bridger
01-07-2010, 06:51 PM
TWO AND A HALF RAMS
“If Gerry is going to shoot, he’d better do it now,” Jon R. muttered, half to himself and half to me. Gerry the third member of our party and great friend was working his way across a shale slide. He was closing in on a bigstone ram. “Have a look,” Jon R said, rolling away from the spotting scope.
Set on 40X, the scope gave a clear view of the ram standing in front of a large boulder, scratching his back on its sharp edges. We had found him an hour earlier, alone and feeding towards the rugged cliffs at the head of the basin. He was an old ram. He moved slowly; the stiffness in his legs clearly evident. His swayed back betraying his age. Jon and I aged him at 10 maybe 11 years old.
Several days earlier we had left homes in Fort St. John, heading once again deep into the heart of the East Slope. We would be gone 21 days. One full day’s travel up the Alaska Highway to the trail head and four days by pack string would get us to our sheep camp.
It was late afternoon when we reached the meadows at the head of Ram Creek. Unpacking, hobbling, and belling the horses went quickly and soon our camp was set. Sheep season would open the next morning--August 1st.
http://www.huntingbc.ca/photos/data/500/medium/gerry_rich_horses.jpeg (http://www.huntingbc.ca/photos/showphoto.php?photo=17452&size=big&cat=500&ppuser=10914)
We were up early the next morning heading to a sheepy looking basin about two miles below camp. We left our saddle horses at the creek mouth, and with rifles and packs headed up to the top end. It was there we spotted the ram Gerry was now after.
Jon R. kept tabs on the ram and Gerry’s progress while I continued to glass the surrounding mountains looking for other rams. Seeing none, I turned my binoculars back towards the big ram Gerry was after.
We were in steep, rough country. The ram was standing on a small grassy ledge; the type rams love so much. Below him was a steep grassy slope, behind him and to his right a series of very rugged slides and steep ledges. Lying on the hillside about two hundred yards from the ram, Gerry was taking his time judging his age and size. “Perfect spot,” Jon R. said. “If he rolls, he should end up on that grassy slope.”
Judging a ram’s age and horn length accurately depends more on experience than science. This ram was hard to judge. At a distance of about a half mile, Jon R. and I could tell he was an old ram, but judging his horn length was tough. He had good bases and carried his weight well through the first two quarters, then dropped off. His curl was deep; lamb tips right at his nose; for me the hardest horns to judge. The longer we studied him the better he looked. Gerry had obviously arrived at the same conclusion. Through our spotting scopes, we could see both the ram and our pard. Gerry had laid his rifle on his day pack and was now getting ready pull the trigger. The ram was still standing in front of the boulder on what appeared to be a flat grassy ledge.
I agreed hoping Gerry’s shot would anchor the ram on the spot or that he would roll straight down the hill and not stumble into the series of ledges and cliffs. Gerry is an excellent rifle shot and a very conscientious sheep hunter; I knew he would leave little too chance. At the shot, the ram dropped immediately. However, instead of falling backwards towards the boulder he fell forward and rolled over, ending up on his back with his back legs in the air. He lay there for a moment; then started slowly rolling down the hill over a small rocky hump. That’s when Murphy’s Law kicked in. As he rolled, the ram’s horns struck a rock and turned him to the right. We held our breath as the ram picked up momentum, rolling over and over into a series of cliffs and ledges, before disappearing.
Although we couldn’t see him, we could track his progress down the hill by the sounds of his horns striking the rocks as he continued towards a sheer drop-off. Jon and I were watching through binoculars, hoping to catch sight of the ram, when suddenly he shot into view. His speed carried him about 15 feet straight out from the cliff face, then 100 feet straight down where he landed on a large boulder with a loud ‘WHUMP!” Disaster!!
“That’s was not good,” Jon R. said.
“This is going to be bad,” I agreed, gathering up my rifle and pack.
Rams often are found in rough country. Jon and I had some roll for several hundred yards with no damage to the cape, horns, or carcass. Nothing in our years of sheep hunting had prepared us for the experience we were about to have.
It was awful! There is no other way to describe it. The ram was completely destroyed. The carcass had literally exploded upon impact. One horn was gone, knocked off the core coming down the hill; the cape completely ruined; the meat unsalvageable.
“What is that?” I asked Jon pointing to a red mass about 15 feet to the side.
“That would be his heart,” Jon said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Neither of us had ever seen anything to compare with this. I looked up and could see Gerry slowly working his way through the ledges.
“How bad is it?” he yelled down the hill. How can you tell your hunting partner and close friend that fate had just dealt him a poor hand, completely destroying what was probably a record book ram?
“Not good,” I yelled back up the hill. “One horn is missing, the cape is ruined and even the ribs won’t be salvageable. “The only good news is that the other horn is intact,” I added sadly.
“I was afraid of that,” Gerry yelled back.
“See if you can find his other horn,” I said, with as much force as I could muster.
Gerry worked his way into the cliffs only to reappear minutes later. “It’s impossible to go any further; the hillside is too steep,” he yelled down. “See if you can come up from the bottom.”
“Ok!” I yelled and began climbing up through the rocks. I hadn’t gotten far when the hillside started going straight up making it impossible to go any further. We were stymied. We would never find the missing horn.
We were three pretty sad sheep hunters as we sat around the campfire later that evening. Gerry had not only lost a great ram (the intact horn measured 40 ¼ inches), but the meat was also lost. Sheep ribs cooked over a willow fire are hard to beat. We discussed Gerry’s ram several times; each time arriving at the same conclusion. It was a stroke of extremely bad luck.
“You could take that shot another hundred times and the ram would never roll like that again.” Jon R said stoking the fire, putting an end to the discussion.
“If Gerry is going to shoot, he’d better do it now,” Jon R. muttered, half to himself and half to me. Gerry the third member of our party and great friend was working his way across a shale slide. He was closing in on a bigstone ram. “Have a look,” Jon R said, rolling away from the spotting scope.
Set on 40X, the scope gave a clear view of the ram standing in front of a large boulder, scratching his back on its sharp edges. We had found him an hour earlier, alone and feeding towards the rugged cliffs at the head of the basin. He was an old ram. He moved slowly; the stiffness in his legs clearly evident. His swayed back betraying his age. Jon and I aged him at 10 maybe 11 years old.
Several days earlier we had left homes in Fort St. John, heading once again deep into the heart of the East Slope. We would be gone 21 days. One full day’s travel up the Alaska Highway to the trail head and four days by pack string would get us to our sheep camp.
It was late afternoon when we reached the meadows at the head of Ram Creek. Unpacking, hobbling, and belling the horses went quickly and soon our camp was set. Sheep season would open the next morning--August 1st.
http://www.huntingbc.ca/photos/data/500/medium/gerry_rich_horses.jpeg (http://www.huntingbc.ca/photos/showphoto.php?photo=17452&size=big&cat=500&ppuser=10914)
We were up early the next morning heading to a sheepy looking basin about two miles below camp. We left our saddle horses at the creek mouth, and with rifles and packs headed up to the top end. It was there we spotted the ram Gerry was now after.
Jon R. kept tabs on the ram and Gerry’s progress while I continued to glass the surrounding mountains looking for other rams. Seeing none, I turned my binoculars back towards the big ram Gerry was after.
We were in steep, rough country. The ram was standing on a small grassy ledge; the type rams love so much. Below him was a steep grassy slope, behind him and to his right a series of very rugged slides and steep ledges. Lying on the hillside about two hundred yards from the ram, Gerry was taking his time judging his age and size. “Perfect spot,” Jon R. said. “If he rolls, he should end up on that grassy slope.”
Judging a ram’s age and horn length accurately depends more on experience than science. This ram was hard to judge. At a distance of about a half mile, Jon R. and I could tell he was an old ram, but judging his horn length was tough. He had good bases and carried his weight well through the first two quarters, then dropped off. His curl was deep; lamb tips right at his nose; for me the hardest horns to judge. The longer we studied him the better he looked. Gerry had obviously arrived at the same conclusion. Through our spotting scopes, we could see both the ram and our pard. Gerry had laid his rifle on his day pack and was now getting ready pull the trigger. The ram was still standing in front of the boulder on what appeared to be a flat grassy ledge.
I agreed hoping Gerry’s shot would anchor the ram on the spot or that he would roll straight down the hill and not stumble into the series of ledges and cliffs. Gerry is an excellent rifle shot and a very conscientious sheep hunter; I knew he would leave little too chance. At the shot, the ram dropped immediately. However, instead of falling backwards towards the boulder he fell forward and rolled over, ending up on his back with his back legs in the air. He lay there for a moment; then started slowly rolling down the hill over a small rocky hump. That’s when Murphy’s Law kicked in. As he rolled, the ram’s horns struck a rock and turned him to the right. We held our breath as the ram picked up momentum, rolling over and over into a series of cliffs and ledges, before disappearing.
Although we couldn’t see him, we could track his progress down the hill by the sounds of his horns striking the rocks as he continued towards a sheer drop-off. Jon and I were watching through binoculars, hoping to catch sight of the ram, when suddenly he shot into view. His speed carried him about 15 feet straight out from the cliff face, then 100 feet straight down where he landed on a large boulder with a loud ‘WHUMP!” Disaster!!
“That’s was not good,” Jon R. said.
“This is going to be bad,” I agreed, gathering up my rifle and pack.
Rams often are found in rough country. Jon and I had some roll for several hundred yards with no damage to the cape, horns, or carcass. Nothing in our years of sheep hunting had prepared us for the experience we were about to have.
It was awful! There is no other way to describe it. The ram was completely destroyed. The carcass had literally exploded upon impact. One horn was gone, knocked off the core coming down the hill; the cape completely ruined; the meat unsalvageable.
“What is that?” I asked Jon pointing to a red mass about 15 feet to the side.
“That would be his heart,” Jon said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Neither of us had ever seen anything to compare with this. I looked up and could see Gerry slowly working his way through the ledges.
“How bad is it?” he yelled down the hill. How can you tell your hunting partner and close friend that fate had just dealt him a poor hand, completely destroying what was probably a record book ram?
“Not good,” I yelled back up the hill. “One horn is missing, the cape is ruined and even the ribs won’t be salvageable. “The only good news is that the other horn is intact,” I added sadly.
“I was afraid of that,” Gerry yelled back.
“See if you can find his other horn,” I said, with as much force as I could muster.
Gerry worked his way into the cliffs only to reappear minutes later. “It’s impossible to go any further; the hillside is too steep,” he yelled down. “See if you can come up from the bottom.”
“Ok!” I yelled and began climbing up through the rocks. I hadn’t gotten far when the hillside started going straight up making it impossible to go any further. We were stymied. We would never find the missing horn.
We were three pretty sad sheep hunters as we sat around the campfire later that evening. Gerry had not only lost a great ram (the intact horn measured 40 ¼ inches), but the meat was also lost. Sheep ribs cooked over a willow fire are hard to beat. We discussed Gerry’s ram several times; each time arriving at the same conclusion. It was a stroke of extremely bad luck.
“You could take that shot another hundred times and the ram would never roll like that again.” Jon R said stoking the fire, putting an end to the discussion.