WHAT A DREAM!

By Mark Butler

For me, it doesn’t get any better than spending quality time on the mountain with family and friends. I feel very fortunate to be surrounded by an entire “herd” of sheep huntin’ fools! Wow, “what a dream” to have recently completed my quest for all four North American bighorn sheep by taking an incredible Utah book ram to finish my lifelong mission. It was also icing on the cake to have been accompanied by my son, dad, uncle, several cousins and close friends on the hunt.

Hunting bighorn sheep is a goal that most of us diehard, fanatical hunters dream about but may never have the good fortune to experience. My dream began in 1991 while sitting in the office of my uncle, a classic sheepaholic, with me asking the question, “What bighorn sub-species should I apply for in my home state of Utah?” At the time, as a resident of Utah, he felt that the rocky mountain bighorn would give me the best odds to draw a tag.

Unbelievably, destiny knocked on my door 11 years later, as the first opportunity to live the adrenalin highs and butt kicking lows of sheep hunting came to fruition when I drew a Utah Rocky Mountain bighorn tag in 2002. From that unforgettable day in November seven years ago when I experienced first hand the physical and mental challenges that only sheep hunting can offer by taking a trophy rocky, I knew that I would make whatever sacrifices it took to keep my sheep hunting dreams alive in the future.

Fast forward to 2009 when I have a tag in hand that will culminate my 18 year dream of completing a full curl. Randy Johnson of HIGH DESERT Wild Sheep Guides was with me on my first sheep hunt and I wanted him there on the final leg of my “full curl” dream journey. Although Randy knew the unit I would be hunting like the back of his hand, we spent countless hours studying maps, emailing, looking at sheep surveys, and overall devising a winning game plan that would give me the best chance for success.

I’ve learned over the years that in many, if not all cases, scouting early and often is the key to finding quality big game. This hunt was stacking up to being the best ever! Beginning in early May, when I had the opportunity to take my youngest daughter Amanda (8) with me scouting, I spent a total of fifteen days exploring the desert. Although we didn’t see any sheep on that trip we had an awesome time eating dehydrated food, catching lizards, and watching falling stars under the dark canopy of several crystal clear desert nights.

Next, I took my “huntin’ fool” son Andrew (14) with me where I walked his legs off… still no sheep sightings however. At this point, after six days in the unit, I began to question my glassing ability. However, on the third trip in with my daughter Lauren (11) we found sheep! We saw nine rams on this excursion, but none that I would want to “tag.” On a separate scouting adventure on Memorial Day Randy found a group of rams that had what he felt was a 170 pt. ram in it. I was pumped! The dog days of summer slipped by more slowly than I can ever remember.

In mid August, Randy and I planned to take a trip deep into the heart of the unit, knowing that the rams in this area start into the rut early. Boy, am I glad we made the trip! We located a huge ram that we believed would book. We dubbed him, “Shooter”! As you can imagine, the thought of waiting until September 19^th to actually hunt “Shooter” was killing me!

Mother Nature was in a foul mood after that and the weather on weekends where additional scouting reconnaissance were planned prevented us from getting into the unit again until 3 days before the opener. We had a great team assembled to accompany us that included my son and father. The heat, bugs and terrain are oppressive obstacles on the desert and after three days and numberless miles we were seeing plenty of rams, but no sign of Shooter. Deep within I was deflated knowing that my son and father could only hunt the opening day because of school and work commitments. I really wanted them to be with me when I fulfilled my dream.

Opening day found us greeting another brilliant red sunrise. Randy had decided to concentrate on an area where he felt Shooter might be holed up since he had located a group of rams fighting in a rugged canyon the evening before. A game plan was devised to have everyone helping with the hunt to meet for lunch so we could compare notes. That morning, Randy and his partner, Brett, led my cousin Jeff, Andrew and I on a marathon hike from the end of one peninsula, to up and over the next and the next…Lots of tracks but no rams.

Lunch came late but with exciting news……. My cousin Brian and Uncle Ken thought they had spotted Shooter! The stalk was on, so we thought. Brian had watched Shooter bed down with three ewes, believing there was no way for him to escape from the protective shade of the ravine without seeing him. We took the next two hours getting into position by sneaking, crawling, and sweating in 90+ degrees to within 100 yards of “Shooter’s bed” only to find that he had evaporated like Houdini into thin air.

Brian couldn’t believe that Shooter had somehow escaped their watchful optics. Disappointed, hot, and tired, we pressed on over the next ridge where we located a ewe in a tier of rugged white ledges, then another ewe, then another! Suddenly, Shooter appeared from behind a truck size giant boulder! Was it really the ram I had been waiting so long for? Having left our spotting scopes at the top of the craggy canyon, it was now difficult to tell whether we actually had the right ram.

We glassed intently as the sheep jumped from rock to rock, not knowing that human predators were watching their every move. Wild sheep are simply amazing animals and live in some of the most unforgiving, gut wrenching country on earth. Frustratingly, the ram would not give us the view we wanted to convince us that he was truly Shooter. Because my unit had the potential to produce some giant rams by Utah standards Randy and Brett were being extra cautious in giving the go ahead to “pull the trigger.” However, going into my hunt, I had determined that if I saw a ram that scored over 160 I would be extremely happy to take him. Without the aid of their spotting scopes both Randy and Bret felt this ram would possibly go 165. His mass was deceiving. That’s all the encouragement that I needed.

I prefer to shoot prone so laying my rifle over my pack, I settled the scope’s reticles of the 300 ultra mag onto the front shoulder of the ram which had been ranged at 430 yards, a comfortable shot for me. Two ewes were standing behind him preventing me from taking the shot. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the ewes moved, presenting the ethical opportunity I was waiting for. I slowly squeezed the trigger. Time literally stood still although it was just a millisecond before the roar of my rifle reverberated off the sandstone walls of the canyon. The shock wave from the shot blew dust into my eyes as the big ram bolted, then leaped over a deep chasm in the cliffs. He disappeared behind a rocky outcrop. Suddenly, three ewes came racing out of the deep arroyo but not the ram. Randy said that he was sure my ram was down. Believe me, 430 yards is a long walk when you didn’t see your trophy drop although we were confident that he was dead! When I climbed over a rock strewn ridge to see my amazing trophy lying before me, upside down in a deep, erosion worn crevice, I almost cried in pure joy. Emotionally, this was not because I had just taken Shooter, but because I was able to experience my dream along side my father, son, as well as friends and relatives. After paying respect to this great animal we celebrated and took dozens of photos. Now, the work really began as we hurried to complete the caping and debone the meat before the blackness of dark descended upon us. Although it took several hours to climb upward through the ledges of the canyon I didn’t feel fatigued as adrenalin surged through my body. My dream was complete.

One Day, Once in a Lifetime

By Paul Anderson

Upon checking my ram into the DWR offices, Shooter was officially scored at 175” right on the button and was aged at 8.5 years old. No ground shrinkage on this toad! His mass was incredible. I couldn’t be happier with the ram that completes my pursuit for all four North American Wild Sheep. I would feel remiss if I didn’t thank Utah FNAWS and the DWR for providing this hunt, my sweetheart Kim for allowing me to spend time in the field, an understanding employer and HIGH DESERT Wild Sheep Guides (435)590-8139, Randy Johnson and Brett Caldwell for being with me every step of the way.

The Storm

by

Glenn Blackard

The ominous crash of thunder echoed off the red Wingate cliffs of the erosion worn Escalante gorge as bright flashes of jagged lightning crisscrossed the storm filled skies above. Under cover of the approaching storm front, with its sudden burst of cold, howling wind, dark clouds and plummeting temperature, I quickly, yet cautiously made my way down the steep rockslide, navigating through an obstacle course of boulders before crossing a timeworn sandstone swell. Upon reaching the mouth of a deep, narrow box canyon, I carefully worked my way along its precipitous edge peering down into its recesses, my eyes straining to locate the hiding place of the six year old desert bighorn ram that we had watched earlier run down into the canyon to elude the approaching storm. Suddenly, I clearly hear the unmistakable sound of hoofs grating on the sandstone below me as I continued to creep along the edge of the canyon. Climbing up over a slight rise in the landscape I was momentarily caught off guard at the sight of two trophy rams standing directly below me, their horns locked together, posturing, fighting for dominance of a band of ewes who were watching the two gallant gladiators in battle. They were standing side-by-side, facing away from me, totally oblivious to my presence. I raised my rifle and took aim on the ram furthest away from me, as I didn’t want to chance shooting both animals, then fired. The trophy ram collapsed onto the canyon floor as the impact of the bullet jerked his companion down with him. I watched in awe for a few moments as the other confused ram thrashed and struggled to free himself from his fallen combatant. I then turned and walked back over the sandstone swale to locate my guide, Randy Johnson, who was making his way down the steep rockslide carrying both backpacks. My quest for a desert bighorn sheep was finally over. With the adrenalin dissipating from my system I suddenly found myself physically and mentally numb from the exhilarating yet draining experience that I had worked so hard and sacrificed so much for. The opportunity to finally harvest one of these majestic, incredible and scarce animals had finally reached closure. The feeling at that precise moment in time was indescribable.

My story begins the same as for most sheep hunters. . . with the annual application process for the very limited and highly coveted number of permits to hunt wild sheep in North America. In 2002, Utah had allotted only two tags for non-resident hunters to pursue desert bighorn sheep in their state and these permits were given out through a lottery process with increased odds for selection based on the number of unsuccessful prior applications. Selection is definitely a “Once In A Lifetime” opportunity. Applications were due in January with the results to be released in April.

This past April, I was personally caught up in the North Texas Telecom crash and was released from my high-tech company due to the slowing economy. Soon after and still in shock from losing my job, I received in the mail a notification that my application had been drawn to hunt desert bighorn sheep in the isolated and extremely rugged Escalante unit of Utah. The odds for me drawing this permit were one out of one thousand and forty-nine applicants. Under normal circumstances, I would have been celebrating my good fortune. However, being the sole provider of a family of five and with three small children at home. I just didn’t know what to do. I decided to sit down with my wonderful wife and we had one of those difficult husband/wife discussions. Fortunately, I am blessed with a wife who understands the pursuit of life’s goals and dreams and we decided to make the financial sacrifices to allow me to pursue my desert bighorn hunt and personal goal of completing a “Grand Slam” of North America Wild Sheep. I had previously harvested a Dall in Alaska in 1998 and a Stone in the Yukon in 2000 and had planned to hunt a Rocky Mountain in 2002, but the slowing economy had put a delay to this plan. Now things had really taken an unexpected turn.

Along with searching for a job, I went into information gathering mode on the Escalante unit and soon found out why it is considered one of the most difficult areas to hunt in the lower 48 states. The Escalante is a designated Wilderness Area and being so has extremely limited access, not to mention scarce water and an incredibly formidable broken terrain dissected by Grand Canyon like canyons cutting deep into the heart of its myriad of high desert plateaus. I briefly considered going on a self-guided hunt before coming to my senses and choosing to hire a guide. With truly a "Once-In-A-Lifetime" opportunity, I wanted to stack the odds in my favor as much as possible. After much research I contacted Randy Johnson of Marysvale, Utah, and asked him to guide me on my “Once-In-A-Lifetime” desert sheep hunt. Randy is not only a legendary sheep guide in the Escalante but is a outdoor-magazine writer, a published fictional author, extreme hunter and is famous for having discovered the “Buck of Justice” (thought by many people to be the world’s most massive mule deer shed pickup). He lives in Southern Utah and has been hunting, hiking, exploring, and guiding in this wild wilderness area of southern Utah for most of his adult life.

This hunt would be strictly a backpack hunt in the broken sandstone country that resembles a lunar landscape (Insert Picture Of Escalante #1). Randy advised me that the first thing to do was to schedule an all-inclusive physical examination and then get myself into a marathon level of physical conditioning. He stressed that getting in and out of prime desert sheep country would be both a mental and physical challenge. Needless to say my stone sheep hunt in the Yukon Territory had been physically demanding and with the confidence of the innocent, I began preparing for my 2002 Escalante desert sheep hunt.

The summer months past quickly as I searched for a job and took great pride in my physical workouts, conditioning and hardening my body for the hunt as Randy and I stayed in close contact. I finally landed a job in Virginia and started work on September 13, with the stipulation that my employer would allow me to take a three-week unpaid leave to go on this hunt. They were very understanding. A short, unbelievable four weeks later I was actually on a plane flying to Cedar City, Utah.

Randy met me at the small Cedar City airport. We quickly claimed my bags and hit the road for the Glen Canyon National Recreation.. There were two isolated desert bighorn areas, which Randy had pre-scouted. He decided to first hike up the Escalante River and then climb out of the river onto the massive Steven’s Plateau (Insert Picture of Escalante River #2). We arrived at the trailhead just at dusk, organized our gear and provisioned enough freeze-dried food for a seven-day backpack trip into sheep country. We packed as light as practical, no tent and no rain gear. Taking only the essentials, our cumbersome packs still weighed over 60 pounds each. It was an hour’s hike in the gathering darkness to the canyon rim far above the Escalante River that led down into its seemingly bottomless depths. In the light of our headlamps we lowered our backpacks over a cliff down into the canyon by rope, wiggled our way through a fissure in the sandstone, and then made our way down a steep sand dune toward the sound of the river below. It was pitch black in the canyon by the time we reached the river where we pitched camp for the night under a sandstone ledge.

It wasn’t long until a bright, extremely luminous, huge white moon poked its face over the rim of the deep gorge bathing the canyon in light. The moon’s rays were not only bright but felt oddly warm like sunlight shining on my face as I struggled to fall asleep, anxious at the unknown challenges ahead of me. With the serenading chorus of frogs along the river I finally slipped into a fitful sleep. Morning arrived slowly as we arose and broke camp. I put on an old pair of tennis shoes and some shorts as we started wading up the river, trying to avoid small pockets of sucking quicksand. This section of the river gets quite a bit of foot traffic as hikers come down into the canyon and wade up the river to see the magnificent geologic splendor of Steven’s Arch.

Very few hikers venture very far past the arch and soon the footprints in the wet mud ceased. Four hours of wading the ice-cold river found us at the bottom of a canyon chute that would lead us up and out of the river and onto the top of our hunting country. We quickly changed into our hunting clothes, hiking boots and started working our way up the steep, rock filled chute. I quickly learned how to walk flat-footed on the steep slopes to gain better traction and also not to trust any footing or handhold. I likened this method of moving around to aerobatic wing walking … you don’t let go of one wing strut until you are sure that you have a good grip on the next as any slip or fall could be disastrous. That first day we saw two groups of eight sheep as we neared the top of the plateau including two small rams. Randy had a specific location picked out for a base camp, which he had located on one of his earlier scouting trips. We arrived just before dark after more than 12 hours of continuous hiking.

Base camp was little more than a high point in the middle of the Stevens Plateau, sheltered by a few ageless but hardy mountain cedars. In a sandy area we scratched out sleeping areas to place our ground cover over, then crawled into the comfort of our sleeping bags. This would be our base of operations for the next six days. Our daily routine was to rise before dawn, quickly down some instant oatmeal and then hike to elevated buttes where we set up to glass. This was not always easy, as we had to work our way around immense canyons to reach our points of destination. A snack of cheese and dried

With my head held low in disappointment, we began hiking back to the sandstone ledge where we had bivouacked the night before to break camp. As we hiked Randy continually glassed ahead of us. Somehow he pulled another rabbit out of his hat, spotting another group of sheep with at least one good ram in the group far up the plateau. However, when we finally reached the location where he had seen the sheep they had evaporated into the landscape. Cautiously continuing on toward our spike camp Randy glanced back over his shoulder and spied a lone ram out on some slickrock below us. The youngster was getting a drink from a slight depression in the sandstone. He was a young two year old with lamb tips. We slowly crouched down and ducked into a group of sparse cedars for cover. Soon we were able to make out two ewes and another larger ram. The larger ram appeared to be a five or six year old that would score in the low 150’s. My miracle was starting to take shape. The young ram had spotted us and just couldn’t take his eyes off our location. Finally, his curiosity got the better of him and he climbed up through the ledges to within 30 yards of the group of cedars we were hiding behind. He paced back and forth in front of the cedar trees trying to get a reaction from us, snorting and stomping. Finally, after thirty minutes he headed back down to join the other sheep. While this was going on the larger ram ran down a steep slide and out of our sight into a narrow box canyon below us. Randy took this opportunity to try to scare the other sheep off of the sandstone swale so we could make a stalk on the larger ram. Of course, the small ram and ewes were not going to scare easy. Randy stood up, waved his arms, chucked some rock, all to no avail. We then rose from our hiding place and moved further down toward the canyon. I got myself into a shooting position on a flat boulder 500 yards above the slide where we had last seen the older ram disappear into the narrow box canyon. Suddenly, a fierce storm raised his ugly head with the wind gusting furiously, the sky darkening, and the temperature dropping 25 degrees. I started to tremble from the cold and both Randy and I were forced to dig into our packs for more clothing and rain gear. Randy suggested that I use the cover of the storm to move quickly down off the ledges onto the rim of the box canyon with the hope that the big ram was hunkering down to avoid the sudden storm. With time at a premium Randy would then follow behind me carrying both of our packs. Under camouflage of the approaching storm, with its microburst winds and flashing lightning, I quickly made my way down out of the ledges and across the sandstone swell. The rest is history. . . Unbelievably, I found two great rams locked in combat. Unable to unlock their horns they were tearing up everything in sight. I took a deep breath, placed the cross-hairs of my scope on the ram furthest from me and touched off the shot. What an unreal sequence as both rams dropped onto the slickrock. Time appeared to be in slow motion as it felt like hours although it was only seconds before the second ram was able to free himself from the horns of his dead opponent. He must have thought that he was one tough ram to have dropped his combatant in his tracks. My shot had broken the other great rams neck killing him instantly. After my successful shot, I must have been in a daze as I glanced up to see Randy making his way across the slickrock with our packs. I raised my gun over my head to signal success. He yelled his congratulations as I tried to explain what had transpired. Meeting at the mouth of the steep chute leading down into the narrow canyon, we exchanged high fives and war whoops of joy. Shortly afterward, Randy was surprised to see the ram that we had spotted earlier run past us, followed by some ewes, and then the tremendous ram that had been locked in combat with the trophy I shot. Randy said this ram would have scored over 165. They all ran by us at less than thirty yards. We had to rope down two near vertical ledges before lowing ourselves down onto the narrow floor of the canyon to reach the trophy of a lifetime. The storm passed as quickly as it had appeared and my miracle was complete.

After Randy had caped the ram for a full body mount and we had deboned the meat we labored under the weight of very heavy packs to get out of the

SOME DREAMS DON’T COME TRUE…

By Bruce Kirkpatrick

Dream Ram

by Jeff Jones

Having been born and raised in Utah into a family that has has loved and cherished spending quality time in the great outdoors, exposed me at an early age to those incredible adrenalin highs that come from pursuing big game. Hunting with family and friends has provided me with experiences that I will treasure and remember forever. These"out on the mountain" experiences have played a very important role in shaping my identity. Knowing that my father and uncle had completed their Grand Slam of North AmericanWild Sheep gave me the desire to follow in their footsteps as I set an individual goal to accomplish the same, very difficult feat.

CHRONICLES

of a sheep hunter

by Randy Johnson

What is there about sheep hunting that causes grown men and women to become infected with a contagious disease named "Wanderlust" that sends them on adventures around theworld? Why do they temporarily lose their sanity to willingly sacrifice hard earned

financial resources, then risk life and limb to cross raging rivers or climb rugged mountain ranges that laugh at their insignificant human challengers?

I caught the incurable "Wanderlust," better known as "Sheep Fever," years ago. lt's my personal bias that each of us become addicted for a variety of reasons. Personally, I love theunmatched physical and mental challenges as I venture into a sheep's domain. Where can you find such an unprecedented, natural, pure adrenaline rush as when you match yourselfagainst the unpredictable forces of mother nature and the majesty of animals who in-habit the most formidable yet beautiful country on earth? From the wild splendor of Canada tothe jagged volcanic canyons of Baja, the vast steppes of Asia to the maze of unforgiving sandstone gorges in

Southern Utah, wild sheep have captivated man with their priceless grandeur for unspoken centuries. They capture our imagination and dwell in our dreams with hypnotic spells that cannot be broken. These are the factors that cause each of us to continuously seek to inhale the infectious virus labeled "sheep hunting." lt permeates our souls, leading us on new adventures and undaunted explorations. lt gives us the will, the determination to promote, preserve, and dedicate ourselves to the preservation of wild sheep in the 21st century.

Taking a Stone sheep has always been a lifelong dream of mine. lt was one of those ellusive goals that I didn't expect would ever become reality. These hunts are expensive and normally beyond the grasp of an average person's financial ability. What would life be, however, if we didn't have goals to shoot for? I just felt lucky to have had the opportunity totake a magnificent Dall sheep six years ago in the Northwest Territories after making the decision to accompany my daughter Marissa on her mountain caribou hunt after she won the Youth Essay Contest sponsored by FNAWS. This caribou hunt is graciously donated by Kelly and Heather Hougen of Arctic Red River Outfitters each year for our youth. What a great experience for a young person who may never get such an opportunity! Several years prior to going on my Dall hunt I had the privilege of taking a coveted desert ram after winning a drawing for a tag donated by the local chapter of FNAWS in my home state of Utah.

Believing I might not have the good fortune of ever taking another ram by myself I began guiding hunters for desert sheep in Southern Utah a few years ago. I chose to do thisbecause of my absolute love for sheep hunting. The fact that l've spent most of my life learning the secrets of the remarkable Escalante canyons and Kaiparowitz Plateau country was also a factor in my decision. Helping someone else to take a ram is a real honor and gives you the opportunity to continue experienc- ing the excitement of sheep hunting.

ln early June of 1999 I was preparing to take a lucky permittee out scouting for a desert ram in the scorching summer heat. When you have sheep fever the weather doesn't seem tomatter. One morning at work l was surprised to receive a call from a good friend of mine. C

o¡ncidentally, last year at the FNAWS Convention he had booked his second Stone sheep hunt and was scheduled to go with Jerry Geraci, owner of Upper Stikine River Adventures inNorthern British Columbia.They were planning on hunting some new country that Jerry had never been in before. My friend was booked to leave on his hunt the last of July. Becausehe wanted to concentrate entirely on scouting for his Utah desert ram that he had drawn, he was looking for someone to purchase his Stone hunt. He wasn't worried about finding ataker. Garth knew that killing a Stone was a goal high on my list and thought the price for this hunt was a real bargain. lt just might be within my price range. Well, I swallowed hard, told him that l would get back by the end of the week, looked at my schedule (as a superintendent in a rural school district I wear a lot of hats), reviewed my hunting funds,took my wife out to dinner, then did the unthinkable, I jumped at the opportunity. I phoned Garth to tell him he could count on me! The sheep virus had struck again. I hadwanderlust! I couldn't believe l was actually going after my Stone.

With less than two months before I was due to leave I began experiencing unpredictable anxiety. I phoned Jerry Geraci to finalize all details, purchased my airline tickets, researchedtopo maps of the Stikine Mountains, and even studied weather patterns for the region I would be hunting. I also contacted other hunters who had booked with Jerry. I was a nervous wreck knowing this would be a "once in a lifetime opportunity" for me and that I couldn't afford to blow it. The clock was ticking. I was fortunate that physical conditioning wasn't aproblem due to the fact that I stay in good shape scouting for desert sheep and tro- phy mule deer the year round in Southern Utah.

Time moved at a snail's pace. lt seemed as if the days and weeks were twice as long. Finally, the departure date, July 28, was in sight. I bribed my wife by offering her a shopping trip if she would drive me five hours to Las Vegas. She was more than happy to accommodate my request, dropping me off at McCarran lnternational Airport so she and my daughtercould go to

the malls. lt wasn't surprising that I arrived at the terminal five hours before my scheduled 11:00 p.m. flight. I flew into Vancouver that night arriving at 2:00 a.m. where I had afour hour layover. Nervous I would sleep through my connecting flight at 6:00 a.m., I wasn't able to get a wink of shuteye. You might say I was a little wound up. ln the airport I meta fellow sheep hunter from Austria who didn't speak a word of English. Somehow we found a way to communicate, finding that we had a lot in common (must have been the guncases). He was scheduled on the same morning flight as me, although he was booked with a different outfitter. We shared pictures and stories then helped each other board the plane that flew us into Smithers, a picturesque little town nestled in the heart of the Canadian Rockies. I quickly waved good-bye after my new friend was met by his outfitter whohurried him to another flight. I was relieved when one of Jerry's assistants introduced herself to me, but was upset when we discovered that the airline had flown my duffel bag back to Vancouver. Luckily, I got it back later that day. ln Smithers there were some problems with the float plane, so three other hunters and I were driven eight hours via the AlaskanHighway to Dease Lake. I enjoyed seeing the country and wildlife but was definitely getting tired of sitting. Finally, our chartered Turbo Beaver arrived the following afternoon, and we were flown out to base camp at Tucho Lake. After meeting Jerry's staff, getting acquainted with the facilities and eating a gourmet meal of moose tenderloin, we sat outside in our shirt sleeves, swatted a few kamikaze mosquitoes, then admired a spectacular flaming orange sunset. The tranquil setting was invigorating. Later that night in my cabin Ilistened to a pack of snarling, growling wolves who seemed to be much too close to camp. Apparently, they had pulled down a calf moose in the willows. There was no mistaking thechilling, blood curdling noises of the predator's feeding frenzy. Later, I fell into a deep sleep as my dreams were filled with visions of finding a big ram.

The next day we relaxed, worked on fleshing out the cape, ate a lot of fried sheep meat, and rested our raw feet.

From the

tents we spotted a trophy caliber mountain goat staring down at us. I had purchased a goat tag but passed the big billy up becauseof the rugged-country we were in, the heavy loads we would be packing, and the distance back to where base camp was located. lttook us three tough days to reach the horses and another one riding back to the cabins at Tucho Lake.

Having a few remaining days to find a goat I made plans with Roger Pellerin to hunt a mountain where some good billies had beenspotted close to base camp. That evening I decided to try my luck fishing and went out alone along the shoreline. lt was raining. While practicing my boulder jumping skills I slipped on a slick rock.

My ankle went one way while I plunged headfirst into the lake.Well, I'm glad that no-one caught that dumb stunt on video.

I must have looked like a prehistoric, waterlogged slug crawling out of the lake onto shore. I hobbled painfully to my cabin. After down

ing a half dozen lbuprofen I taped my ankle up as tight as I dared with the swelling then proceeded to go hunting with Roger the next day. Boy, I felt like a whimp as I struggled to keep up with him climbing those mountains. We located a nice billy late that evening but I knew my ankle wasn't capable of getting me to where he was feeding in the cliffs. I felt lucky just to make it back to our base camp. Later, after getting back home to Utah my doctor told me I had a fractured ankle. I plan on leaving the fishing to someone else next time.

A special thanks to Upper Stikine River Adventures and Jerry Geraci for this "once in a lifetime" opportunity. Jerry does a great job, is a superb hunter, has some incredible country,and is willing to go the extra mile to insure that his hunters are successful. Perhaps luck will shine upon me again someday in the future and I will draw a coveted rocky Mountain permit to complete my grand slam. Until that I will continue to relive my sheep hunting adventures truth timeworn memories. There's no known cure. I'll be a sheep fanatic the rest of my life.

ON THE TRAIL OF MEGA MULIES

BY RANDY JOHNSON

EXPLORATION

In late June, 1993, my daughter Marissa

and I hauled 65-pound backpacks three days into desolate rincon country. It was a picturesque region that I believed could hold giant bucks.

The small thermometer on my backpack registered 107 degrees, and the waves of heat radiating from the bare rocks sucked precious moisture from our bodies. I was beginning toworry about our water supply when I spotted a damP area in the formidable tenain through my binoculars. Fearning it might be a mirage, we moved in to check it our. Sure enough, it was a small but life-sustaining seep and right along side the very limited water source were some of the biggest mule deer tracks I've ever seen. I knew they weren't desert sheep, whose dew claws will pinch in more than a mulies. Immediately, I knew I would return to the area at some point to locate the bucks that made them.

days. On the opening day of the season we decided that Layne would circle a narrow sagebrushflat on a high mesa above the canyon, believing that the bucks might use the area to bed in. We were

B&C points. Two others were 32 to 35 inch-wide typicals with 26 to 28 inch main beams,excellent mass and deep, sym- metrical forks. I had the pleasure of glassing them for two hoursbefore darkness set in and I literally thought I was in mule deer heaven. I was a littledisappointed that the group did not include Hotel Sierra, and I nearly went mad during the next month and a half while waiting for the deer season to arrive.

THE BUCK OF JUSTICE