“His name was Jeremiah Johnson, and they say he wanted to be a mountain man. The story goes that he was a man of proper wit and adventurous spirit, suited to the mountains. Nobody knows whereabouts he come from and don't seem to matter much. He was a young man and ghosty stories about the tall hills didn't scare him none.”



In pursuing the things I’ve have in life I’ve noticed a few patterns. The progression usually goes as follows; something piques my interest, I am captivated by it, I fail miserably for a while as I beat my head against suboptimal performance, I eventually realize some margin of success, I reach a plateau, and then I either lose interest or motivation, perhaps both. I think the underlying reason for this stems from the notion that perhaps it isn’t the thing I am after at all, but the process? I enjoy new things, new places, new challenges, overcoming hardships and accomplishing things I am uncertain if I am capable of. I don’t mean to measure success by tangible results or a certain “thing” having been attained either. For me asuccessful adventure is typically defined as one where:

1) I come home alive with all body parts intact,
2) I left the place in the same or better condition than when I found it
3) I learned something and became a better person
4) I had fun

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. So often we hear these clichés and we let them pass by without savoring the truth they have to offer. With greater investment comes greater reward. I am nearing the point in life where experience is starting to take the place of unbridled motivation and blind determination and I am not necessarily sure that is a good thing. The old man in me is more cautious and less likely to act on whims and instead defaults to making decisions based on my framework of past experiences which we all do of course. On one hand I like to say this is a net gain if I have developed sound judgment, but in reality I can’t escape the feeling that I am slowing down, getting soft, and losing strength in both body and mind. I think back to the many harrowing experiences and epics I’ve endured in the mountains and few things have taught me more than my close calls and “failures” that I was too naïve be scared of at the time.

What’s my point, you may be wondering at this junction in the ramble. For those that have suffered through my past trip reports you’ll know I can’t avoid philosophizing for at least a paragraph or two. In this case I will summarize with the following, this trip awakened something in me. Being the father of a 1.5 year old and functionally the sole income earner for our household has really limited my time and ability to engage in the things I love outside of work and family as of late. These days I am trying to make the most out of limited windows of opportunity and quite often the added stress makes the reward not worth the effort, or so it can feel. This trip was a spark, a push past a developing comfort zone back into an arena where I felt challenged, engaged, and alive more than just living for the first time in a while. It was so much more than just a grocery shopping trip and that is hard to put into words, photos can never tell that side of the story.




“It’s a life’s work to see yourself for what you really are and even then, you might be wrong. That is something I don’t want to be wrong about.”
-Cormac McCarthy in No Country for Old Men.





Back to the hunt.

We left our vantage point on the knoll above camp as the last of the light faded and made our way back to our tiny. We passed out as soon as our bags were zipped and slept like the dead.

We were anxious to get on the trail in the morning and got to it as sun rise hit the country but our packs kept us from moving too quickly. From the knoll we had spotted the two sheep from the night before we scanned the mountain top where we had seen them but it was barren. They had moved, which wasn’t unexpected. We trudged on, over the pass and into a glaciated valley with sweeping views of a larger river far below and a ripsaw of a ridge above us. Still many miles from the peak we’d seen the sheep on and still not knowing what they were, we had some decisions to make. Eventually we decided that before we descended from the hig pass we should drop our big packs and go light to poke around the micro terrain above us and then make a play at getting got the top of the peak we spotted the sheep on to see if they were still in the neighborhood. It seemed early in the trip to be devoting so much time to unknowns but at the same time we were fairly confident there were two rams somewhere across the valley and to borrow a concept from fishing, you shouldn’t leave sheep to find sheep.








The small drainage we were in climbed steeply and terminated at the toe of a pocket glacier above us. As we worked our way up the scree and talus, well above treeline at this point, we spooked a single ewe that was bedded down in gravel near a trickle of a creek coming off of the glacier. We hadn’t exposed ourselves to the entirety of the bowl above and chose a path behind a rock band to our right that kept us hidden from anything that may have been lingering in the small hanging valley. The only logical exit from the bowl was a notch in the ridge we had been paralleling and as it tapered out near its top we reached the bottle neck and peaked over the crest to see a dozen ewes and lambs making a hasty exit, no doubt alerted by the single ewe we had jumped below. They were at 40 yards and we locked eyes for a moment before they continued their escape onto a jagged precipice. We reclined and watched them scramble up the rocky, knife-edge ridge, the lambs dancing just as deftly as their veteran mothers. They weren’t running but rather confidently ambling along knowing that they were out of our reach, masters of their domain, fully confident in their position and distance from harm. They paused every dozen steps or so to survey the strange creatures looking back at them.

We continued on, dropping from the col we were at to cross an old terminal moraine before skirting a lake and gaining the lower flanks of the peak we that we had seen what we thought were rams on the night before. We started up a broad ridge that would lead in about 2500 feet to the top of the peak. The crest of this faint ridge was littered with sheep sign, beds, tracks, trails, and sheep shite was everywhere. The terrain dropped away on either side to the point where we couldn’t see it all and we paused at intervals to peak over the edge and see what lay below. Nothing materialized and we eventually topped out. From the top of the mountain there were three distinct ridges, the one we were on, one running due south, and the other running due north. We started down the southern ridge first, inspecting both sides as we went. We eventually reached a point where we had to decide to continue down this ridge which would likely involve several more hours of effort, or head back to the top to do a quick recon of the other ridges leaving the summit to see if the sheep were tucked somewhere just out of view higher up.

The ridge leading north was fairly narrow and we picked our way, slowly, quietly, along a small sheep trail just off the crest. We came to a small gendarme and wanted to get a peak around it before continuing. Andy was in the lead and started working from left to right around the rock formation as I did the same just uphill from him. I was in a slightly better position to slice the pie and as I eased around the rock trying to bite of small chunks of view as slowly as possible I picked up a white dot in a small saddle in the ridge far below. I froze and motioned to Andy to do the same. The rocks were blocking his view and he couldn’t see the sheep. I eased out a little farther and there was the second. This had to be our boys from the night before. They were 1000 yards off but I didn’t want to take any chances in spooking them so in slow motion keeping as much of me hidden as possible raised my binos and had a quick look. Rams. One was good sized. We had to get closer and put the big glass on them.

The next hour was agonizing as we crept down the ridge just off the crest being careful not to roll a single rock or make a sound. There was a stout breeze at our backs and we weren’t in danger of getting winded yet but we would be close to in-line with them by the time were in comfortable spotting and shooting range.

On our bellies now we crawled to the top of the ridge to get our first view of the sheep since we left the top. It was a sickening feeling to know they could have vacated the area as we crept along out of sight. To our relief they were still there and our position was good. With just heads and a scope above the ridgeline we put the glass on them and ranged then at about 250 yards. One was obviously too small. The other looked to be very close to full curl. From where we sat it also looked like he had at least one broken tip but from this distance it was extremely difficult to be certain. A wise hunter once told me that it is ideal to shoot a sheep that is legal by two standards in case you happen to misjudge one. After a closer look I was fairly confident that he wasn’t quite full curl, which is to be expected if a sheep is double broomed. I could see the close tip and it was clearly broken but the other was much harder to get a clean view of. I was fairly certain I could count eight growth rings as well, but that is a very inexact science and a dangerous basket to put all of your eggs in. We deliberated for what felt like an eternity. The rams were bedded down and didn’t seem to be going anywhere soon. They sat, ruminated, and continually scanned the terrain below them, never looking up. Danger comes from below or so they are trained.

We took turns looking through the scope and had all but given up not being able to see the far horn clearly enough to make the call when he finally turned and laid his head down looking straight towards us. His second tip was broken too, he was legal and it was time to make a play.

250 yards isn’t a long sheep shot by any means but we thought we could close a little more distance and up the odds of putting one on the money. The sheep were in a somewhat precarious position and in two or three short steps they could be in no-man’s-land on the side of the steep peak with no easy way to get to them even if we could find them again.

The plan was for me to cover them from this spot while Andy worked down the ridge to a lower vantage point from where he would take the shot assuming one presented. Andy left as I trained m crosshairs on the bedded ram and waited. The seconds passed like hours as I watched Andy crawl his way down the ridge in my peripheral vision while trying to keep my primary focus on the sheep. Suddenly for no reason, I hadn’t moved I swear, the larger ram, our target, locked eyes on me and stood up. I remained frozen and many agonizing minutes passed as the sheep stared me down, neither of us moving a muscle. Snot streamed down my face and my neck began to cramp from being frozen in the prone position. In my peripheral I saw Andy sliding up to the ridge but I could tell from my perspective above that it looked like his view was going to be obstructed at the point he had chosen to look over. Still not moving and watching the sheep watching me I saw Andy start to crawl back down, knowing that he couldn’t see them. He was close. As he moved the sheep busted him and looked away from me for a split second as they crouched to bolt. Their glance averted for a moment which presented a small window for a shot. I pulled the trigger.

He was off his feet instantly and struggled on the ground for a kick or two before standing back up. I launched another and he cratered back into his bed and didn’t move again. After so much calculation and observation the final events of the stalk all happened so quickly. I had to make a snap decision in matter of a second or two whether or not to take the shot and it is still hard to believe it call came together.

Andy I both stood from our respective perches on the ridge and pumped a victorious fist before scrambling down to our prize to pay respect and get to work. I really wanted Andy to shoot and my emotions were certainly mixed feeling elation at having a ram down but also a bit guilty for having to pull the trigger robbing Andy of that honor.
















We had done it. The king had fallen and we felt blessed beyond belief to the point that words were hard to find, so we settled for a big ole man hug.

I’ll hurry through the events of the next two days for the sake of, uh…brevity?

We boned out the meat and loaded up our day packs to cover the 5-6 miles back to our big packs where we would regroup and figure out what to do next. We rode the adrenaline high back to our gear and things got a lot harder from there. 50 pounds of meat and 30 pounds of head and horns had to get added to the 65 pounds of backpacks we had already. We stumbled, drunkenly at times back up and over the pass and camped at the site we had left that morning some 14 hours after having left.

I couldn’t be bothered with carrying my camera and/or using my camera on the stalk and so I don’t have a picture of him in one piece, which I regret. He was a beautiful sight and magnificent animal, as they all are.










You try smiling with 125lbs on your back.






Keeping stride with "the specimen" is no easy task





Casing the groceries back at camp








Sheep tenderloin in the frying pan, oh so sweet.





There is more to the story if you guys aren’t entirely bored yet.