Rams on the Run

by Rick Latshaw

An easterner comes back to Alaska for another attempt at the famed Dall sheep of Alaska's high country....and succeeds after some unexpected adventure.

We had been hiking for several hours, following an old 4-wheeler trail for many miles, then through several miles of solid 12-foot high thick brush. When we stopped for a break and noticed lots of fresh bear sign, Sue asked me if I had ammo in the rifle magazine. I said "No", and she said "Get some in there, now".

Just moments later, while fighting our way through spongy tundra and heavy alder thickets under our burden, a sudden growling erupted not 50 yards away.

I yelled: "bear!"

It was like a scene from Jurassic Park. The alder brush was waving wildly, and the movement was headed right for us.

Sue yelled, "Get your rifle and get one in the chamber."

In a wild panic I struggled to get it un-strapped from the pack. While Sue yelled at the hidden bear and banged her ice axe against a stick, the bear had stopped, but was making some unpleasant sounds. We could only hear the bear popping its jaws and swatting the ground with the aggression of a defensive lineman who missed a sack.

Moments later, it let out another bellow, but this time I could see only brush waving as the bear exited the area about 100 yards away. Sue thought that it might have been a sow protecting her cubs; scolding them to follow her away from the danger she thought we presented. And we thought SHE was dangerous.

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I took a deep breath and sighed, in a strange way thankful to be here in the wilderness of the Alaska Range. We were packing it through bear and moose country toward our final destination in the alpine sheep meadows. I had booked the hunt with Matt Snyder of Alaska Hunting Adventures about six months after a failed sheep hunt in the Wrangell Mountains two years earlier, where I suffered a painful muscle injury.

With months of physical therapy behind me and a bottle of prescription painkiller in my pack, I was back to punish myself some more. My guide was Sue Entsminger, Matt¹s mom, herself a registered guide with 29 years of sheep hunting experience. This is a family operation that also includes Matt¹s step-dad Frank. Their family has an incredible reputation and an enviable personal sheep hunting record. These folks know sheep and sheep hunting!

A few hours after the bear encounter we had finished fighting through the alder and willow brush and were now able to see the mountains where we were heading. It was getting pretty warm as we climbed above brush line. After we had gained some elevation, we dropped our packs and hiked up the ridge to do some glassing. Sue said that in the heat of the day the rams would be laid up in the high peaks, but would probably start moving to feed toward evening.

About six o’clock I started glassing in the direction we thought the sheep should be. On the farthest mountain, three peaks away, I studied a few little white dots that could be sheep. After watching a few minutes, I was sure they were moving. Sue put the spotting scope on them and said that there were five rams and that one looked to have lots of horn. But they were a long way off -- I thought they looked as if they were a week away. Sue said we would do best to drop down off the mountain and hike up to a grassy bowl on the next mountain beyond. From there we could hike to the top in the morning and follow the ridge toward where the sheep were.

The next morning found us with camp loaded, climbing steeply up the mountainside. Reaching the crest, we could look out across a nice grassy basin that sloped up gently and then became increasingly steep as the elevation increased. There were several ridges and peaks in sight but not the one where we had seen the rams. Sue told me to have a seat and rest while she climbed up the ridge to get better oriented and see where we had to go.

I was whipped from the morning’s climb, and decided not to let my pride force me to try to keep pace with Sue who was clearly in better shape, and a better climber than I. I kept thinking that for such a small lady, she could out-work any three men I knew-- so much for machismo.

When she returned, she said, "Our hope for a quick and easy hunt is over. The mountain with the sheep is across the valley. The good news is I saw at least eight rams feeding undisturbed in a nice grassy bowl, kind of like this one. Our best bet is to backtrack and bail off into the valley. I hate to fight the brush, but at least we can make camp by the water."

We were up the next morning at 4:30, and after a standard breakfast of instant oatmeal and hot cocoa, we left our camp, tent, sleeping bags and extra gear, taking only what we needed for the day. We started up gradually side-hilling around the mountainside toward the basin where the rams had been feeding the evening before.

The further we went the steeper it got. I was struggling across terrain that wanted to roll out from under my feet each time I shifted my weight. With weary legs wobbling and feeling like Jell-o, I struggled to keep my balance. Each stumble made me work that much harder to keep from falling, using up lots of strength and precious energy.

Meanwhile Sue seemed to skip along, across the rocks with ease much like the very animals we pursued. I hoped she wasn¹t getting too upset with the bumbling easterner lagging behind. Battle-hardened from years of experience in the sheep hills, Sue led across the rock and shale slides, coaching me along the way. Unfortunately the "don¹t look down" and "you won’t get killed if you fall" advice did little to curb my fear of heights.

Sue was pretty convincing, even when we had to take off our packs and scale a vertical face about 15 feet, clinging to the rocks for dear life like Spiderman in camo. One only questions their sanity so many times before realizing that sanity has nothing to do with sheep hunting.

When we could see almost the entire basin, Sue told me to sit and rest a minute while she peaked over the hill to scope the remainder of the basin. She returned with some hard news: all of the sheep were gone.

That evening at camp, Sue was feeling down but remained optimistic. She didn’t have one ounce of quit in her. I, however, was preparing to accept my fate beginning to believe that it just wasn¹t in the cards for me to get a sheep. I had hunted sheep unsuccessfully twice before, and now here I was again, worn out and sore all over, thinking that for me, the hunt was over.

Sue kept saying, "The fat lady hasn¹t sung yet. I’ll know when it’s over, and it isn’t yet."

The next morning we awakened to steady rain and low ceilings, weather that dampens spirits and spells doom for sheep hunting. Sue was still optimistic. She explained that one of our options was to move camp into the basin where the rams had been, and wait for a few days for them to return. I was scheduled to fly out in three days so staying longer would mean missing my flight.

Besides, I didn’t think we had much hope and was ready to wimp out altogether. Sue said, "Well, we can’t go anywhere till it stops raining."

Maybe the rain was a blessing.

After noon, the rain slowed and skies began to clear a little. We crawled out of the damp tent, and made some lunch. Sue, still not willing to quit, suggested that as a last resort we should try to find a bear. I said that would be okay if we could find one with decent hair.

We packed up camp, and climbed up to the first knoll across the creek, overlooking much of the valley laden with willow and blueberry. There we sat down to glass the lower slopes for bear activity. We could also see up a branch valley toward the tundra-covered basin below the mountain ridges where we had been the day before.

After about 10-15 minutes of glassing, Sue said, "There are three rams up there just above the brush line. I can¹t believe they are so low."

She changed lenses, and eventually said, "I think one of them is legal!"

She continued to scrutinize, not sure if the ram was legal from a distance of about four miles. Finally she said, "It’s a pretty ram, and it might be legal. Do you want to go after him?"

I said, "Yeah! If God means for me to get a sheep, that’s where He’ll put one."

So we shouldered our packs and began our stalk, oddly enough, right up the creek bottom. We kept a close watch on the sheep as we maneuvered up the drainage, through the alder and willow brush. They were on a green flat just a few hundred yards above the brush.

As we approached, the sheep appeared to become more unsettled. The most visible ram would stand and look intently down the valley toward us, then feed a little and then bed down, only to stand and stare our way again. I was pretty nervous, thinking that the infamous eyesight of the sheep would pick us out moving through the brush. Sue made sure we moved very cautiously anytime we crossed a small clearing. She said several times that the way the sheep were acting, she thought they wanted to cross the valley.

We moved along at a fast walk, keeping to moose and caribou trails through the alders when we could, struggling to push through them when the trails disappeared. As we closed the distance, the most visible ram stood again, staring in our direction as only a sheep can stare.

Sue put the scope on him and I had my first good look at the ram. Sue called him a "pretty ram", and that he was! I thought he looked heavy at the bases, and had a pretty wide flare. He sure looked good to me standing there, scanning the valley, head held high and majestic.

When we had closed the distance to 1,000 yards, the sheep suddenly decided that they did indeed want to cross the valley, and the time to do so had arrived. They got up and without milling around, bailed off the ridge.

Sue whispered excitedly, "They¹re crossing! We need to move!"

We began a sprint through the brush, abandoning the trails and making our own where none existed. While running, I unfastened the rifle from the pack.

We covered a few hundred yards in a hurry, afraid we would not be fast enough and the sheep would cross before we got close. We watched them moving through the brushy cover, moving more slowly now as they were feeding on the willows. Sheep normally feed on willows later in the hunting season. I was sure glad they were doing so now.

The sheep were closer, and I was getting excited as I realized we were closing the distance. I was starting to think that we might actually get a shot, a scenario that only a few hours before seemed inconceivable. One moment all hope was lost, the next, hope springs eternal.

Sue pulled out the range finder as we crawled out of a shallow draw. "Five hundred thirty yards, she said, we need to get closer."

We continued our hunched-over run toward them. When we had covered two hundred yards, we spotted the rams. I quickly got into a prone position and tried to steady the rifle, which after the running and excitement was nearly impossible.

Sue cautioned, "Make sure the ram is clear, with none behind it. We only want one! Your bullet could travel through one sheep and take the one behind him. Two is not a good thing!"

She continued, "Two of the three are legal. If you get a clear shot, take one."

For a fraction of a second, one ram stepped into the clear, and my finger began to tighten on the trigger, but before I could make the shot the ram moved forward into the willows again.

They moved lower and out of sight. We were afraid they would get behind a knoll and into the drainage, where they could cross out of sight. So we dropped our packs, and made another sprint across the open tundra. We were now in the brush and willows just below where we had last seen the rams, scanning the area on both sides of the main drainage, looking for a hint of white against the lush green surroundings.

We scanned the brush next to us. It felt like hunting whitetails back home in the hardwoods. Suddenly Sue whispered excitedly. "There they are, right there!"

I saw them milling about in the head-high willows. I tried to kneel, but the brush was too high. Sue said, "Use your walking stick." So I telescoped the aluminum pole to a usable height. The rest was good, but the rams moved over an embankment. If they moved down the drainage, they would step into the open at 40 yards.

Just as I was ready, the sheep moved back out of the drainage. They kept feeding, painfully slowly through the willows.

I wanted so badly to force a shot. Half a dozen times my finger tightened on the trigger, only to decide that the shot was too risky because of brush or another ram being too close to the one I wanted. I had come too far and worked too hard to risk everything on a marginal shot -- especially when I knew they were inching closer. I thought that soon, if all went well, a perfect shot would present itself. I kept praying that I wouldn¹t blow this opportunity, and hoping that nothing would go wrong.

They were to the edge of the last bit of brush between us. A few more steps and I would have a shot for sure. Just before stepping into the clear, the two legal rams stepped down the embankment into the drainage again. I still had my solid rest, waiting for them to continue down the drainage and step into view at 40 yards.

The sub-legal, quarter-curl ram pegged us. He stood there, at the edge of the brush, facing straight on, head alert, staring us down. I kept the scope trained on the other two, watching the little one out of the corner of my eye. The intense stare continued for what seemed to be forever. I was statue still, begging one of the other rams to climb back up the bank toward the young fellow. But instead, the youngster stepped down into the drainage.

I knew this was the moment of truth. I hoped the little one would go back to feeding, and they¹d soon step into clear view. But, in the next instant I saw three ram heads bounding through the brush going away. The little one was alarmed, and had spooked the others.

I whispered frantically, "They¹re spooked and running away!" and Sue yelled, "Well, run up there in the open and kill one! There are two legal rams, make sure you get one of them."

I took off, sprinting about 50 yards into an opening just as the first ram stepped into a clearing. I shouldered the rifle, off-hand and found the front ram with a lot of flare to his horns. I tried to steady the crosshairs on his shoulder, and when the sight picture looked good, squeezed the trigger. I saw dust or hair fly opposite the ram. As I chambered another round, all three sheep were into the brush and out of sight.

I expected only two sheep to emerge from the willows. But to my utter disappointment, all three were still running up the side of the mountain. Shifting to a solid sitting position, I held the crosshairs at the top of the back spending lots of prayers and ammo.

As I shoved more rounds into the magazine, Sue was scolding me from behind, telling me to concentrate. I could see blood on the ram as I squeezed off another shot. Again I saw hair or dust fly just above the ram.

Sue yelled, "Your hitting too high!" and I stammered, "This is my last shot!"

She replied, "Wait for him to stop, and make it a good one."

I wasn¹t sure the ram would stop before going over the top. But I waited, and when he slowed down and appeared about to stop, I touched of my last round.

For a second, the ram stood still while I frantically searched pockets for another cartridge. Then he took a shaky step forward and collapsed. Sue was slapping me on the shoulder saying, "You got him! You got him!"

I found another round hidden in a pocket, and chambered it in case the ram got up. But, I needn’t have worried. The last shot had entered low in the shoulder and with the steep angle, had gone up through the chest.

I stood there watching the ram, repeating over and over in my head, " I got a sheep, thank you Lord, I got a sheep."

When I finally walked up to him, I was surprised at the body and horn size. Initially I had only cared that it was a full-curl legal ram. Now I could see that not only was this ram legal, he was also heavy with a beautiful wide flare.

We completed the long cleaning process, saving every bit of edible meat, from tongue to testicles. Sue explained that they share meat with the local native villagers and she loves tongue. Her neighbor is fond of "mountain oysters".

The wind was ferocious, with bits of stinging rain pelting us as we finished the chore. Shouldering heavy packs laden with sheep, we leaned into the wind, and hiked the two -and-a-half miles back to camp in the twilight of an Alaska summer night. We arrived at about midnight, wet and exhausted the happiest of exhaustions that only successful sheep hunters are ever lucky enough to experience.

The next morning, as we struggled down the valley, crossing the knee-deep creek dozens of times, I looked back upon the mountain behind us. We noticed several white dots circling the ragged top. Sue set up the spotting scope saying, "I’ll bet those are some of the rams that were in the other basin. If they circle that mountain they’ll be right back there again."

She peered through the scope and studied a bit, and said, "They are rams alright, and one a really good one!"