At seventy-eight years old, with two heart valve replacements, a pacemaker, and recent hip replacement you most likely would write off any thought of a backcountry hunt. My grandfather, Don Lovely, did in fact debate hanging up his rifle and retiring from the sport, but at the last minute decided to put in one last time. A few months later, I received a phone call from him exclaiming he drew a tag that he had been putting in for since 1978— forty-five years later, his time had finally come. The phone call left me feeling excited, astonished, and a bit weary, but damn eager—we were going bighorn sheep hunting in a highly coveted Montana unit.

The day Don drew the tag, he went to work. He spent countless hours marking up maps that were laid out all over his kitchen and living room, made day trips to the unit, spent time on Google Earth and OnX studying the ins and outs of the land, and made calls to biologists and friends who were familiar with the area and sheep behavior in it. Physically, he tried his hardest to train, but was met with the inability to build muscle, numbness in his feet, a decline in balance, and struggled to build power when he needed it due to his pacemaker capping his heart rate at 90 beats per minute. Thankfully, he is one tough SOB and had no intentions of stopping.

As September neared, my dad and I went out to scout the unit, seeing hundreds of elk on the way over. As we got closer, the mountains got big—really, really big. Inside the unit, wind rolled off ridges and giant gusts pushed us around. The combination of wind, vert, steep terrain and the enormity of ground within the unit made us uneasy—these were not great conditions for my grandpa. Plus, we did not see a single sheep. This hunt was going to be a chore, one I was looking forward to, but equally intimidated by.

Game time. We set out gathering up our gear; saddles and tack, trucks and trailers, horses and mules. Last minute tasks also included reloading bullets, checking to make sure Grandpa’s rifle was on, and stocking up on more freeze-dried meals and high calorie snacks. Mathew, my boyfriend, and I, hit the road with a trailer in tow. We received some unfortunate last-minute beta along the way that sheep numbers in the unit were at an all-time low due to pneumonia and wolves. We rolled into camp and were greeted by Don (grandpa,) Jack (brother), Pat (uncle) and Mike (dad.) We set up tents and tended to the livestock and over dinner compared notes from scouting. Our tracks crisscrossed and circled, covering the entirety of the unit. We had spent hours scouring for sheep and did not see a single one. No deer, or elk either. An unsettling sign indicating wolves have taken a toll on the wild game in the area. We climbed into our bedrolls with little hope of finding a ram inside the unit.

It felt like I had just shut my eyes when the wake-up call came; we boiled water for coffee and our freeze-dried breakfast pouches, then caked and saddled horses by headlamp. Our hopes were low, but efforts high as we split off in different directions to, again, get eyes on as much of the unit as possible. I led Grandpa Don’s horse alongside a big log, but he surprised me and hoisted himself up without the help, saying “This will be a good way to test out my new hip.” We set up the trail, covering lots of elevation, and taking in the views. A short hike up a point too steep for horses and a few hours of glassing with no luck, I laid down in the sunshine and shut my eyes for a nap. The morning disappeared as we snacked, glassed, and combed the mountainsides for sheep before eventually heading back to camp. Pat, always an athlete, had gone on a long hike and once back at camp shared his success—he found six rams. A new sense of excitement filled us.

With a few hours left of daylight, a couple of us headed out on horses to figure out the best route to get my grandpa to the sheep the following day. He stayed back to rest and recover from scouting earlier. After a few trials and errors, we found what seemed like a good route. I was smiling ear to ear the entire ride up. As my mule, Whiskey, picked his way over rocks, through creeks, and up narrow trails etched into steep hillsides, I gaped at the infinite mountains surrounding us. We rode by waterfalls, mountain goats, and a black bear—who stood up on his hinds to watch us pass by. As we neared the end of treeline, it began to feel like we were on a different planet. We made our way up a thin dirt trail, surrounded by shale in every direction. Upon cresting the ridge, we were met with intense winds; Mathew and I stayed put and held onto the stock while my dad took off climbing a rocky spine. As the sky turned vibrant oranges and reds, he made his way back towards us, “I just put a bunch of rams to bed.” he whispered. We rode back to camp in the dark, trusting our rides to be steady and sturdy through the gnarly, steep terrain, eager for the sun to rise in the morning.

Adrenaline began pulsing through me the second my eyes flitted open. It was organized chaos as we got ready. Whiskey was the fastest in the group so he and I led the way with a packhorse in tow. I looked back at our crew to find looks of determination plastered on their faces. At this time we knew it was going to be a big day, but now looking back, we really had no idea just how big. At 7,040 feet, we hit a spring—our last chance for water. Another six hundred feet in elevation and we were at treeline—the last possible place to tie up horses. My grandpa and I rode up another couple hundred feet in elevation and were met with the same awful winds that were there the evening before. I gave him a big hug, wishing him luck, then took his horse back down while he began climbing up with Mike and Pat. Squinting to keep the dust from blowing in my eyes, I smiled, looking back up to watch him and his sons do what they love most, hunt.

Jack, Mathew, and I battened down the hatches with our gear and stock, then hiked to a spot where we could watch. We witnessed through binoculars what seemed to be a very slow and unforgiving grind. They moved farther up than expected, out of our sight. The ripping wind made it impossible to hear gunshots, there was no phone service to check in on them, and our patience was dwindling, so we grabbed the pack frames and decided to go catch them.

It was less of a hike and more of climb; teetering from one rock to another, oftentimes on hands and knees. The wind was the worst we had ever felt, knocking not just me, but also 200 pound men to the ground. The sheep had grazed away and were now much further than originally anticipated, but the occasional glimpse of them kept us moving upwards. As we made our way, the looks of determination blended with worry and a sense of overwhelm. We were in deep; a long way from the horses, in what one would call ‘no man’s land.’ The winds would prevent any chance of a helicopter coming in case of an emergency and the only way down was back through the extremely steep and technical rocky mountainside. My grandpa was losing steam and we were all on high alert—ready to catch him when the wind or rocks knocked him down. He had about twenty feet in him before a break was required. Taking time to stop and catch his breath often, he never once complained or mentioned quitting, so we all continued to trek on.

With tight grips, I watched as my dad and brother grabbed on to Grandpa Don and hunkered down as a gust engulfed us all. Hats and other loose objects soared high into the air. My cheeks hurt from my backpack straps smacking my face over and over. Our eyes and mouths were full of dust. It was horrible... But the rams were close, so kept on. At 8,400 feet we caught up with rams, some of which were bedded down. Grandpa dialed in the yardage and set up a rest—I held my breath and waited, my eyes glued to the herd. What felt like forever, but was probably just a few minutes later, he lowered his gun. The wind was blowing so hard it was impossible to keep the gun from moving, preventing a steady shot. He had to try a different location.

I watched nervously as he stealthily began to inch closer, with Jack on one arm, Pat on the other, and Mathew close behind carrying his rifle. About twenty minutes later, he was hunkered below an outcropping with my dad. The wind was less violent, but it still took trying out two or three different rests until he could get steady. The process was slow and the odds of the sheep staying put felt slim. I remember saying a prayer, and soon after watched as my grandpa squeezed the trigger with confidence. Within seconds of the gunshot, the ram hit the ground, and cheer erupted! It was the best moment; filled with wide smiles, hugs, high-fives, and tears in our eyes. Utter disbelief filled us—what he had just accomplished is truly indescribable (as much as I’ve tried with this piece.)

The ram was a beautiful broomed out bruiser, a once in a lifetime sheep. We snapped some photos and went to work caping him out. Despite the quarters weighing much less than the elk we are typically packing out, this was one of the most challenging pack-outs we have had. The wind gusts hit 100 miles per hour—our packs and gear blew in every direction. We chased down what we could, but other items skyrocketed hundreds of feet into the air before getting pushed miles away. We hoped to make it out by dark and continued to pray for my Grandpa’s safety. The steep and rocky terrain made the trip down just as long as the one up. We took turns leapfrogging ahead, dropping the heavy packs, then going back to walk with Grandpa. Oftentimes, hand-in-hand, using one another to balance. Mike states, the best part of the day was “Watching Grandpa’s butt hit the saddle.” With a lot of grit and determination, it did. We made it out with everybody in one piece, a hell of a story to tell, and sheep meat to feast on.

The opportunity to accompany my grandfather on his hunt is not something I take lightly. It was not only an experience I will forever cherish, but truly changed my perspective. Witnessing his ability to dissociate himself from his pain and ailments proved what a strong mind is capable of. Nothing holds you back more than yourself. On this hunt he had no excuses, no complaints—just willpower. I strive to have his strength and to still be doing what I love at his age. My grandpa was with me when I shot my first buck at twelve years old, so it feels extra special to have been by his side for this—what he has stated was his last hunt. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if I get a call in a few months telling me about this year’s tags…