Editor's Note: This essay appears with permission from Eastmans' Bow Hunting Journal in its entirety and as originally published in the July/August 2014 issue. To subscribe to EBJ, click here.

To me, the wilderness of Alaska carries infamy rivaled by few other places in North America. The name itself instills visions of rugged mountains draped by icy blue glaciers that seemingly stretch forever, gargantuan moose munching on stands of exploding orange willows, strong runs of salmon hurdling steep falls, caribou streaming along their annual migratory route and noble Dall’s sheep roaming their high mountain precipices – wild animals living in a wild landscape.

From O'Connor to Adams, accounts from hunting legends past affixed the dream of hunting Alaska constantly in my mind. So, there was little hesitation when a friend suggested I apply for sheep in the draw lottery. Knowing that pulling the tag was unlikely, the adventure conjured by the possibility was still worth it in itself.

Well, lightning struck and a late season archery sheep tag in a hard to draw unit was in my name. The only thing I counted on was unpredictable weather and a great time.

Before I knew it, eight months of preparation and anticipation had flown by and it was September 30th, the day before the archery season opened for that unit. Backpacks were loaded to the gills with food and gear for the ten-day season. Freelance Outdoor Adventures guides John Rydeen, Thomas Kincheloe, great hunting partner/photographer Steven Drake and I hit the trail.

At mile 11, the country opened to reveal the most ruggedly steep mountains I'd yet to lay eyes on. The taste of crisp mountain air and a skyward glance to the towering peaks above confirmed we were in sheep country.

Five miles later, we finally made it to our base camp. We hoped a stand of cottonwoods in an open glacial valley would offer protection from both the elements and suspicious sheep eyes above. After eight hours of exertion, sleep came easy.

There's always something special about the first day of a season, especially in a place you've never hunted. This was no different. Right off the bat, we picked out three…four…five rams. The largest had all the qualities of an old warrior with 12 dark age rings stacked to his bases, a heavily broomed left side, blocky face and pot belly. Truly the king of the mountain, he sat atop a thin spine of rock, soaking up rays from a fading Alaskan sun. With his loyal subjects scattered in every direction, a stalk wasn't feasible. So we watched, waited and readied ourselves for the challenge now before us.

Patience for the perfect opportunity seems to be critical when archery hunting sheep. Fooling the ears, eyes and nose of a wise, old ram is no easy task. To add to it, the rams continued to live in the most rugged portion of the mountain, and though they navigated the snow-slicked cliffs and loose shale with ease, a navigable route above was impossible for us mere mortals.

Day after nearly identical day blended together as we settled into a steady routine. We'd relocate the sheep in the morning and watch them all day, quietly hoping they'd move into a workable location.

On day four, as we stretched out for a longer tour to search for alternative routes, we stumbled across the fuselage of an old bush plane. The cold lines of bent metal against a backdrop of jagged, snow-capped mountains served as a stark reminder of the unforgiving side of nature. Out here, it seemed as though a wrong move or storm cell materializing in an instant can be the difference between flying high and crashing hard. If nothing else, our sprits remained high even as we watched the heavy 12-year-old and his fellow bandmates work their way to the skyline and evaporate into the fog closing around them.

Our good luck with the weather didn't hold out and the full brunt of bad weather rolled in – blasting wind, driving snow and relentless fog. With conditions going from bad to worse, we were confined to the tent for the majority of the next day. Being patient and sitting out a weather day seems to be a part of passing the mental test of the mountains. We enjoyed helpings of freeze-dried breakfast skillet burritos. We joked that without a doubt, our camp served the best breakfast burritos in the Chugach, knowing that the number of hunters gutting out the poor weather had to be few.

With just two days left in the hunt and the season, we needed to push on. We hadn't seen the old broomer in two full days now but each of us had our own mantra that kept us going. We knew our trip was a success by just existing up there and continuing to hunt hard, whether or not the ram turned up. 

A fellow bowhunter who'd done the hunt the year before lent me his ice ax, assuring he wouldn't go back up there without one. It served as a lifeline when scrambling for purchase in steep, frozen rock and maybe more importantly, as a token from my friend to keep climbing, keep pushing and not give up. Little did I know how important that would be as the final days of the hunt wound down.

That night in our tent, Steven mentioned that the best hunts end in the final moments of the last day. We clung to those words with nine-day-old images of the 12-year-old ram still fresh in our minds and live on our digital camera screens.

As we began up the creek the final morning, we thought about all that had transpired over the last ten days and joked about the number of times we'd crossed the same creek. Shaking us from our routine, Steven announced the sighting of two younger rams scaling a familiar rock face much lower on the mountain. They were both three-year-olds. A quick search revealed three more off-white figures in a patchy white world. We couldn't believe our eyes. It was him and he was low!

The combination of the rams being in a stalkable location and the fact that it was halfway through the last day of the season provided all the urgency I needed. I cinched up my pack and began charging through the mid-calf snow to get above the sheep.

I moved in blindly on the backside of the ridge and peeked over at a rock we'd landmarked from the valley floor. As I slung my pack off and swallowed a few deep gulps of air, I brought my binoculars to my eyes, rapidly scanning for the rams a fair distance below. At a mere 80 yards, the sight of five white bodies filling the lens frame completely jolted me. After watching them for the better part of six days it seemed like I could almost touch them they were so close.

I scrambled to remove my bow from my pack and nock an arrow. The rams angled through a rock-jumbled face as they fed uphill and I aimed to meet them at the height of the land. I slipped off the backside of the ridge and closed the final distance. Rising above a rock on the skyline, I punched the rangefinder and drew.

As if on cue, the broomed 12 year old cleared a younger ram. I battled my 50-yard pin to settle on the ram's vitals, sent the arrow and watched it disappear in his chest. The fatally hit ram bailed off the ridge into a labyrinth of hellish cliffs.

Still contemplating whether what had just transpired was a dream, I looked to the valley below and let out a "Woooohoooo!" After brief pause, I was answered by Steven, who'd just witnessed the action unfold.

We began taking up the obvious blood trail, though we found there was just enough snow to give the rock a Teflon property, but not enough to dig in trustworthy footholds. The excitement of letting loose an arrow and the danger of repercussions from a misplaced step combined with dizzying amounts of adrenaline in our bloodstreams making for an unforgettable experience. 

Wrapping my hands around rough, ring-stacked horns of an old Chugach warrior is something I dreamed of doing thousands of times leading up to the hunt and probably another thousand since we found him on the first day. It's difficult to capture and reflect on all that led up to this point – the effort, the ups and downs and the physical and mental struggle. Rare moments like this are what I live for.

Loaded with meat, horns, cape and camp, we hit the trail the next morning. The miles trickled by and the monotony of pounding boot leather to tundra provided the perfect opportunity to reflect on our adventure. What we'd accomplished as a team hadn't quite sunk in yet and maybe it never will. We knew one thing for sure, our 12 days in Alaska was an adventure we'll never forget.

Photography by: Steven Drake | Seacat Creative