Back in 2006, it was a toss-up between the Northwest Territories and the Yukon when it came down to deciding on a province to hunt my first Dall sheep. I went with the Yukon. The decision proved to be a wise one, as I came home with a great ram and a lifelong sheep fever affliction. Although my goal of harvesting a ram had been fulfilled, I still dreamt of traveling to the NWT to hunt the Mackenzie Mountains.
Before I booked a hunt, I connected with an outfitter in the NWT. The outfit had changed hands since my initial research in 2006, but the area continued producing massive rams and repeat clients. I was ecstatic to hear from Tavis Molnar of Arctic Red River Outfitters that there was one spot available for the early hunt. With the deposit in the mail the following week I couldn’t believe it was real... I was finally going to Arctic Red!
2014 came fast, and I attended the Wild Sheep Foundation’s Sheep Show in Reno as I do every year. Over the weekend, I had many conversations and drinks with the guys from Arctic Red. Those conversations, as well as excitement from friends Mark Seacat, Adam and Cam Foss, and Steven Drake, all of whom had been to ARRO before, had me pumped to say the least!
With the conventions behind me, and about four months until departure we began the process of getting into sheep shape. Our workout schedule would be the usual one, build muscle and strength, followed by several weeks of hiking with heavy packs. My wife, Jamie, and I started off strong with the training, but about two weeks in I injured my left quadricep muscle. After a few calls to a couple of doctor buddies I took it easy to heal the tear. I slowly began to ramp up the workouts and weight in the pack. A couple of weeks later, the muscle was fully recovered with only slight soreness. We finished the training strong and the departure date was finally upon us.
The itinerary was insane; six planes to get from Nevada to sheep country. At our stop in Edmonton, we met up with the Seacat crew. The next couple of plane rides were filled with coffee, jokes and catching up with friends.
We reached Norman Wells and sorted our gear to board the Twin Otter for the final flight into base camp. It was on this flight that I saw the Mackenzie’s for the first time. I couldn’t wait to be deep in those mountains glassing for sheep.
Everyone at camp made us feel very welcome and at home, but our guides were waiting for us at a cabin next to a lake on a high saddle. We threw the gear in the plane, belted ourselves in and once again were in the air.
The view of the landscape was unbelievable from the air. The mountains looked impossible to navigate by foot, appearing completely vertical from the valley floor to the peaks. Rain began to streak the windshield of the plane.
"Welcome back to sheep country," I thought.
We flew over a few more jagged peaks and suddenly the plane banked, dropping us into a beautiful valley. I was in awe as we approached an aqua colored lake in a high saddle. Our guides, Kent Robertson and Seth Duncan helped us unload our gear and we immediately started planning the hunt strategy.
The following day was July 15, opening day for Dall sheep in the NWT. We decided that we would pack enough gear for ten days and start our journey. With loaded packs we made our way down the valley, stopping often to glass the green slopes and dark shale for white rams.
Huge drainages poured into the sides of the glacier-cut valleys. Sheep seemed to be everywhere. We saw several rams at 8-9 years old. They would be shooters in other concessions, but not here. Tavis manages for older rams - ten years and older. A couple of them really looked good but we could only count eight or nine rings. It’s tough to pass a sheep of that caliber but it is for the good of the concession and for the species.
The weather was that typical of sheep country; short sleeves one minute, rain gear the next. Whether it was under our feet or coming from the sky, water was a constant reminder that quality gear will make or break a hunt. We awoke one morning to snow on the peaks, mind you that it was July, but when you’re 60 miles south of the Arctic Circle snow is possible year round.
As they often do for me on a sheep hunt, the days seemed to meld into one another. Each day we pounded out around 10 miles and glassed for hours.The sun would set early in the morning but darkness would never fall. We would sometimes glass until midnight, having to force ourselves to grab a quick Mountain House and retire to our bags. We never really got tired as long as we were moving or glassing. You don’t realize what you are capable of until you step outside of your normal routine and environment.
One morning, we spotted what appeared to be an old and very long horned ram in a high pass. We blazed up the mountain to get the scope on what I thought would be my ram. Kent studied the ram and told me to take a look.This ram was pushing 40 inches, and I wanted him, though to my disappointment, the ram was only eight.
Rain began to pour from the sky and at that moment I had one of the lows on the emotional roller coaster sheep hunting can be. From here, Kent said we were headed to a camp he despised - it was full of mosquitos and marshy.
“Great, can’t wait!” I said. We laughed and pushed onward.
About halfway to “mosquito camp” we picked up a little friend. A red fox started following us closely. It was obvious he had never seen a human before because he had no fear. He came within six feet of us and rolled in the grass like a puppy vying for attention. It is the little things like that that make me smile and lift my spirits when I’m tired and sore. That fox reminded me what’s so special about places like the NWT. It is untouched and hasn’t been defiled by man and his industry.
Mosquito camp wasn’t that bad, I actually rested quite well there. Amazing what eight hours of sleep and a Mountain House spiked with Ramen noodles will do for you!
After breakfast and coffee we were once again pounding the ground and glassing the slopes, holding strong to the commitment of finding an old ram. A few miles down the trail we glassed some sheep on a mountain in the distance and one looked promising.
The temperature was rising as we sloshed through marshy grassland and mosquito-infested willows. The humidity was getting unbearable. We finally made it to the base of the mountain and immediately started glassing. In no time, we began picking sheep out of the cliffs. This mountain was basically one giant shale pile with cliffs tearing through the surface providing just enough shade for the sheep.
We spotted a large ram and counted nine rings. I was seriously beginning to question the whole “ten year old or better” plan when Kent smiled and said, “Check out this old ram.” Looking through his scope I saw a heavy, low slung old warrior. I knew we would be making a play for this sheep.
We had trouble counting his rings due to heatwaves, but Kent estimated the ram to be between ten and 12 years old, and Seth and I concurred. He was lying on a small bench with a spring coming out of the rocks above him, and a mineral lick on an adjacent wall. We watched as the old ram would drink, lick, scratch his back and finally bed down right in the water. The spring was raining down on him from the rocks above, keeping him cool. The ram finally fell asleep and we took this opportunity to move through the trees to get into shooting position.
Kent and I stalked to within 310 yards of the ram while Jamie and Seth stayed back to keep an eye on the entire mountain. At his point, the ram had moved out of his bed and ended up in the cliffs with only his horns visible to us. The rangefinder read 300 yards with a 35 degree incline. I dialed my scope accordingly and waited.
Almost 30 minutes passed and I began to get uncomfortable in the position I was in looking steeply up at the mountain. Just as I was about to reposition Kent told me to get ready that the ram was about to move. A smaller ram and a lamb were moving toward the old ram and it was making him nervous.
I found him in my scope as he stood, and with a brief glance at his headgear I confirmed he was my ram. I slowly squeezed the trigger and heard a loud crack. To my surprise Kent calmly said “you missed.”
I honestly thought that he was joking and looked at him to see if he was laughing. He wasn’t. I immediately cycled another round and found the ram in my scope once again, I asked Kent where I hit and he said right over him.
I knew I hadn’t dialed the scope correctly, so instead of adjusting the scope I aimed for the center of the lower third of the ram and squeezed again. This time the sound was different - the familiar wallop of a direct hit.
As I looked up I saw the ram cartwheeling. He came to rest in the middle of an almost vertical shale slide. I looked at Kent who was wearing a huge smile, and I began to laugh. That is the point in the hunt where you have the adrenaline high of being successful, but at the same time a pit in your stomach because it is over.
Jamie and Seth hiked up to us and after some hugs and handshakes we hiked up the steep shale to my ram. Upon reaching him I did what I always do, I looked the ram over and simply enjoyed every detail of him. Everything about this old ram was rugged, from his battered horns to the scars on his face and hooves. He was a true warrior and survivor, ten years old with all of the characteristics that I had envisioned.
I looked at the others and thanked them all, knowing that this hunt was just as much their success as it was mine. We pulled it off as a team. Now all there was to do was admire him and get him broken down and into the packs. But most of all we needed to be thankful and respect him.
We then got a radio call from Tavis. He was a few miles out in his super cub and was going to gives us an air drop. Kent gave him our location and in no time he came buzzing around the mountain and found where we had left our gear. He dropped homemade lasagna, cookies and pie carefully packed in cardboard boxes cushioned by egg cartons and newspaper. Talk about service!
It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when we started down the mountain. After an hour or so of non-stop grinding we reached our camp spot for the night. Packs were unloaded and a fire was made. We roasted the meat over the open fire on willow sticks, with just a touch of steak seasoning. It was the best meat I had ever eaten.
The trek back to the original cabin seemed to pass quickly, with all of us telling jokes and reliving this hunt and others. We were all happy to reach the shelter and be able to sleep in bunks and consume large amounts of food and coffee. We heard the floatplane rumbling up the valley; this was our ride back to base camp. The couple of days at base camp were a great time talking with other hunters, guides and crew, and more wonderful food and coffee. There may have been a few cocktails in the evenings as well.
The Twin Otter arrived at camp to pick us up and drop off the next group of hunters. I noticed how clean their gear was and how nice their clothes and boots looked, just as ours did 12 days prior. I wondered if they were seasoned sheep hunters, or guys who had no idea of what they were about to experience. They had that eager look in their eyes, the look of excitement and anticipation for the adventure. As we boarded the plane with muddy boots and bloody gear we wore a calm look of satisfaction.