NORTHERN
SHEEP By: My friend
Alexander Sharif
Winter
2012
“A
sportsman may have hunted deer, turkey, elk and bears for years with
the greatest of success; but until he has taken his sheep, until he
has matched his brains, his endurance and his skill with those
inhabitants of the rocky peaks, he is still but a sophomore.
A big ram head on the wall of his den is the diploma of the graduated big-game hunter”
A big ram head on the wall of his den is the diploma of the graduated big-game hunter”
Jack
O’Connor
My
“Anniversary Ram”, taken fair chase on a steep mountain side was
10 ½ years old and had 36” symmetrical full curled broomed horns.
To me, he is the world’s greatest trophy.
My
cousin once said: “until you have killed a sheep in North America,
no one takes you for serious”. Others including Jack O’Connor,
the dean of America’s gun writers have eluded to the same in the
chapter on desert sheep in “Game In the Desert” (See above quote)
There is definitely some truth behind this as for the average Joe,
the effort and the cost associated with a sheep hunt usually comes
later on in life when all is “somewhat settled”.
I
grew up in a sheep hunting family with both my dad and uncle taking
numerous heads of Urials, Reds, Armenians and Beozar Ibex. As a
twelve year old youngster, I took a two-year old young Urial ram but
then after, a myriad of “excuses” including attending boarding
school abroad followed by higher education, an engineering career
that involved international travel and finally starting a family kept
me away from sheep hunting until my late 40s. When I finally hit the
half-century mark last March, despite being in good physical shape, I
made the unanimous decision that it is now or never.
Living
on the Eastern slopes of the Canadian Rockies, I have chased rocky
mountain bighorns (so far to no avail) but have also felt that in
time, I will get my hands on one. However, connecting with the
beautiful “White Sheep of the North” had always been a dream of
mine, influenced of course by the writings of who else but the late
Jack O’Connor.
From
a financial standpoint, the cost of any North-American sheep hunt
quickly shoots into the stratosphere when you include all the
associated costs that go along with it. Having said that, being
flexible to leave on a moment’s notice, a last minute cancellation
hunt with huge savings can be had through certain outfitters.
The
author in the company of his “Black Mamba” and a beautiful
Mountain Caribou.
With
my contact information left with four Yukon outfitters and the green
light issued by my CFO (My dear wife Eneida) , I left the entire
month of August 2011 open for a chance at a cancellation hunt.
Finally, on the evening before departing for our annual family
camping trip, I received a call from Allan Young of “Midnight Sun
Outfitters” that a cancellation hunt had become available for
mid-August. Arrangements were made and I was now only three weeks
away from realizing the hunt of a life time.
In
preparation for this hunt, besides engaging on my everyday physical
activity which includes an average of 200 days on my mountain bike,
XC skis, chasing upland/big game and mountain hikes in the nearby
Rockies, I started packing 50 lbs of rocks on all the family and solo
hikes during the Summer months. You had to see the expression on some
Banff tourists when I popped the rocks out of my pack to reach for my
sandwich at top of the Sulphur Mountain in July.
Finally
on August 10th
2011, the twin turbo Hawker Sidney carrying me and my gear landed at
Dawson airport after some nine hours in the air and on land due to
poor visibility. Luckily, I was able to call the charter flight
company from Inuit to let them know that I was cruising the skies and
that my flight had been delayed due to poor weather. The worst
nightmare of my hunt was also about to happen as I stepped out of the
Hawker; My luggage including my riffle did not make it to Dawson! All
I had on me were my boots, my camera and my binoculars.
With
mixed emotions, I hopped on the chartered Islander with three other
hunters and a young cook/wrangler from Alaska that was coming to help
Allan. Our seventy minute flight to Hart Lake had us meander up and
down through low clouds and several ridges but also through some
spectacular scenery, finally landing safely on the dirt strip. I kept
telling myself that things will somehow work their way out. Upon
arrival, I borrowed the essentials including size 36 pants (I wear
size 30 and more on that later), a rifle, sleeping bag and even a
used toothbrush from Allan and his son Logan. That night I hardly
slept, thinking about how I was going to pull it all together without
my borrowed gear.
The
morning after, we stepped in to Allan’s Supercub on floats, headed
to sheep camp “LL” where my young/educated guide named Neil whom
I was to share my hunt with for the next 10 days was waiting for me.
Just before our take off, I spotted a beautiful bull Caribou on the
opposite shore of Hart Lake and showed him to Allan. He asked me if I
wanted to shoot the bull, but I found it anticlimactic. Then
suddenly, I remembered an older gentleman with bad knees who was with
us in the Islander the day before and had come from Fresno, CA to
look for a bull Caribou. We turned around, informed the guys back at
camp about the bull and the hunter went out later that day and killed
that big bull. (Good Omen)
After
a smooth landing at camp “ LL” and a six-hour mandatory wait,
Neil & I packed our rug sacks and went for a scouting trip. A
huge grizzly Boar and a few heads of lambs and ewes is all we saw
that day. A supper of Caribou steaks cooked on camp fire next to the
gorgeous lake made for a splendid first evening.
On
day 2, we packed our stuff, broke our fast and were trail bound by
7:00 am. I should mention that this time of the year, Yukon mornings
are mostly foggy and the best hunting is usually done in the
afternoon and evening hours. After a three hour hike in the bough up
the valley and having wet feet (100% waterproof boots are a must), we
spotted three rams on the side of a nasty cliff that Neil called “The
Island”. Through the 45 power spotter, one of the rams seemed to be
legal and required a closer examination. Our only approach was
through the Alders and we were on “all fours” for at least 500
yards. The knoll that would now hide us from the rams provided an
opportunity to glass at them again. Unfortunately, we could not be
100% convinced that the largest ram was legal as we could only
confirm one broomed horn and thus made the decision to abandon the
stalk. Although I had come to Yukon for sheep, my hunt also included
a Mountain Caribou and later that day, we hiked a different ridge and
glassed for hours in hope of finding one.
Looking
for sheep on a typical foggy Yukon morning.
Day
3 saw us pack our external frame packs with all our gear to spend
three nights on the mountain. The grueling eight hour climb up
several ridges and walking the skyline trail took us to the back side
of the next drainage system. We spotted and glassed for several hours
and finally saw four rams about a mile away that required a second
look. We climbed on to the back side of the ridge and went up a 45
degree talus slope to take a peek over and check on the rams. They
had all evaporated in to the thin mountain air! At that moment,
feeling soaked in my borrowed cotton shirt, hungry and thirsty, I
felt totally heart broken. But the thought of finding a legal ram in
the days to come kept my spirits high. In the next day and a half, we
spotted 20 more lambs and ewes with a couple of smaller rams amongst
them but no shooters. Our tent location however was heavenly,
overseeing several valleys that potentially could hold a legal ram.
Allan
had told us to call him on the Sat phone if we didn’t find any
legal rams by day 5 so that he would have enough time to get us
relocated to a different camp and that’s what we did. The buzzing
sound of Allan’s Supercub hovering to land on the lake was a
comforting feeling. After loading the plane, Allan informed me of his
new plan which had me hunt with his son Logan who had just finished
guiding another hunter, bagging a 70” Bull Moose early in his hunt.
Logan is the bravest and toughest 19 year old I have ever met and the
good Lord has blessed him with a pair of Hawk eyes which I was to
find out in days to come. He also had eight horses with him and was
accompanied by a young but tough wrangler named Robyn. I felt that my
luck had just taken a 180 degree turn (remember the good omen?) and
yet another streak of luck came my way that day: Allan had picked up
my gear from Dawson when he flew back on day 4 to drop meat for the
local community. I felt in seventh heaven and rejuvenated after
getting my own gear and riding on a horse to ease the pain on my
operated knees and dislocated ankle. After a six hour trail ride, we
arrived at camp “CC”, got the tents up and the stove running. A
supper of moose tenderloins with sidekicks and a cot inside a large
hunter’s tent made up for a much needed rest, charging my batteries
up for the next four days left in my hunt. I was also able to fire
three rounds out of my Black Mamba (aka my custom 270 Weatherby built
on a M70 action fitted with a #4 Lilja barrel and a Leupold Mark 2
tactical scope in 4-12x40 with Mildots). He made me proud and
printed his usual clover leaf, 2” above bull’s eye at 100 yards.
I was “listo” as they saying goes in Spanish.
On
day 6 after a hearty breakfast, we gathered four horses and rode up
to what Logan calls the “Y”. Leaving the horses just below the
saddle, we hiked up and peaked over to have a look at the basin that
Logan was hopeful would hold sheep or caribou. We saw neither after
glassing carefully but instead, were rewarded by the sight of two
monster Alaskan/Yukon Bull Moose in full velvet, feeding and
terrorizing the valley with their giant antlers. We let them be at
peace, fetched our horses and rode up the valley floor. After a
couple of hours, just before reaching the mouth of the next drainage,
Logan jumped off his horse and whispered “Big bull Caribou”.
Although I have keen eyes on spotting game, not being familiar with
the pelage and the silhouette of these Northern giants, I was
completely oblivious to what Logan was seeing. Finally, my 8.5 x 42
EL’s zoomed on what appeared to be a set of humongous antlers on a
dark bodied bull Caribou bedded on the hill side. As luck would have
it, there was a second bull bedded 50 paces away that was even
larger. We quickly regressed, tied up the horses next to a creek and
planned a stalk. Our only option was to close the one kilometre gap
through the creek bed and get within rifle range. Logan also
suspected that if the bulls saw us and got up, their exit route would
be on a Caribou trail on the side flank which would most probably
present a running shot. We cautiously haunched down and approached
the bulls, getting within 500 yards. All of a sudden, the bulls got
up and started trotting towards the Caribou trail. (Logan was right)
I dropped my pack and Logan and I sprinted like two Olympic
marathoners, crashing on the rocks some 350 paces away from my
quarry. The bulls, curious as to what is happening stopped for a
brief moment. That is when I gathered myself and my breathing, lined
up and settled down the long 26” Lilja barrel and sent a spiced up
(3,400 ft/sec) 140 grain hand loaded Nosler spitzer towards the chest
of the quartering larger bull standing tall at 310 yards away. The
spitzer found its target, send a clear and pleasant “thump” back
and the bull kicked high, running downhill and collapsing in a small
pond. (Anyone for a swim in Arctic cold water 100 miles from the
Arctic Circle?) Logan and I took up the task and in less than 2 hours
had the big bull out of the water, caped, quartered and bundled up
the on our horses. On the return trail, we stopped for a quick break
and when Logan tried to get up on his horse again, she bucked once
she laid her eyes on what resembled his brethren stuffed in Logan’s
pack. Logan, being an experienced rodeo rider kicked her rear end,
got the situation under control and we were back at camp safe and
sound with my beautiful bull and all the meat. (Logue; Ya Da Man!) As
a side note, although everyone refers to these giants as mountain
Caribou, according to my dear friend Dr. Valerius Geist, these are
isolated individuals that separate from the big herds of the barren
ground variety, retreat to the mountains, live a peaceful life in
isolation and grow enormous antlers. Their classification according
to B&C as mountain Caribou is arbitrary and bears no generic
evidence.
Feeling
soaked in my borrowed cotton shirt, hungry and thirsty, I felt
totally heart broken when the rams had disappeared. However, the
thought of finding a legal ram in the days to come kept my spirits
high.
Upon
arrival at camp “CC” around 9:00 pm, I volunteered to cook the
bull’s tenderloins for our supper. I had also packed in a small
bottle of Russian vodka to make a toast to my great Dad and Uncle who
had planted the love of the great outdoors in my soul by taking me
along as a child on every possible outdoor opportunity. (Miss you
both EVERY DAY!) With the fire next to my tent and the bull’s rack
on a cowboy horseshoe, I watched the sun drop over the crimson
coloured horizon with scenes that are now etched in my memory
forever.
Day
7 started on a good note with less fog over the mountain tops.
Oatmeal and cowboy coffee for breakfast, we set off on horses this
time to the upper fork of the “Y”. As we approached the hill
side, crossing the little Wind River several times back and forth,
Logan dismounted from his horse and spotted a huge grizzly sow
barrelling down the slope where we were headed. The big question was;
what was she running away from? With no other hunters in this entire
area and sitting at the top of the food chain, it could not have been
anything but a boar that was chasing her and her cubs for “you know
what”. We approached with caution and at our last creek crossing
before the hill side, all of the sudden she appeared to our right
charging in full flight with her two cubs behind her. We quickly
dismounted from the horses and chambered a round just in case. At
just 20 paces away, she stood up but then dropped down and buggered
off, climbing up through the alders above us. For the next 45
minutes, we screamed, urinated and made as much noise as possible and
thankfully we didn’t see her again. By noon, we tied up the horses
and started the grueling two hour uphill hike next to a rushing creek
through wet “Buck Brush”. Once we got to the top of the ridge, we
entered a heavenly valley that was collecting the moisture for three
successive mountain drainages in the shape of a cirque. We had gone
no more than half an hour when Logan put up his glasses and said
“Sheep on the mountain”! (Remember his Hawk Eyes?) Through his
Bushnell scoping scope, we could see three rams that were bedded on a
ridge roughly three kilometres away. At that distance, it was
impossible to determine their legal status but we had good cover to
close the distance to where we could examine them further. One of
them definitely appeared larger. We continued and got within one
kilometer of where the rams were but two of them had disappeared. We
sat down, got a quick bite to eat and decided to continue and check
the drainage below them in case they had not spooked and were
feeding. I told Logan I was ready to spend the night on the mountain
if necessary. We flanked the hillside cautiously and by 5:00 pm, the
last ram had also gotten up and was out of sight. My hunch was if
they rams had spooked they would have all vacated the mountain and I
was hopeful that they were still there, feeding below the ridge we
had spotted them on. Around 6:00 pm, traversing sideways one step at
the time, we spotted one of the rams cross canyon, roughly 600 yards
away. Shortly after, the second ram appeared below him, pawing the
lush green herbs that he had immersed himself in. Unfortunately
neither of the two rams were legal, but where the heck was the third
ram? Clinging to the 45 degree hillside with our pack left behind for
concealment, we approached on all four, one foot at the time. All of
the sudden Logan looked up and caught a glimpse of eight rams above
us slightly to the North. We hunkered down like ground squirrels at
the sight of a swooping falcon. They were no more than 200 yards away
but they were all bunched up together and any further approach would
blow our scent towards them. This is where sheep hunters need
patience. We waited for 1 ½ more hours until the wind shifted
downslope and allowed us to crawl on our bellies to get to a position
for a shoot. Logan had scaled the rams carefully (Logue; Ya Da Man!)
and had picked up the largest ram which was broomed on both sides and
also possessed a full curl (double insurance!). Now, it was just a
waiting game until they would separate so I could rifle a clean shot
without wounding another ram. At 8:00 pm sharp, the world went to a
complete silence when I took the safety of my model 70 off and
squeezed a shot towards my ram’s chest. He was hit hard in the
boiler room and got separated from the rest as they started climbing
towards the cliff band above. I quickly chambered a second round and
this time, aimed for his shoulder to anchor him down and prevent him
from reaching the summit and throwing himself over as they frequently
do. The steep 45 degree slope lifted the spitzer above his back,
hitting the rocks behind. I quickly realized my mistake and my third
shot flew true, anchoring him down for keeps.
At
this moment in time, if there were hundred lucky men alive in the
entire world, I was certainly one of them. That day (August 17th)
was also my fifteenth wedding anniversary and I know my sweethearts
prayers were responsible for connecting with what I now call the
“anniversary ram”. He was a 10 ½ year old full curl ram with
respectable 36” symmetrical broomed horns and to me, he was the
world’s greatest trophy. I kissed his horns, thanked the good Lord
for giving me an opportunity as such and took a few moments to
remember my sheep hunting mentors, my late Dad & Uncle. They are
both in sheep heaven where every Ram is a Full Curl and every Billy
has a white beard.
Yours
truly with borrowed gear, climbing to gain altitude in Yukon’s
North Eastern Sheep country.
With
gazillion pictures and a couple of video clips stored in my little
Digi, we caped and quartered the beautiful ram and started our
descent down the grassy wet slopes with full packs at 10:00 p.m. The
last hour we were in complete darkness and the thought of
encountering that grizzly that we had seen earlier in the day made
for a “spooktacular” journey. We arrived to where we had tied our
four legged friends whom we had also worried about during the day.
Logan carefully changed our return route back to camp to avoid any
grizzly encounters. The two and a half hour ride had us screaming
“anti-bear” slogans with a loaded rifle riding next to us in the
scabbard. Upon arrival at camp at 2:00 am, I made a huge bonfire,
parked my ram head next to me together with my Black Mamba and ate my
mountain house supper. I stayed up until day light broke to guard my
beloved trophies against any intruding wolf or bear. Next day, after
some rest and a good grub, we packed all our meat and gear and
started the 8-hour trail ride to camp “3B” where Allan had
promised to pick me up at the end of day 9. Our ride took us through
some spectacular scenery, sights that I had only seen in National
Geographic shows. The only difference this time was that I was in it
instead of just watching it on the tube! On our last stretch, we
motored through some nasty bough infested with mosquitoes. I felt
extremely sorry for our four legged friends who were fighting the
terrain and the little critters. The next day and a half was spent
fishing, resting and dining on sheep ribs and sheep shish-kabobs
rigged up using alder branches as skewers, and fleshing my ram cape
together with catching up on my journal.
The
buzz of the Supercub just before supper on day 9 pretty much
indicated the end of my Yukon Odyssey. Upon landing at Hart Lake, we
had Graylings and sheep burgers for supper and I got to finally sleep
on a foam mattress and exchange stories with other hunters who were
still in camp.
On
day 11, John’s blue/white Islander safely touched down at Hart Lake
around 2:00 pm. We said goodbye to Allan, Logan and the rest of the
gang and once airborne, I said my final farewell to the beautiful
Ogilvie Mountains of North East Yukon.
The Ogilvie and the Werneke mountains of North East Yukon hold some of the most spectacular wilderness on the planet.
Even
though I had hunted in Africa, North America and the Elburz Mountains
of Asia, this was by far the most outstanding wilderness experience
of my half a century life and as my good friend Brad O’Connor put
it; “You made lemonade out of lemon, got yourself a fine ram and
your pants didn’t fall off”!
As
I am writing these broken lines next to my beautiful wife and our two
handsome sons and staring at my Ram’s head, (taxidermied swiftly by
my relative Nouri Tajbaksh in Texas), I ponder upon the idea of
someday completing my FNAWS. Am I being realistic? Probably not. Can
I still dream about it, you bet ya?
The
Crimson colours of Yukon evenings is etched in my memory for ever.
With
two fine trophies under my belt, I enjoyed fishing, writing my
journal and dining on Sheep meat on my last two days.
No comments:
Post a Comment