Sometimes the best moments of your life are forever fused with the worst moments of your life. Such was the case in my quest for a P&Y ram in the Canadian Rockies. The series of sheep hunts that resulted in a gold-medal ram for the year was also the series of hunts that nearly ended all my hunting days. The first hunt in the series of three prepared me, the second hunt humbled me, and the third hunt renewed me.

Hunting for rams in the Canadian Rockies is one of the most physically and mentally challenging hunts there is. It was only after the first hunt that I learned many accomplished and veteran hunters give up the hunt within the first three days. Add to that the perilous components of life-threatening cold, high altitude, sharp rocks and scree,. and you have a recipe for disaster. I followed that recipe with dire results. I once read an article about a treacherous sheep hunt in the Canadian Rockies, and I remember thinking to myself that it could never happen to me...not to Ray Howell...but it did happen. The Bible says that pride goes before a fall and I know that to be true now so I have a greater appreciation for this type of hunt than I had before. Nearly getting killed might make for good story telling, but the reality of looking death squarely in the face is not something I want to do again anytime soon.

The first hunt started out of the McKenzie Valley and into the McKenzie Mountains of British Columbia with a base camp that was 120 miles from anything that could be conceivably considered as civilization. The plane ride alone should have prepared me for what I was getting into. Moving along at 150 miles per hour in a small Cessna is one thing, but when the fog clears (literally), and you realize that you are only 100 feet from the valley floor…something in your head should signal alarm ...but not me...all I could feel was an intoxicating exhilaration.

On the first day of what would be a sixteen-day hunt, we hiked up from the base camp and into the mountains. We had only walked about two miles when we were literally surrounded by sheep. They were everywhere we turned. It was a good start. There were several good rams among the many, and my guide, Cam Sidam and I set our sights on the largest Dall's sheep he called "Clubhead", a heavily broomed, high scoring ram. That first day was twelve and a half hours of stalking, but it seemed as though the rams were bound to go one way and Cam and I another.

One of the things that hunting has taught me is that no matter how many experiences with Mother Nature you encounter and survive, there is another new battle with her on the very next hunt. Finding new and terrifying ways to intimidate seems to be her constant course of action, and while I have always managed to get around her, I also have learned to respect her or even love her. I couldn't help but think of this each and every time I had to traverse the small but powerful mountain streams. The first crossing at 1500 feet found me barefoot, in my skivvies, doing a ceremonial "warmth" dance on the other side. Frozen to the bone, feeling like I had been stung by ten thousand bees and bruised feet "to boot", I decided this wasn't the way to go on the next crossing...but it seemed like a good idea at the time. The next time my water shoes would go along to protect my feet.

We climbed to the area where the rams were and we were finally able to get ahead of them and hopefully set up an ambush. The rams laid down on a hillside between us for several hours while we had to endure the rain and fog. Finally, just before dark, the rams starting moving in our direction. Three smaller rams started to move above us while the other rams were moving below us. The one particular ram that Cam called Clubhead was in the middle of the lower group. At any given time, I felt I was going to have a "dream" shot within 25 yards. All they had to do was come around the big rock we were hiding behind. But just like that…all the rams spooked and ran back in the direction from which they came. The smaller rams had caught us and the hunt was over for the day. Cam agreed…there were just too many eyeballs.

The second and third days of the hunt were spent getting to know the rams' patterns and the lay of the land. The rams were starting to split up and eventually to fall into smaller groups of three, three, and one. Cam and I wanted to go after the lone ram Clubhead. Now there weren't as many "eyeballs" to contend with. After the long climb and before moving on, Cam and I started changing out of our sweaty clothes into our warm, dry clothing. While doing so, we were "busted" by one of the smaller rams. He came out of nowhere…and was just standing there confused as to what we were. We decided to try and fool him by putting our "whites" on. The situation gave us some hunting inspiration. It occurred to us that he was more calm when we wore our whites, or at least was not so spooked…so whites became the dress code for this hunt. Within the next hour, another ram came within 40 yards of us and again was not spooked by our white clothing. This was a legal ram, but he wasn't of Clubhead's caliber. We had our sights set on Clubhead and we still felt we had plenty of time to make it happen. We searched the rest of the day for the big ram but were unable to locate him.

While the powerful current and biting cold of the streams were a constant challenge, they were only a part of the bigger challenge of hunting in this climate and terrain. Breathing adequately at the dizzying heights while climbing over, above, and under steep, razor-sharp rocks and cliffs was simply more of the same challenge. Hunting in the mountains often requires you to move back down the mountain hundreds of feet, only to move back up in another direction in order to stay with the stalk and keep your target in sight. The lone ram, Clubhead, kept us moving in this constant up and down maneuver and more than once ended the stalk with his wily ways.

The next several days were spent searching for old Clubhead. The weather was unseasonably warm and we covered a lot of ground looking for the big guy. I learned that it is better to cross the streams in the morning if you can…before the snow melts and the streams turn into hazardous rivers. I've also learned that it matters a great deal what you put on your feet for this kind of hunt and my Meindl boots have taken a beating. From the knife-like rocks, six mile hikes so rugged they seemed like twenty miles, and from water so treacherous they ice up your legs and pull your feet out from under you…my boots have served me well.

While the search for Clubhead was proving a difficult one, a hunt like this provides some diversion to the narrow focus of the stalk. One of these diversions came in the form of a blond grizzly just outside our camp one morning. He wasn't doing much but maybe casing the joint and he quickly moved on. When he showed up a couple of mornings later, I had to wonder who was being stalked…the rams or us! Cam shot a round into the water beside him but it only served to incite him and he rose up on his hind legs and came at us...it took a second round in the water to change his mind. Later, a prize-winning moose came across our path to add even more excitement. And at night, as we sat by the fire, the Northern Lights put on a show for us that no big screen, surround-sound television could ever match…there's no screen bigger than, or with higher resolution than a Rocky Mountain sky. We saw grizzly bear, moose and Northern Lights, but still no Clubhead.

After an exhausting seven-mile journey around a mountain area known as "the Knob", Clubhead succeeded where we failed and our ten-day pursuit of him came to an end. It was as though he had vanished from the mountains. We shifted gears and got ready to move our base camp to a place called Sheep Mountain. I thought this would be a good opportunity to rest my muscles and relax a little before they flew into to pick us up. However, in order to get to Sheep Mountain, Cam told me we were obliged to build an airstrip in order for the Cessna to land. This was not an easy task. Building an airstrip turned out to be a lot more physically demanding than I ever expected. We had to move large boulders and uprooted trees away from the riverbank, using only primitive tools to level out the holes and low spots. Four hours later we finally had a place where they could safely land. Once we got to Sheep Mountain, we had to wait twelve hours before we could hunt again, because of flying in an aircraft, so we decided to build a cardboard sheep decoy. Because our whites had worked so well previously, I added them to the decoy so that it really looked like a sheep. Who would have thought ...you just never know what you' II have to do for the sake of the hunt. But, go figure…when we tried stalking in on a group of rams with our decoy the next day, it was as if they had seen a ghost and they disappeared over the top of the mountain in record-breaking time!

As I saw the hunt going the distance, I was more than ready to let the air out of one of those rams. This stalk would require me to trudge another eight miles, uphill and over new and hazardous terrain. Determination and perspiration got me to the rams but somehow we spooked them and all I got out of it was a sweaty shirt that froze to my body before I got back to camp. Not wanting to lose my opportunity for a good size ram I had spotted, I went up Sheep Mountain the next day and embarked on one of the most grueling stalks I have ever been on. I overcame the perils of water, ravines, and steep ledges and got within range of the high-scoring ram I wanted. Cam and I waited two and a half hours for the shot, but the ram suddenly moved over the ledge and again the stalk and shot were gone in a split second. It took forever for me to get warm by the fire that night. I'm still not sure if it was the cold from the outside or the cold inside of me that I was feeling. That evening we received a call from base camp that I dreaded hearing…we had to move out…severe weather was coming in and we had to get off the mountain the next morning. As the Cessna flew into to pick us up, the weather became increasingly violent and I felt we were lucky to be getting out when we did.

I told the outfitter, Kelly Hougan, that I eagerly looked forward to the "seventeenth" day of my hunt next year. When I started getting ready for the sheep hunts, I weighed approximately 240 pounds. Three months later, after hiking up and down hills at home, while carrying a 60-pound backpack, I weighed in at 220 pounds. But now I was really a slim man-down to 214 pounds. I was in "sheep shape" and ready for my next hunt! Going into the second hunt, I was more determined than ever to bring home a ram.

After returning home from my Dall's sheep hunt I received a call from an outfitter who had lost all his scheduled hunters due to 9/11. I was originally scheduled into their camp for the following year. After checking the weather forecast for their area, it looked good, so I jumped at the opportunity because I was mentally and physically ready for the hunt. Upon my arrival in Dease Lake on October 1st, I met my guide's brother, Lester*, who told me that he was going to guide me for the week because my guide took a gun hunter to another area. After picking up my licenses the next day, I headed out by horseback into the mountains guided only by the camp cook, Molly*! The wrangler and Lester were going to meet up with us later in camp. We traveled for hours through the valley along the mountain streams. It didn't take me long to figure out that Molly didn't know quite where the camp area was. We decided to wait on the trail for Lester and about an hour before dark, he and the wrangler finally showed up. Lester said we were going to an area at the base of the mountain where he thought it would make a good camp. At the camp area we hobbled the horses. Using my Swarovski 10x42's I could see several rams up high on the mountain from where we were going to be camping. As darkness came, I was eager to get to sleep and head up the mountains after the rams. I thought now that this was going to be an easier hunt than my previous hunt because of the use of horses.

At dawn the next morning I was getting my gear together for the long climb. The wrangler left to get the horses and never came back until noon. Several times that morning I had said, "forget the horses, let's climb the mountain", but Lester was in no kind of shape to be climbing up the mountain without being on a horse. Besides, I think he was content just spending time with Molly the camp cook. It seemed to me it was as though they were on their honeymoon instead of on a hunt. When the wrangler finally returned he told us that the horses had wandered up the valley. I figured it was about a three-hour climb to where I had spotted the rams so Lester and I saddled up and headed up the steep terrain for an afternoon hunt, weaving back and forth and often dismounting in the slippery, shale areas where the footing was not safe.

After reaching a plateau on top, there was a large flat, grassy area that seemed to go for miles with several rock outcroppings. Almost immediately, we spotted a group of rams that had two magnificent rams with them. Leaving the horses behind we started a stalk. Using the rock outcroppings, we worked our way to the animals trying to get ahead of them in the direction they were moving. Just when I thought we had everything going our way the rams laid down in an open area with no possibility for a stalk. It was now getting late in the evening and I knew darkness was soon to follow. Lester said we had to get off the mountain before it got dark but I didn't want to leave. I told him it was senseless to go all the way back down the mountain and ride all the way back up again in the morning. It was a nice enough night that we could stay out of the wind and sleep in the rock outcroppings. It took some convincing but he finally agreed.

The moon was full that night. We used the saddles and horse blankets to cover up with. About 1:00 am Lester woke up shouting, "whose got the flashlight on?" I couldn't figure out what he was so upset about. It took me a minute, but then I realized it was the brightness of the moon that he was yelling about. After he settled down again he said it was too cold to stay where we were. He wanted to go down to the timberline and make a fire at one of their old camps. We saddled the horses and about an hour later we arrived at their old camp. After collecting wood, the rest of the night was spent laying next to the open fire, but for some reason, I couldn't get back to sleep again. Lester had taken some large rocks that he had warmed up in the fire and used them to keep his feet warm.

When dawn finally arrived, I was eager to get back to the area where we last had spotted the rams. After getting back on top of the plateau to the rock outcroppings where we had last seen the rams, I realized they had moved. We located them again, but when I tried stalking up on them, there were too many "eyes" and I got "busted". For the rest of the morning I kept trying to get myself into a good position to take one of the big rams, but it just wasn't meant to be. Lester kept complaining that we had to get off the mountain because Molly was going to have a nice dinner made for us. He sounded like a broken record, but my thoughts were, "I could live on the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and water that I still had in my saddle bags".

I watched the rams work their way into the rock outcroppings across a shale face on the side of the mountain. I figured this was my opportunity to get in close enough for a shot. I've never had a fear of heights. The shale I was walking on was a black as coal. I stayed on the sheep trail where it was flat, but only about 10" wide. I came to a washout that I had to cross before continuing along the trail. That's when Lester told me how hungry he was for the last time. I told him I was going to follow the trail through the rock outcroppings to where I thought the rams might be bedding. Then I would walk down the grassy slope and meet him and the horses at the base of the mountain. That's when Lester left.

After crossing the washout, I started across the black "scree" trail that had been worn into the rock by the sheep, taking my time, watching for the rams in the rock outcroppings in front of me. I was about half way across when suddenly I found myself, flat on my back, sliding out of control heading toward the cliffs below me. I was trying to stop myself by using my hands and my legs in a "spread eagle" fashion. Everything happened so fast that I didn't even know what was going on.

I slowed down enough that I was finally able to stop on a small rock about half the size of my boot that was sticking out of the scree. That's when I realized that the sharp rocks had torn my clothing and left several cuts throughout my legs, forearms, and hands. Where there once were calluses on my hands, there were now pieces of scree imbedded. At this point I didn't feel that I was in any real danger even though another 100 yards and I would have dropped off onto the sharp, jagged boulders below. Somehow my bow had stayed with me. My hand must have been between the string and the riser. Keeping one foot on the small rock, I took my back quiver off and tied my bow to it. I turned around on my hands and knees and started crawling back toward the top. I only made it about four or five feet from the small rock and then slipped again out of control back to the rock, grabbing it with my hand. That's when I realized that I was in real trouble. There was no one around who could help. I figured that by now, Lester was miles away and wouldn't hear me even if I tried to call for help.

I worked my way to get my footing back on the small rock. I finally managed to get "perched" back on it. I kept moving from one foot to the other as my leg muscles were getting fatigued from the awkward position I was crouched in. I kept telling myself not to panic. I was trying to control my breathing. It was as though I was starting to hyperventilate uncontrollably. There was no way out. I figured at this point, my destiny was to slide down the scree off the cliffs to the jagged rocks below. I tried thinking of other things to keep myself calm. All I could think about was my family and what it was going to be like for them without me. I said a few prayers, asking the good Lord to watch over them. At that point I knew that it wasn't the fear of dying that was bothering me; it was leaving my family. I kept trying to figure ways out of the situation.

There was a large boulder about 300 yards below me that was big enough to stop my fall if I could control my slide to it but either side of it and I was off the cliffs. I thought if I would hit that boulder, that maybe I would only end up with a broken leg or arm, but the more I thought about it, I figured I would probably die of exposure through the night if they couldn't find me. At one point my mind was telling me that I might as well just give up because there was no way out and I knew I couldn't hold myself on the small rock forever. I started thinking more about my family and how nice it would be to see my grandchildren grow up. And then the thought of leaving my wife Karen became overwhelming. That's when I made the biggest decision of my life. If I was going to die, I was at least not going to give up without a fight.

Again, I turned around and instead of being on my hands and knees, I was using my fingertips and the toes of my Meindl boots, much like a spider crawl I did when we were kids.

I started working my way back up the scree, putting my boot tips and my fingers in selected spots as I was climbing. I got past the spot where I had crawled to the first time on my hands and knees and I thought to myself that I might have a chance of making it but in reality, at any given second, I was going to be slipping uncontrollably to the cliffs below. I kept climbing at a left-hand angle, heading toward the washout. I figured if I could make it there, the worst thing that could happen would be that I would spend a cold night on the face of the mountain.

I was about half way there, slowly working my way, when the stress got to me and I started to laugh to myself. I told myself I was laughing at the "face of death". The whole way working myself up, I kept trying to think about other things rather than the situation I was in and how nice it would be to have my wife's arms around me again. Step by step, fingertip-by-fingertip, I was getting closer to the washout. The toughest part was keeping myself in control when I got close because I wanted to hurry and get to a safe spot, but I knew one false slip and it was over.

When I made it to the washout, I felt as if somebody had given me a gift. But there were still other obstacles to overcome. The water had washed out the scree and made several drop offs, but at least if I fell off one of them, I would only land in the center of the washout. The farther down the mountain, the bigger the drop offs got so there was still only one way to go…and that was up. As I worked my way to the top, the sun was going down and darkness would soon follow. I kept moving at a pace that wouldn't exhaust me. I was already fatigued from the last few hours since I had slipped off the sheep trail. Finally…the last step from the washout to the grass on the plateau! I knelt down and thanked the good Lord for giving me a chance to see my family again. But within the next 10-15 minutes, the adrenalin must have started wearing off…I started shaking uncontrollably…I knew that I had to start walking down the grass slope to get back to camp. The cool night air was settling in and I could feel it. When I was about ¾ of the way down the mountain, I could hear Lester yelling my name at the top of his lungs, in the darkness. The mountain steams below were making so much noise that I knew he couldn't hear me. I kept making my way carefully toward him in the rough terrain knowing that I didn't want to make any more mistakes coming down the mountainside.

After meeting up with Lester and the horses, he couldn't stop swearing at me. He was upset because he couldn't get back to camp before dark and be with Molly and eat a good supper. After all I had been through, I was still pretty calm at this point because I was just happy being alive. I said it was no "big deal". We could just build a campfire right here and head back in the morning. He was furious! That's when I told him to, "shut his mouth and that from now on…he was going to be one step in front of me" because he could have warned me about the scree and the dangers I was facing by crossing it. He still wanted to head back to camp, so for the next three hours we worked our way back through the dark timber trying to find the main trails along the streams. We arrived in camp late that night. It felt good to crawl into my sleeping bag.

The next morning my whole body hurt. The muscles of my hands were clenched tight and it hurt to open them. I could especially feel my fingertips because there was no skin left on them. There were several cuts and bruises all over the rest of my body. The rest of that day I spent in camp getting my thoughts together, making sure that my archery equipment was still shooting properly, and trying to recuperate. The next morning we were climbing the mountain again on horseback but now the weather had changed dramatically. It had snowed that night in the higher elevations and the weather was getting bad. The fog was moving in from peak to peak making it difficult to spot the rams.

We spotted one group that had a large ram in it. We decided that I would try and get ahead of it and Lester would push it to me. When I was getting into the rock outcroppings on the side of the mountain, I realized that I didn't know what was under my feet. I froze in my tracks and realized that I had a fear of heights that I never had before. I sat down on the ground and told myself that if I didn't walk out to that rock outcropping that I may never have the fortitude to do it again. It took about a half hour to 45 minutes of trying to keep myself from turning back. Finally, step-by-step, I worked my way into the ambush position. I stayed tight into the rocks waiting for the rams to walk past me, but there was nothing. Finally Lester came and told me the rams had gone up over the top before they got to me. The fog was getting worse. We decided to head back down to camp and wait it out. The next five days were spent in camp waiting for the weather to clear but it didn't happen and I was finally forced to give up the hunt and go home.

AT CAMP

DAY 1

DAY 2

DAY 3

DAY 4

Well I found out in camp tonight that there's a change of plans. Jimmy and Angie Ryan are coming into camp tomorrow and I'm leaving with Frank Simpson to go to another area where he's had a lot of success. Jimmy Ryan has completed the super slam with a bow and has lots of stories. Just really looking forward to sharing a camp with him and listening to his stories. We'll see what happens tomorrow. Hopefully I'll be able to spend some time with these guys and get to know them better.

DAY 5

DAY 6

DAY 7

We spotted the same rams we saw yesterday-nothing new. We decided to travel along the base of the Mts. We traveled a lot today and saw about 25 more ewes and lambs. Also saw some of the same rams. Frank says it's a matter of time with all those ewes and lambs around that another dominant ram will come into the area and then we'll go after him. We're just kind of playing our cards right waiting for the big guy.

It's really something to listen to at night-the rocks falling off the Mt. and the rams fighting. It sounds like 2x4's hitting together-and goes on for hours. Tom couldn't sleep that night and heard them butting their heads and counted that they hit 82 times! When they get fired up like that, it makes it hard to sleep at night because you want to go after them. I'm looking forward to the morning.

DAY 8

DAY 9

Frank Simpson is one of the better people I've had a chance to hunt with. I would highly recommend him to anyone who is looking for a Rocky Mt. sheep hunt.

My ram ended up being the Gold Metal ram for FNAWS, scoring 170 5/8.

* Not their real names.

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