The Sheep Guide  

                                      By:   Timm Rawlins

I’ll never forget the first Bighorn sheep hunt I was involved in.  It took place in the wilds of Alaska.  I was a young whippersnapper, wet behind the ears, scared...green.  I was also the guide. This was the cause of great anxiety for my first victim; a young, red headed fellow named Randy. He was also green, which is not unusual for people who have just experienced their first landing in a bush plane. It is not uncommon for guides to tease hunters at a time like this: “Thanks for flying ‘Sc-aire Alaska.’  Did you enjoy your fright?  Har!” Sheep guides have a coarse sense of humor.  Got quite a laugh too, although not from Randy.  But Dahl sheep hunting has been known to create strong bonds between men, to strengthen underdeveloped character traits. And though the beginning of this hunt would see us as naive, inexperienced, frightened young men, the last day we would emerge as two hardened, experienced, frightened young men.

The only thing I knew for sure about hunting sheep was; try to sneak up on them from above, if you can, instead of from below where they are sure to see you coming. All good sheep guides do this, or so I heard.

The majority of our hunt was fairly uneventful.  We scoured vast sectors of rugged, unforgiving country that produced one bunch of elusive rams, several blisters and an intense desire to forget hunting and take up bowling.  As the week progressed we hunted harder but without success.  We began to lose hope until the last day when things began to go our way.

Mustering all of our waning strength, we began climbing to the top of the mountains behind our little camp.  It was rough.  Randy had a wrap on his knee and was now walking with a limp.  We were running out of food.  Our diet was taking its’ toll on his digestive system.  Still he climbed with the renewed vigor of a man possessed with the knowledge that sheep backstrap is better than peanut butter and jelly pancake sandwiches.  He was in the mood to kill.

From high above, the creek that flowed by our camp looked like a tiny ribbon next to a dot in the landscape; the dot was the airstrip.  We couldn't even see the tent.  When we finally reached the top we looked over the other side into a valley shaped like a huge green bowl surrounded by jagged peaks, the highest of which we were on.  A bunch of rams were feeding about a mile below us.  We were ecstatic.  This time we were not only going to drop down to them we were coming from the highest point possible.  Perfect. 

Although we could have crossed over the mountain from an easier spot, as the guide I knew it was my job to make things as difficult as possible.  I set about doing just that. Crawling around huge, angry, jutting, jagged peaks we reached the highest point and set about dropping over the top. Once over the top I stepped on a slick piece of ice and shot out of sight like a frightened hockey puck towards what I just knew was a precipice.  

           As I careened down the cliff-like slope towards sure death, a funny thing happened... I stopped. It was a riot. Actually I’m sure several funny things happened but I only noticed the one.  A sheep guide has a coarse sense of humor, but not that coarse.

Randy was nowhere to be seen, and my only thought concerning him was, boy, I sure hope he doesn't try to go this way.  Besides being slick and steep, the mountainside I was clinging to was hidden from his view.  Laying flat on my belly, which ain't easy if you're more vertical than horizontal, I was able to perform sort of a combination, belly crawl, crabwalk, employing the use of my fingers, toes, elbows and face.  I struggled over to a little rock outcropping where I was able to rest and review my situation.

The fact that I made it to safety was of little comfort when I realized I couldn't go up or sideways, and as far as I could see, down looked ridiculous. Only a fool would try going down.  I decided to go down. My rifle had managed to stay slung on my back so to lighten the load, I removed it and heaved that sucker toward the bottom of the precipice. Then I took my backpack off and hurled it as hard as I could without losing my balance.

One could only imagine the exhilaration Randy felt from high atop the ridge, peering down to try to catch a glimpse of his guide, only to see my rifle and backpack go hurling down the mountain end over end.  He didn't know what to do but later he did confide in me that his once dormant digestive system sprang to life and he was forced to take his mind off my predicament and concentrate on his own for a short while.

Meanwhile, free of my cumbersome outfit, I began my descent.  It was the most arduous task I had ever encountered on a hunting trip, other than the time I had to tell a hunter that I'd lost his moose. ("You WHAT?!”) Terrified, I clawed my way down inch by inch clinging passionately to the side of the mountain, moving only the parts of me that were absolutely vital to a very slow descent, mainly my toes and fingers but sometimes my chin and even my nose.  Panting like a rabid hyena, I tried not to inhale a lot of rocks while pleading desperately to Jehovah God: "Please, oh please, deliver me from mine enemy, the precipice, and I promise to give up at least one, possibly several bad habits to be determined at a future date, if there is one."  Knowing that big game guides were, under no circumstances, allowed to cry and coming perilously close, I was overjoyed to finally reach a little bench where I was able to regain my composure along with my rifle and backpack.

           A little while later Randy showed up having sauntered down a gentle slope void of precipices and big, ugly, icy rocks.  It was just like him to take the easy way out.  Nevertheless, no two men were ever as happy to see each other.  We almost hugged.  Very little, if any hugging goes on in hunting camps unless something which is outstanding or very peculiar in a certain species is killed, which in this case it wasn't. 

We compared notes on our experience with the enthusiasm of two long lost brothers who had just been reunited.  Then we decided to go kill us a ram.  It was a nice ram too.  Full curl, heavy bases, broomed tips. (That's sheep guide talk) Thus, my sheep guiding career started and almost ended with a textbook hunt.