet it had gone upward toward Polychrome Mountain. I followed its trail and was disappointed to lose it among some bare areas high among the canyoned slopes.
Two bands of ewes were near when I descended, quickly frightening them. Going up the bar a couple of miles, I saw five rams —three with splendid heads—quite low near the saddle of Divide Mountain. They were in a position where they could easily have been stalked, but as neither of the coveted pair was among them, I kept on. The day was perfect, clear and calm, and the mountains were white and glistening in the bright sunlight, none of the fresh snow having yet been swept off.
High on the slopes of the limestone mountain the two rams were seen, though too far off for me to distinguish their horns. Crossing to the west side of the bar, I hastened forward, finding that they were the pair I was seeking, and in a position entirely favorable for a stalk, although so high that a long time would be necessary to accomplish it. Hurrying on for another mile, I passed up a canyon and began a long dangerous climb. After three hours, I had circled the slope to a point near the place where the rams had last been seen feeding.
The place was entirely in view, but no rams were there. Working slowly around the craggy precipitous slope until satisfied that they had departed, I sat down to think the matter over. Suddenly, two sheep appeared on the bar directly below me and my glasses revealed the pair I was stalking. They were soon joined by a yearling ram. The large ram with the close spiral led, the other two following and watching alertly in all directions. They stopped across the bar at the foot of Polychrome Mountain and began to feed.
I was in plain sight high on the slope but dared not move and had to remain for two hours, until they started upward on the rough slopes, giving me a chance to descend without alarming them. It was a long way and by the time I reached the bar, it was too late to attempt to find them, then hidden high among the crags. So they would not see me, I waited until dark before starting back to the tent. It had been fascinating to sit high on the mountain on this fine clear day and watch the various bands of sheep. Conies [pikas] were abundant also, and their constant bleating had been the only sound breaking the silence of the mountain world.
Day after day while trying to approach these two rams, my desire to get them had increased. Great care had been taken to keep my presence concealed from them and from the other sheep nearby, yet now that they had crossed Polychrome Mountain, it was doubtful whether they could again be found. I had not previously seen this wide-horned ram and thought that probably he belonged to a band occupying a feeding area well back in the rough jumble of mountains between Polychrome and the East Fork of the Toldat, a section I had not attempted to investigate. Like all the sheep, he and his companion were now working back to the feeding grounds they had occupied for seven months.
My snowshoe trail was well beaten for most of the way back, but hastening along in the dark, it was three hours before the camp was reached. There were now about 11 hours of daylight in which rifle sights could be seen.
March 10. The hunt for the two rams continued during another perfect day, without breeze or clouds, and the snowshoes creaked and squeaked as I sped along, exhilarated by the sharp cold air. From a point three miles up the Upper East Branch, the glasses revealed a band of sheep on the mountainside near the limestone peak, where I had attempted to stalk the rams the day before. Recognizing the possibility that they might have re-crossed the bar to join these sheep, I thought it wise to take no chances and therefore tramped the mile across the bar in order to approach the area under cover of the slopes and at the same time keep watch of Polychrome Mountain.
I had not gone a mile before the pair of rams were seen quietly feeding near the crest of the mountain, where they had last been seen the day before, and in a spot splendidly located for a favorable stalk. Re-crossing the bar and advancing a couple of miles, I turned diagonally up the lower slope, leaving my snowshoes at the foot of the bluffs.
After putting on the creepers and pulling the straps extra tight, I began the ascent through great snowdrifts where it was most exhausting to force a way, and then up over icy slopes to the top of the bluffs. I remembered that when I had reached this spot in summer, the continual chatter of ground squirrels filled the air, while now only the occasional bleat of a cony broke the stillness.
I had gone but a short distance along the level top of the bluffs when the two rams walked out in plain sight on the farther brink of a canyon, and after looking about for a few moments, started upward, stopping now and then to crop a mouthful of food. I lay motionless on my side watching them. They kept ascending and finally walked faster, with a steady gait, and passed over the crest. I knew they had started for other ranges and that my only chance to get them was to continue following as long as daylight lasted. It was then noon and I rested while eating a good-sized piece of bread, at the same time watching the ewe bands high on the slopes across the bar. Although at that hour the temperature was about 10 below zero, the sun seemed to pour down delightful warmth.
I attacked the steep mountainside and worked upward, now struggling through a canyon, now through snow and broken rock until near the top, where the shale rose almost sheer for 20 feet with a perpendicular rimrock six feet high forming the crest. When studying the ascent from below no better spot had appeared, yet here I paused some time before attempting it. Then, with my rifle on my back and digging the ends of the creepers in the shale while holding on as best I could with gloved hands, I crawled up to the rock and found it loose and disintegrating.
I had taken two steps up by jamming the toes of the creepers between protruding pebbles and holding on with bare hands and was placing my third foothold when the pebble on which my creeper was resting fell, and the stone I was grasping above began to loosen. The slope fell so precipitously for a thousand feet that I could not jump back without falling and dashing downward. After a moment of fearful suspense, I managed to change my handhold, and by a scramble, succeeded in getting a good grip on the rim, where I held firmly as the rocks under my feet gave way. Drawing my body up, with elbows over the rim, I lifted myself up, swung one knee onto the edge, and was soon on top. The sense of serious danger had been so strong and the exertion so great that I rested awhile to recover.
I walked to the point where the rams had disappeared and saw sections of their trail on the snow, passing over spur after spur toward the ranges that flank the divide of the East Fork of the Toklat. I followed their tracks, now and then pausing to view new areas of rough mountains, the silence unbroken save by the bleats of the conies. The canyons were deep, some more than a thousand feet. Passing over one spur and descending a deep canyon, I climbed over another spur as high as the mountain crest; and so I kept toiling up and down, often losing the trail on the bare spaces and consuming time in regaining it.
After tramping over three spurs, I could see the trail ahead crossing a very rough country and leading to a basin at the source of a tributary of the East Fork. Three more canyons and spurs were passed before I reached the crest of a mountain leading out at right angles from the main range. Then I saw the two rams three-quarters of a mile below, quietly feeding near the bottom of a basin, where the ground appeared checkered from the holes they had made in pawing away the snow. They were in a splendid place for a stalk, and my eagerness was intense as I dropped back below the crest and descended diagonally over the crusted snowbanks to the bottom of a canyon, where I slid rapidly downward to a point opposite them.
Then began an ascent of 300 feet on hard crust, where it was impossible to avoid making a noise. Pausing below the crest, with rifle ready but fearful that the rams, now within easy shot, had heard my footsteps, I crept forward and slowly arose. What was my dismay to behold them out of range on the crest of a lower ridge and taking a course back toward Polychrome Mountain!
There was nothing to do but take up the trail and again follow it. The rams were steadily traveling, keeping well ahead, always out of sight. Up over a mountain I climbed and then down, up again and through rough canyons, passing three high spurs and coming to the brink of a vast basin with walls almost perpendicular, separating the last spur from Polychrome Mountain. The rams had descended into it and had gone directly up the icy rock of the other side—how, I can never know. I saw them just below the crest, nearly opposite me. They stood in sharp outline against a golden sky, and going down on the other side, passed out of sight.
In order to reach the mountain, I had to travel a long distance on the crest of the spur, broken by sharp crags and spired peaks. The sheep trail wound around on dangerous slopes, yet I was able to keep on it. Nearer the mountain the surface was less broken and here a large band of sheep had entered the trail, probably two days before. I was surprised to see a wolverine track following it, apparently made just after the sheep had passed. It is not improbable that the animal was following and hunting the sheep.
I reached the crest of Polychrome Mountain three miles north of where I had earlier ascended it, and half a mile south of the point where the rams had disappeared. Pushing along on the narrow rim, broken by fantastic pinnacles, I picked up the trail of the rams and cautiously followed to a peak rising from the crest, which I ascended and peered over. There, about 350 yards ahead, was another sharp peak on the summit of which stood both rams, looking directly at me. Their alert attitude indicated clearly that they had seen me; they knew I was following them. The sight was impressive, but I was deeply disappointed at the thought that my long hunt would probably end in failure.
They quickly turned and went below the peak. I followed, still going as cautiously and noiselessly as possible, and mounted the peak they had been standing on. They were watching from another peak about the same distance ahead, both looking at me as my head rose inch by inch into the line of vision. After a moment they turned and disappeared. The peak they were on was near the north end of the mountain and was the culmination of a great buttress that jutted well out from the crest, from which high cliffs on three sides fell away to precipitous slopes below. I realized at once that the rams might reach parts of the cliffs inaccessible to man and hide there, safe from sight or approach.
With renewed hope, however, I went forward, cautiously climbing the peak, and found that their tracks were not visible either in the snow beyond, or anywhere below. It was evident they were hiding on the cliffs, and after a short inspection, I concluded they were on the north side. But finding no approach on that side, I turned and carefully inspected the south side.
At first, I tried to work forward near the crest, but was blocked by a smooth wall. Then, a little lower down, another possible route was attempted. It was very cold, my hands were numb, the sun had been down for a long time and darkness was at hand.
Step by step I worked along the cliff, finding footholds or handholds among loose and doubtful rocks, with a perpendicular wall falling 200 feet below me. With forced disregard of the danger of returning in darkness, I kept on till within twenty feet of the end, where the other side could be seen. I was making some noise when I reached it and before looking over, I paused to compose myself. It was too dark to see through the peep sight of the rifle, so I put up the open sight. The silence was complete; the slopes below were indistinct; the mountain crests were shadowy forms in the vast space leading to Denali, the great summit alone illumined by the sun.
Creeping upward and pushing my rifle forward, I slowly raised my head. There, only a hundred feet along the cliff and 30 feet below the top, were the two rams. They were lying side by side on a rock shelf jutting out from the wall, their breasts at the very edge, more than a hundred feet of sheer space below. They had heard me, and both were looking at me as my eyes reached the line of sight.
The picture of these wild rams left an impression that will ever remain.
My rifle quickly covered the nearest ram—the one with the close spiral—and as the report echoed and reechoed, he stretched out convulsed, while the other sprang to his feet. Before he could run, I fired again, and he also dropped, but slowly rose again. At another shot, he fell over the edge at the exact instant the other did, both shooting down through the air together, bouncing as they struck the slope below, and continuing downward for three thousand feet, their course marked by the snow that was tossed up like patches of vapor.
There was no time to rest, smoke my pipe or enjoy the landscape, for though in a state of highly wrought exhilaration, I instantly realized the seriousness of the situation—caught in the dark on the side of a cliff, with the cold of night rapidly increasing. I started back for a few feet in a very faint light, hoping to find some spot where I could sit and, if necessary, remain all night. My squirrel-skin parka in the rucksack might possibly prevent me from freezing. I did find a spot, a very small one, and after putting on the parka, took my position. When my body was warm, I began to feel for loose rocks with the idea of placing them below me so that in case of being overcome with sleep, I would not slide downward. But I could not find any.
After a while, the sky in the east began to brighten, then moonlight touched some of the rocks on the crest, reviving hope that later it might light the cliff sufficiently for me to leave. An hour passed, a fine half-moon rose in the clear sky, the snowfields were illumined between the black shadowy spaces, and light shone directly on the cliff.
My legs and feet were cold, but after stamping to start the circulation, and with the rifle slung on my back, I moved step by step, often securing footholds in the dark spaces by feeling, and gradually arrived at a place I did not believe it possible to cross in the faint light. But a few feet below was a rift in the cliff lighted by the moon and showing a snowy slope descending at a very sharp incline.
After some hesitation, I let myself down and found a hard crust. Unslinging the rifle and using it to make foot-holes in the hard snow, I worked down to the bed of the canyon. Now that I was in the snow my relief was intense, for I knew that if necessary I could make a snow house and probably keep from freezing. The canyon about a hundred feet below was walled on both sides, and working my way through the narrow space, I found the snow sloping smoothly almost to the foot of the mountain.
Still holding the rifle as a brake, I sat down and slid rapidly, in a short time reaching a gentle slope close to the spot where the tumbling rams had landed. The joy and relief of that moonlight slide through the steep canyon, after the harrowing experiences of that day, can never be repeated.
At the spot where I had stopped was a smooth path in the snow, apparently made by some object sliding from the side of the canyon. Going up the opposite side, I found the rams, their horns uninjured, the snow matted in their coats and glistening under the moon. Returning, I had not gone more than 20 feet down the smooth incline when I came upon a large male wolverine, frozen stiff. He was the one that had taken my poisoned bait the day before. After crossing the slope for two miles and just before reaching the cliffs a thousand feet above, he had died and rolled down.
I was too elated to mind the tramp of two miles to recover my snowshoes, or the longer tramp back to the tent, where the cheer of tea, food and warmth awaited me.
That was my last hunt for sheep in the northern wilderness. The heads of these two rams now hang on my walls, constantly reminding me of the experiences of that day.
Note: “High Peril on Polychrome Mountain” is from Charles Sheldon’s Wilderness of Denali, originally published in 1930 by Charles Scribner’s Sons and reprinted in 2000 by The Derrydale Press, which authorized this excerpt.
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Follow Frederick Courteney Selous on his hunting adventures for moose and caribou, and a vast array of other game, primarily by traversing rivers and lakes by canoe. Experience a first-hand account his first moose hunt in Canada, along with adventures in caribou hunting in Newfoundland and the Yukon Territory. He was accompanied by B&C members, Charles Sheldon, William Osgood, and Carl Rungius throughout his adventures.