Scoring Fast Food...or the Caribou is Down.

I was just recovering from my week of on- again/ off- again foul weather sheep hunting when one day at work my frequent hunting partner Dan came by my desk and asked about a weekend trip on his new boat. It sounded marvelous frankly- cruising the lakes looking for caribou or moose with a fishing pole in the water and a cup of coffee in my hand. All the while kicked back behind the console with a canvas top and Buddy Heater if the weather went south. It took me all of five seconds..."I'm in." I replied.

Dan arrived at the appointed time of 0'dark hundred and I quickly loaded my gear and away we went. We stopped off at the gas station and I fueled the boat and the truck while Dan went for coffee and doughnuts. A few adjustments to the tie downs and windshield cover and away we went  in Dan's big Dodge truck pulling the boat. We had a great trip down the highway and spotted numerous animals milling in the dawn light near the edges of the highway including a caribou who ran directly down the road in front of us for a half mile before veering off into the brush. It just felt like a great day to be hunting and I could taste success in the fall air.

As we turned down Denali Highway, the mists began burning off the numerous pothole lakes and patches of blue sky shown through the intermittent gray as the sun began its creep over the horizon. As we motored down the narrow and twisting highway we conversed about the coming fall season and goals we had for hunting as well as observing the changing fall colors of the blueberry bushes and willows. As we passed the boundary marker that announced we were now entering a "Subsistence Hunting Area" and validated the numerous tags we carried, I casually looked west at a rugged mountainside covered with several rocky benches and intertwined patches of moss...and caribou.

"Bou out the port side Skipper!" I announced and Dan quickly slowed the truck and pulled off the narrow shoulder. Finally feeling the momentum of the ponderous boat subside and the truck roll to a stop we jumped out to see the animals. This was ridiculous. We weren't even hunting yet. I had mixed feelings, this wasn't much of a hunt if we connected here on these caribou but then again- I had plenty of air in my freezer at this point.

"What do you think?" I queried as I heard Dan stuffing shells into the magazine of his rifle.

"I'm gonna put one in the freezer!" he answered and started across the road to line up a shot. Its illegal to shoot from, across or to a roadway in Alaska but you don't have to be very far from it to be legal in this location- just off the driveable surface. Dan stepped a couple dozen yards off the road to be on the safe side as I was foraging in the cab of the truck for my rifle shells and hurriedly playing catch up at this point. I had been caught unawares and this seemed almost surreal given the effort I'd expended the week prior for a mere photograph of a sheep, a mile away, through a spotter.

I was midway across the road when Dan, several dozen yards across the other side,  pulled up his rifle and fired offhand at a nice plump cow caribou at the edge of a small stone ledge- perhaps a hundred yards distant. I was trying to do too many things at once and this event was unfolding at high speed- running, observing, the animals, loading the rifle, watching Dan in the brush. I glanced up at the crack of the rifle and saw Dan's caribou fall headlong off the ledge. The sharp crack of the kugelschlag indicated the round had struck bone and the reaction of the animal indicated it was stone dead, even in mid fall.

The small band of caribou now exploded into action.

Finally drawing up to Dan I looked up the hill, the caribou were running confused- dodging left and right, pouring up the narrow approaches to the ledges and back down the far sides. Sometimes with herd animals a hunter is often confused by looking at the mass of animals rather than individuals and I fell solidly into the category at this time. I raised the rifle and looked- the crosshairs wobbled with my ragged breathing. I probably hadn't drawn a single breath since rounding the truck and burning lungs demanded air, right now. Animals were piled thick into each other and it was entirely possible to shoot through one and kill or wound one behind it. A disasterous situation.

Its funny how at times like this you mentally do the strangest things. I can only imagine that what I had practiced took over on autopilot as the hunter's dictum ran through my mind- If you can get closer, get closer. If you can get steadier, get steadier.

Closer? Unlikely given the speed at which the animals were moving away. Steadier? That I could do and plopped down on the rough gravel and assumed my favorite of all shooting positions- sitting. I looped up in the sling and drew tight as the animals finally slowed on top of a rock ledge at a distance we would later measure with a GPS as 255 yards. The caribou were still ganged up as I started tracking them through the crosshairs. A nice, fat cow caribou stood out in this small band but I held fire as I could see the legs of another caribou behind her. This was finally slowing down to a pace my brain could handle. The animals traversed the ledge south to north, headed for the lee of the drainage and safety.

"Got one picked out?" asked Dan. Obviously wondering if I was here to hunt or just watch with my mouth agape.

Through the scope I could see a phenomenon that I had observed countless times with all sorts of quadrupeds. Because ungulates have eyes on both sides of their heads they don't see particularly well forward or rear and since they have such limited depth perception with their visual arrangement, they almost always do the most peculiar thing. After an initial burst of speed when startled and a short mad run, the animals will simply stop to look around and see if they are pursued...generally broadside.

I tracked the mature cow and watched as she stopped on the ledge and looked around oblivious to our presence far down the hill. I also watched as the caribou behind her moved clear, providing an ideal, if somewhat long shot. Although it takes some time to write, the actual event took less than 10 seconds in reality. I evaluated- the crosshairs were marvelously steady with the rifle locked in with a taut sling and my forearms firmly on my shins and knees. The distance, albeit slightly longer than I normally like to shoot, was well within the capability of myself and the rifle. I looked carefully, flicked off the safety and took up slack on the fine trigger.

I applied the final fractional ounce to the trigger. Boom! The rifle cracked and I rocked back in recoil. I clearly heard the sound of bullet striking flesh, what the German hunters refer to as the kugelschlag. As I brought the rifle out of recoil I cycled a fresh cartridge into the chamber. I quickly found the ledge again in the scope but I couldn't find the cow again. The herd continued moving north and was soon around the ridge and out of sight.

All business, I calmly asked Dan, "Where?"

"Down!," he replied, "She flopped backwards at the shot and hasn't moved."

I scanned the area through the scope where I believed the caribou had fell, watching for the cow to recover from the initial shock and run off. Many hunters who follow up on game too quickly are surprised when their animal jumps up and runs off as they approach unprepared.

Nothing moving. I was nervous that one of the caribou now putting distance between us was carrying one of my bullets.

"Let's go," I said and we got up and started our climb up the hill. We quickly reached the base of the ledge that Dan's bou had tumbled down. The ledge was perhaps ten feet high and the cow was piled up right at the base. She had never felt the impact at the bottom. His .300 Winchester with a 150gr. bullet had hit the cow at somewhere near 3000 feet per second velocity at 100 yards. The impact force had broken the onside shoulder turning the shoulder blade fragments into secondary projectiles through the lungs. The bullet had punctured both lungs as well and still had plenty of momentum to completely shatter the offside shoulder and punch a large exit wound. Death had been instantaneous. We moved the cow onto a flat patch of ground on the steep hillside, marked it with flagging and got our bearings to continue up the hill to where mine hopefully lay.

We spread out about 50 yards apart and worked our way through the shin tangle and rocky ledges. We went up the steep hill slowly and looked out the ridge- there, perhaps 500 yards away, the rest of the herd had stopped and watched as we made our way up. I had just looked back and thought that I had surely went too far and passed the caribou in the brush. I also had the nagging voice in the back of my head- wondering if I had just wounded the animal and it made an escape as we had climbed up here. It had certainly taken long enough, perhaps ten minutes, to get here and the terrain had enough variation that a discreet escape unseen by us approaching from below would have been possible. I looked at the distant herd, watching for tell tale signs of a seriously wounded one- they all moved with the grace and posture that caribou normally display.

I pushed on and climbed a small, rocky chute to the next rocky ledge to get a vantage point to scan the brush below. The stones had been freshly dislodged as caribou had recently scrambled up this access to the bench above- a good sign. As I pulled myself over the edge of the ledge there was my caribou, stone dead where she fell. I felt a rush of relief as I examined the animal with the distinctive smaller velvet covered antlers. She was in excellent condition, plump and healthy- prime sustenance and wonderful table fare for my family this winter. I examined the wound- the bullet had entered just behind the shoulder, penetrated the vitals and after rolling her over saw it exited high lung through the ribs. Death would have been exceptionally quick and given the myriad of ways caribou die out here in this harsh land- maybe merciful to an extent since old age is not one of them.

While the act of killing isn't something I particularly enjoy, I do take great satisfaction in being proficient at the task. If I cause an animal's death, I strive to do so with minimal suffering. I reflected for a moment here on the mountain with my animal- the caribou had went from alive and living free to quite dead in mere seconds. I wondered a bit about my own eventual death. Would it be as merciful or as quick? After seeing my father's lingering and prolonged suffering bout with cancer my views on death had perplexed me somewhat over the last year. I tired of such melancholy and dark thoughts in such a beautiful setting. Dan rounded a point a short distance away and we had lots of hard work ahead to do given our unexpected and quick success.

"Hey Dan...she's over here. Down in her tracks..."

  

Sheep Hunting...Weather's Remission.

continued from "Sheep Hunting...Weather's Finale"

On Thursday morning, at about the second pot of coffee and something like the twenty-fifth check of the NOAA website the change occurred. It took me a minute to pick out the small change after days of viewing it with the same repetitive forecast that accompanies these huge, slow moving low pressure systems.

"Rain, with low lying clouds and decreased visibility in the Eastern Mountains" became instead, "Partly Cloudy with clearing in the afternoon and increased chance of rain in the evening". In other words- sloppy just became partly sloppy.

Before my browser could fully load the page I had already cut and pasted the forecast into a text message and forwarded it to my partner. We had a single day left to hunt and it appeared that our weather lock down was being given by a rogue high pressure system that moved farther to the East than anticipated and would (at least temporarily) push the low pressure monster back over the mountains into Prince William Sound. I received a text from my partner almost immediately- "Tomorrow? What are you thinking?". I replied, " Day trip- pack light, essentials only, hike fast for search and destroy. Leave at 7a, back at dinner."

The reply came back quickly- "Cool."

As we motored south down the highway toward the mountain valley that held our hunt area the weather forecast didn't look accurate as the wipers slapped in rhythm on the windshield. Looking to the north, behind us, the sky was clearing with some blue patches showing so there was some validity to the premonition of the weatherman. As we parked the Jeep, the rain had slackened and we were able to begin our climb in rain gear to protect us from the water pouring off the foliage we had to pass through.

We had packed light- I only had my pack, rifle, spotter, rain gear, lunch and a few survival essentials along- probably a pack weight of 15 pounds total including my heavy tripod. My partner had packed similarly and we moved quickly up the trail toward the tree line. I was weary from the earlier excursions this week but I quickly had the soreness hiked out of my muscles and we broke treeline sooner than expected. We had covered five miles and several thousand vertical feet in just over two hours. We were moving fast over the broken terrain in anticipation of finding the broomed ram still hiding away in the cliffs at the head of the drainage. After being burned earlier in the week, we kept one eye on the weather, and as we gained altitude we could see the dark clouds of the low pressure system being held at bay on the summits of the mountains to our south. Once our current high pressure passed to the east, this system would reclaim the mountains with a vengeance.

Moving through the rock fields we spurred the cries of hoary marmots, collared pikas and ground squirrels (all preferred food for grizzly bears). Each made a distinctive noise that signified their intruder alert for their colonies. As we crossed the high tundra to our over watch for the ram we found our resident caribou- still parading around like an energetic pony. Apparently he was living in anticipation of the coming rut. Every few hundred feet we would slow and scan the surrounding hillsides for any sign of sheep. The sky now perfectly clear, the sun grew intense and hot. Remembering our frigid and soaking experience earlier, I had only a wool watch cap in my pack- my beloved baseball cap forgotten at home. I was going to get a sunburn in one of the weirder twists in my hunting career.

After a hard slog to 5500', we approached the ridge summit cautiously and peered over. We were both giddy with anticipation to see the ram in his favorite spot- hanging out with his two youthful sub legal buddies munching a favored plant that grew on the benches there.

The ram that wasn't there anymore.

We looked very hard and over the next couple of hours picked apart every glen, glade, nook, cranny and crag with the spotter; desperate to get a look at the broomed ram. What we found was disheartening- all the sheep were clinging hard in the escape terrain. The steepest, most difficult and inaccessible parts of the mountain. Ewes, lambs, young rams- stuck on pinnacles and spires looking watchfully over the drainage below. But none was the mature ram or his two partners, they had vanished in the rising mist.

As we picked our way off the mountain the high pressure that gave us such fair weather was starting to wane and the first clouds off the storm began to pour in over the high passes. By the time we reached the jeep a light drizzle started to fall. I had been on one of the hardest and most rewarding hunts of my life despite not harvesting an animal. I was ready to call it quits and give my battered body a rest and turn my attentions to caribou season now starting to pick up in earnest and look for moose in the lowland bogs in order to put some delicious meat in the freezer for the winter. By the time we reached my home, the view south was a solid wall of cloud and rain and wind. We had spent the only precious clear hours of the early season where we wanted to be- on the mountain among sheep.

Sheep season was over for me. It was my first experience seriously chasing sheep but it would not be my last. My partner and I are already discussing next August's foray to chase rams among the clouds.

Sheep Hunting...Weather's Finale

After donning what was left of our dry clothes and shaking out our rain gear we began to pack up our camp. Few people have any realization exactly how much a wet camp weighs in comparison to a dry camp but on your back it feels like several hundred pounds of water trapped between the layers of your high tech, gossamer fabrics. In reality, it's probably about 15% more weight due to water. After packing up everything the best we could in the drizzling mist, we began the long descent.

The initial terrain was waterlogged tundra interspersed with rivulets of water recently deposited on the mountaintop now headed for the seas. Walking across boggy tundra with a heavy load is exhausting for those who haven't tried it but after a couple of miles and  roughly a 1000' feet of fall in elevation we came the steepest part of the descent- an 800 foot drop in as many horizontal feet. A fall here would entail a long tumble to very nearly the bottom of the mountain. We adopted the mantra "slow and safe" before we started down the broken shale face, now slickened by the rain. If the temperature had fallen another ten degrees and resulted in a light snow or ice storm this face would be suicidal to descend.

Things were going pretty well with all things considered- we made good time attempting to beat the setting sun prior to getting to the final part of the hike, a descent through a thick black spruce forest interwoven with impenetrable bands of alder. Navigating past a scree chute, I planted my outboard trekking pole and as I transferred my weight from my foot to the pole the dreaded happened. The pole collapsed and folded under me. Suddenly I was caught off balance on a steep slope with a 60 pound pack on. I was exhausted from several days of hiking and little sleep. I reacted the only way I really could and I sprawled out on the rocks rather ungracefully and attempted to catch myself on something solid before gravity took over and pitched me headlong into the misty abyss below.

My right hand found a jut off rock just as I started to slide and I managed to dig my pack in as well. Thankfully my unintended momentum stopped and for the moment I was safe. I noticed a tremendous pain in my thigh, I had fallen rather hard on my right side and my thigh had impacted a sharp piece of granite protruding from the face. That hurt. I quickly assessed my condition and determined the bone probably wasn't fractured but I did have a small cut and a rather large scrape on my leg that burned like fire. I would bleed a little but I'd live. I managed to work my way to safety where I could rest and regroup with my partner who lagged several hundred feet behind me for safety since we didn't want to fall into each other or dislodge a rock onto the hunter below. Already I had noticed several rocks plunging at high speed from his struggles and I had sent more than a few bouncing down myself.

We at last came to the large rock ledge where our descent transitioned from open cliffs and high alpine tundra back to the forested slopes. We had about a mile to go and about 1500 feet to descend back to the highway where our vehicle was parked. It was 8:00p and we looked like we had just been on a forced march. I had a visible limp from my swelling thigh and my partner's boots had stretched to the point he had to walk gingerly or the whole boot would roll under his foot causing a fall. We drank some water and powered down a couple of candy bars each. We had descended below the thick cloud layer and looking up the sky and mountainside were just a huge wall of grey water trapped in the atmosphere.

I transitioned my trek poles for my rifle. I did this for a couple of reasons- first, encounters with bears would be at rock throwing distance in this thick wood and (maybe not so obviously) walking through the alders and spruce with a rifle barrel sticking two feet over my head would ensure a lot of snagging and fighting an already heavy pack down the mountain. I tightened my straps and found the faint line of the trial in the now darkening forest and plunged in.

I wish I could say our descent down the mountain was a graceful walk down a thin line of a trail through the brush, but it wasn't. The trail was little used and had the habit of vanishing in the brush periodically. We were so tired and exhausted we just plowed though. Like human bulldozers, we knew the way was down and as long as the next step was lower than the first we pressed ahead. Every contact with the trees or the tall alders would dislodge hundreds of collected raindrops and it would pour down on us, soaking us to the bone despite our raingear. Not that it mattered, despite temperatures in the mid 40s we were sweating heavily under our heavy packs; when we stopped in a thicket the prevented the breeze from moving through we steamed profusely. After two hours of this hellish hike we emerged out of the trees, just a few hundred feet from our vehicle. We were battered, bruised, exhausted and soaked, but we were down. It was 11:00pm.

The next day I awoke to the smell of strong coffee permeating the house. My wife had let me sleep in and it was 10:30, hours later than I usually sleep as an early riser. I tried out a few moves while still horizontal. Yep, everything hurt. Despite weeks of training the only thing to prepare you for sheep hunting was sheep hunting. I managed to stagger downstairs and filled my mug with coffee. I looked out the window at the torrential late summer Alaska downpour. The Granite mountains, normally visible from my home, were just a mass of cloud and water. I checked the NOAA site and a couple of FAA Weathercams in the hunt area from my PC. No break in sight in the forecast and just a gray blur on the webcam from the thick fog. That set a pattern that would repeat itself for several days. Drink coffee, watch rain, check forecast (no change from 30 minutes ago), send email to my partner back at his home, restlessly read a magazine, drink coffee, watch rain...you get the idea.

Then on Thursday, after checking the weather for the fourth or fifth time that morning, I noticed a change in the forecast...

to be continued.

Sheep Hunting...Wolverines and Weather Pt. 3

continued from Pt. 2....

As I peered down the ridgetop, I saw immediately what my partner was referring to- a brown/blond animal moving toward us at high speed! As I looked closer it didn't have the lumbering gait of a grizzly bear but rather the characteristic lope of a wolverine! Some 100 yards away it did have the appearance of a bear, especially in the frontal profile- but this creature was closing the distance rather quickly and was bearing down (rather determinedly) toward my partner. I was partially obscured by a small pile of rocks and only after we both moved laterally did the wolverine see there were two humans and break off to the other side of the rock pile. Hearing the animal scrambling over the loose shale behind the scree pile, what it did next surprised me greatly. It popped up behind us. I'm used to seeing wildlife and occasionally animals do things that surprise us. I fully expected this wolverine to scamper off down the hillside, happy to escape the presence of two other much larger predators- not circle around to flank us!

Being in the presence of a creature with the panache and reputation of a wolverine had my rifle at my shoulder- not that I expected trouble, but the wolverine's behavior was already surprising at this point. I must say at this point that wolverine attacks on humans are exceptionally rare and most serious research into such degrade pretty quickly into stories and legend. But there are several documented occurrences and a few more that fall into "likely" wolverine attacks but the events are not even remotely common. There are also several local stories of wolverines that have exhibited stalking behavior toward humans. Would the wolverine have had a go at my partner had he been alone? No one could say with any certainty, but I think so given the determination he exhibited in the charge. What he did next surprised me even more.

As he came around the scree pile he came to a full stop a mere 20 feet away- much closer than I've ever been to a wild wolverine. This was, in fact, only my fourth sighting of these creatures in 12 years. Looking at him over the top of the rifle scope with my index finger resting on the trigger as he emitted a low growl standing on his rear legs, we sat "eyeball to eyeball" for what seemed like an amazingly long time. He seemed genuinely irked that he rounded the pile looking us in the face rather than seeing our vulnerable backs. I must admit that the thought of tangling with this guy was as appealing as juggling running chainsaws (with similar results) and I gave serious thought to killing it right then and there. In fact, I planned that if it dropped to all fours facing me I was going to blast it off the mountain with a .300 magnum shell. I've never been seriously challenged by a wild creature that weighed perhaps all of 30 pounds but here I was...and I've got to admit I didn't like it.

Much to my relief, gulo gulo (the glutton) dropped to all fours headed away from us and speedily galloped down the ridgetop in the direction of the knoll we'd just rested on. I'd hate to think of what might have happened had I napped a bit longer and had this thing wander across me dead asleep. We scouted around the ridgetop, thinking we might have disturbed it in its den but we found nothing but barren rocks for hundreds of yards in every direction. Slightly shaken, but undeterred from our sheep mission, we continued along the lee of the ridge toward the head of the drainage. Stopping periodically we looked across the top of the ridge beyond the drainage to our ram, still resting on his perch chewing his cud with a couple of other immature rams for company.

After a couple more miles, we could visually scout a route across the drainage and onto the opposite ridge above the ram. We held a "council of war" as O'Connor would have written and made a plan to begin our stalk at first light (about 4:30am). We'd make a long, arduous hike up and around the head of the drainage and climb the opposite ridge to a point where we could hopefully get a clean shot at the ram without him spotting us or falling down the cliff that he presided over. We glassed the terrain and looked for potential obstacles, consulted the map and reckoned the stalk would entail a 5 mile hike from camp and a vertical ascent of an additional 1000 feet. Unfortunately, the 1000ft climb would only be possible after a 1000ft descent through the drainage and an equal ascent to our level on the opposite side. It looked exhausting after our activities of the last few days.

We crept up the ridge to peer over and I was surprised again to not see the ram, but a solid wall of thick cloud had blown up the drainage. The ram was perhaps a 1/2 mile away and now swathed in fog. The sporadic rain that had fallen since I woke up from the nap turned into a more steady rain. The ceiling which had been unlimited yesterday had steadily moved down to our level and continued to drop. By the time we had hiked a half mile on our route back to camp, visibility had fallen to a mere 20 or 30 feet. Out on the barren alpine tundra, without a visible landmark to guide is back to camp we would have certainly become lost without a GPS. Even with a GPS we'd get off course within a few minutes if we didn't make a conscious effort to follow the indicator. We quickly abandoned the concept of getting a bearing and then turning it off in a bid to save battery life. The hike back which had taken a mere hour on our way out took over three to get back. To make matters worse, a torrential rain began to fall soaking our boots and running through any chink in our rain gear armor.

Arriving back in camp, we piled into our respective tents and I stripped off whatever wet garments I had (which were nearly all despite serious rain gear), made an effort to mop up the residual water in the tent with a handkerchief and then I climbed into my bag to warm up. I must admit, the thought of the weather turning sour like this was deeply discouraging and given the exceptional weather we'd enjoyed so far in the hunt, put a cramp into my spirit I was having a hard time overcoming. I ate a little food and peered out from the door at the steady rain and obscured peaks that surrounded us.

The high pressure system that had given us blue sky and fair breezes had finally given way to the low pressure system pouring over the peaks and through the passes to our south. We didn't know it at that moment but the snow line was now creeping from 8000 ft to just a few hundred feet above our camp at 5500ft. But we couldn't know that- the ceiling had dropped to just 2000 ft., nearly to the valley floor far below. Without visibility, sheep hunting in this weather was useless. Just useless. The only way we'd bag a ram is if he wandered into our camp and became entwined in our guy lines. Busted.

At this point, I did something most unusual on any Alaska hunt. I pulled out my Blackberry and fired it up. Given our elevation and proximity to an AT&T microwave station, perhaps I could get a signal. Surprisingly I did- its becoming more common to get such signals as our communications infrastructure grows- a few years ago this would have been impossible. I navigated to the NOAA website and checked our forecast. Days of this weather without change as the low pressure system became the dominant climatic force in the region. That low system brought heavy rain, low cloud, no visibility and a broken spirit. With just a week scheduled to hunt and no break in the weather in sight our useless turned into hopeless.

Like broken men we donned our rain gear and began packing our soaking wet camp for the long descent off the mountain. I couldn't help but feel like we were throwing in the towel but given our current situation our only other option would be to hang out in our tiny mountaineering tents, try to stay dry, try to stay sane and think about rams. We planned to hold our schedules open in the event the weather broke we would make another assault up here after the ram.  With a heavy pack and a heavy heart, I walked off the mountain.

to be continued....

Author's note- wolverine photo credit Wikipedia Commons.

Sheep Hunting...Wolverines and Weather Pt. 2

continued from Pt.1...

As the sun continued to set we realized just what an exhausting day we'd had- a long, hard climb with heavy packs followed by more mileage searching out a ram. I've got to admit that getting in the bag felt good. Shedding heavy boots, jacket and outer layers; I nestled myself into the warm down cocoon and within moments I was dozing contentedly.

A short time later I was jolted awake. The cooling earth to the south was causing the air to contract- generating a stiff breeze. The conflicting weather systems consisting of the low pressure cell moving off the Gulf of Alaska over the pass to our south and the stationary high pressure parked over the Interior were competing for dominance and that competition resulted in wind... a lot of it. Sheltered as we were behind our fortress of broken shale we were spared a direct onslaught of the wind but the williwaw blasts still managed to generate a random pattern of gusty blasts that rattled our tents unmercifully. I'd estimate the winds at elevation to gust in 60mph range. I had utmost confidence in my single wall mountaineering tent to survive such a blow without damage but there's a huge difference between surviving a windstorm and sleeping through one. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a light sleeper in the wilderness and the windstorm partnered with my new partners snoring ensured that I slept little and what little I got was fitful. Only after daybreak with a warming Interior helping that high pressure system regain the upper hand did I manage to get a couple hours of sleep.

Waking for the hundredth time about 8:00am finally did it- an aching back and bursting bladder finally convinced me to wake up and stir around. I gathered my water bottle and filter and walked the short distance to a small seep of water running across the alpine tundra. It only took a few minutes to pump 48oz. of water and just a few moments later I was back at camp making oatmeal and coffee in the Jetboil. Hot food and caffeine never tasted so good after a long restless night. I reflected that last night's wind was precisely the reason a couple of my mountaineering pals read the isobar charts the way other folks read their email or morning paper. As the elevation increases the margin for error in predicting the weather gets perilously slim. A thunderstorm that presents a stiff breeze and inconvenient rain a couple hundred feet above sea level will be much more dangerous at 5,000 feet and perhaps generate fatal conditions at 10,000.

With my partner rousing a few minutes later, I passed the stove to him so he could eat his breakfast and we could get moving for the day. He ate a quick breakfast and we packed daypacks in anticipation of spending the day exploring the adjacent drainage several miles from camp where we saw the legal ram bed down yesterday. Setting off on a easterly course, we found the hiking much more pleasant if we plotted a course along the pressure ridges of gravel and rock near the high points of the saddles and along the spines of the ridges. These firm surfaces made much better terrain for walking that a straight line course across the alpine bowls filled with tundra. An extremely rainy summer had left the spongy tundra full of water with many seeps and tiny ponds with vegetation that was soft. Tundra is often described as walking on a soft mattress covered in bowling balls and the description is as apt as any I've heard.

Distances across the wide open tundra were also very different than those at lower elevations. For instance, the straight line distance across an alpine bowl might appear to be a few hundred yards but in reality would be a mile across. Without substantial vegetation to give size reference we found estimating distances beyond a couple hundred yards nearly impossible. A short distance away a large bull caribou followed us curiously appearing every few minutes. A couple miles along the ridge and we were arriving at the round topped peak where the ram was feeding the evening before.Taking our time and moving slowly we found a lot of sheep sign and a colony of exceptionally vocal hoary marmots. Making our way to the edge to look over the main drainage of XXX Creek we found ourselves staring at the ram, just a 1/2 mile away. With a catch- there was a 3000 ft deep chasm between us.

We kept low and out of line of the rams keen eyesight. At this range, with the rams already bedded in escape terrain we were unlikely to spook them but we were certainly likely to change their movement patterns. Eyeing the deep canyon between us, reaching the ram would either entail a hair raising descent and an exhausting climb in a direct line or a long arduous walk several miles up the ridge and crossing the drainage where it was shallower. The first option was foolish- chasing sheep in their escape terrain was ridiculous. One whiff, one inclination and that ram could spook and leave us sucking wind while he effortlessly sprinted over the ridge where we'd be unlikely to find him again. The second option looked better although longer since sheep rarely look for danger from above them and getting above the ram from the east and approaching down the spine of the ridge would be relatively safe although a hike measured in miles. We decided to just hang tight and quietly shadow the ram from here. We took several photos and the ram finally gave us a good look at that right horn. Broomed and he was legal. We'd found our first target.

Exhausted from a long night, I found a soft patch of grass out of the returning wind to lay down and take a nap in. I've got to admit that the nap was something I needed desperately. I slept very deeply and after a couple of hours I looked up- just a few feet away a collared pika (a small member of the rabbit family) was looking intently at me. I'm quite confident that had I not woke up, that little guy would have climbed right up on my chest and foraged my jacket pocket for trail mix. I roused up and immediately noticed what had broke my nap- a few small drops had fallen on my face.
Rain.

Crap.

I quietly made my way down to where my partner was bivouacked. He'd gotten a short nap and eaten some lunch while keeping periodic eyes on the ram. Looking around I noticed the ceiling had moved in and no longer did we have a bluebird sky but the entire sky was the color of matte stainless steel- dark and impenetrable. The ceiling had also moved down considerably and was now obscuring the higher peaks at 8,000 feet. While we watched the ram we saw the occasional low flying cloud sail up the drainage. The weather was deteriorating more rapidly than we had thought. We decided the ram with the deteriorating weather would be unlikely to move from his perch. We thought we would take a look at the head of the drainage where we would have to cross tomorrow in a bid to take the ram. We placed the ridge spine between us and the ram and headed up the drainage to the northeast toward a dramatic looking bluff of soft mineral that was obviously breaking down rapidly turning the glacial stream flowing through the drainage a green-gray color.

As we were walking out the ridge my partner pointed and excitedly called out, "Hey look! Is that a bear?"

To be continued...

Sheep Hunting...Wolverines and Weather Pt.1

I'll pick up the narrative where I left off in my last post, "Scouting for Sheep" so the reader is advised to read up on that before they continue.

After establishing our cache of food in the rocks we made plans to hike in to begin the hunt on Monday in anticipation of the Wednesday opener. All evening I packed and checked and got my gear in order- without substantial food or my heavyweight tripod my gear weighed in at 51 pounds. My new hunting partner arrived right on schedule in the morning and we departed for the hunt area which I'll refer to in the best sheep hunting tradition as "XXX Creek". Arriving at XXX Creek we were surprised to find another pickup parked there- it seemed awfully early for someone to be walking in to begin a hunt considering we thought we had beaten everyone to punch ourselves. With our food stores already cached at the head of the drainage we had no choice but to continue as planned-regardless who might be sharing the drainage with us. 

The initial ascent went slowly given our heavy loads of equipment and we were much relieved to to finally break free of the treeline. At the tree line the trail to the top turned painfully up- gaining over 1000 feet in elevation in a little over a quarter of a mile. We cautiously climbed inch by painful inch up the slope watching our footing because a tumble over the edge with our unwieldy packs would result in a long fall on broken rock only to be stopped by being strained through the brush. An errant piece of scree inadvertently knocked loose reminded us just exactly how far down the mountain we would fall if we misjudged our footing. The crashing went on for what seemed an eternity as it bounced down the scree chute and through the brush.

When we finally summited the scree chute we were rewarded with a wonderful vista and an alpine meadow full of fresh sheep scat. Things were certainly looking up. We decided to place camp in a sheltered rock structure a couple of miles away on the top of the ridge that might give us some relief from the relentless wind. When we were placing our camp it was obvious we weren't the first sheep hunters to shelter in the fortress of shale- decades of sheep hunting in the area had left few places like this secret. I turned over a piece of flat shale to weigh on a shallow tent peg and found an empty C-Ration can. Even Frank Glaser (see Alaska's Wolf Man), a pioneering market hunter from the turn of the last century had written about this drainage, hunted sheep here, and established a roadhouse a few miles to the south.

With camp established we turned out attention to the business at hand- finding a legal ram to shoot on opening day. We donned light packs- just snacks and optics- took rifles in hand and set off to the east toward a promising ridge between both points. Sheep hunting is a game of optics- while sheep are readily visible miles away in their white coats judging a ram is a game of extreme patience. Every half mile or so we'd set up the scope and spend at least half and hour scouring the cliffs and meadows looking for a ram.

As the afternoon wore into evening the sheep became more active and began an evening feed. Suddenly, as if rather unexpectedly a small band of rams wandered over a bluff a mere half mile away. We quietly sequestered ourselves in the rocks and looked them over intensely with the Zeiss glass. I've often wondered if the rams could feel our gaze as we concentrated on them as intently as any "spoon bender". The band contained just three rams- two immature rams who were quite obviously not legal and one grand old ram who favored showing us his left side.

That left side was broomed heavily and what few glimpses we got it  appeared either full curl or slightly broomed. His bases were very large for a sheep younger than 8 years old. A legal sheep either has to be full curl on either side or broomed on both -so either of those conditions would make this guy legal...on Wednesday morning. We changed priorities immediately, no longer looking for a legal sheep we now decided to quietly bird dog this guy for the next two days until the season opened.

We followed him the rest of the evening from a mile out, desperately trying to stay down and out of his line of sight. Since sheep have vision the equivalent of 8x binoculars that's not the easiest thing to do but we appeared to be avoiding alarming the sheep as they finished their evening graze at leisure. We then followed them another half mile until they were ensconced in some steep cliffs to bed for the night and chew their cud. A faint hint of cloud began to pour through the pass to the south but we gave it little thought since the weather had been perfectly clear with bluebird skies and just enough breeze to keep the bugs at bay.

Retiring to camp at around 11:00p we watched a band of 6 caribou bulls with massive racks and shovels make their way over a ridge a mile distant as we ate our freeze dried dinners and drank a cup of coffee. The sky turned a wonderful shade of pink as the setting sun reflected off the braided river 4000' below.

Life was good. Very Good. But nothing scares me like a good day since the law of averages never sleeps.


To be continued....

Scouting for Sheep

I know its been a good while since I've posted but I've got a good excuse...I've been roaming over hill and dale looking for a likely spots to sheep hunt. Putting together a sheep trip isn't exactly a difficult undertaking but it can be a challenge to line up partners, equipment, schedules and get it all into an area likely to contain a ram.

Given my planning bent I had most of this stuff arranged well ahead of time but as the adage goes a well thought out plan just gives you a place to change it from when it falls apart.

And fall apart mine did.

My plan included a 9 mile mountain bike ride followed by a 4 mile 2500' climb to put us into great sheep country. My party included two friends that I'd hunted with several times before but I was the only guy with a sheep tag. One of my companion was just in for the trip and the other was looking for a nice Interior grizzly. The "in for the ride guy" cancelled on Monday, the grizzly hunter on Tues...rats. In the meantime, I had been contacted by another hunter from the state who's partner had cancelled out last minute on him as well.

A leery as both of us were about arranging a hunt with a total stranger we agreed to meet and discuss the possibility and see if we thought we could get along on a strenuous hunt together. As luck would have it, we found ourselves well matched as hunting partners with similar levels of experience, fitness and objectives for the hunt. That just left us the logistics.

Equipment was no issue, we had that covered in spades- it was a short matter to arrange who had the better of a particular item and split it up. As far as area is concerned we were in trouble. Both of our plans had included packing in a long distance and having a partner (or two in my case) to help ferry the weight back out- since we both had tags the task of hauling two sheep among two hunters was a far cry from one split three ways or even among a pair of hunters.

We looked carefully at the map and looked for other likely areas that were perhaps closer to the road system- identified a couple and made plans to hike in, scout the area and cache some of our camp. We visited the first of these over the weekend.

The initial climb in was along a rugged goat path of a trail that quickly rose through the tree line (1000' vertical in 1/2mile) and terminated midway on a rocky face. At that point one turns and heads up, scrambling on fours up the scree for perhaps another 200 feet until you hit another goat track of a ledge skirting over the top of three slot canyons. Another 200 foot or so scramble up a chimney choked with deteriorating shale and you pop out in a likely looking alpine bowl on a long semi circular ridge rimming a drainage. Exhausted under heavy packs this looked a likely spot as any we'd seen- discovering sheep scat in the meadow proved the sheep had at least been here. We followed the ridge for another mile and cached our gear under a short ledge.

The weather had been deteriorating all day and now in late afternoon the wind screamed along at 50mph and carried a few drops of rain. Completely exposed to the brunt of the wind on the barren mountain was something to experience akin to sticking your head in the jet stream. As we picked our way back down the bowl I glanced across the drainage and detected movement through wind-teared eyes..."What is that? Do you see that movement?" I asked in a shout to be heard over the gale.

"I do...they're sheep", said my new partner- now beaming with excitement. Over the next fifteen minutes we watched transfixed as an entire band of sheep filled the adjacent bowl (on the lee side of the ridge) to escape the howling wind and began feeding there. Looks like sometimes despite meticulous planning its still hunting and we were doing alright. Not that I'm much of a believer in luck, but I do hope that what passes for it holds out for opening day when we hope to be in the drainage with a couple of likely rams in our sights.