Legendary Hunts

by Boone

  We took photos as best we could where the goat lay, as dragging the goat back up to his bed was impossible. We took the cape and head off and let the body slip over the cliff. We clambered down the cliff to the goat’s body and continued to roll the carcass all the way down to the creek in the valley bottom. We quickly deboned the hindquarters and took out the back straps, packing as much as we could carry. The blowflies found us right away and we had to fight to keep the eggs out of the meat. We carried the meat to our packs by the boulders and made camp under the overhang of the largest one. We started a fire and walked back to the goat carcass to pull off a rack of ribs and cut some steaks from the front end. Two hours later, our socks were dry, and we were feasting on what we knew was a very large goat.

  Sunday morning we were well rested and ready for the long thrash back through the slide alder to get home. Five hours later, we made it to the truck and were on our way to Lawrence’s home. After unpacking, I skinned out the goat’s head and we green-scored the horns. Knowing that the horns would shrink a little with drying, we conservatively measured the horns rounding some of the measurements downward. After we added all the totals and took off the deductions we ended up with a score of 58-2/8 points. The size of the billy we had just shot started sinking in after we realized that the goat might be in contention for the World’s Record.

  After the compulsory 60-day drying period, an official measurer for the Boone and Crockett Club measured the horns. With an official score of 56-6/8 points, the goat ties the current World’s Record Rocky Mountain goat taken in 1949 in the Babine Mountains of British Columbia. What is intriguing is that the left horn had 1-1/8 inches broken off from the tip and could have scored even higher.

  NOTE: This trophy, the excellent adventure, and fair chase hunt for it were all contributing factors that led the 24th Awards Final Judges Panel to bestow the coveted Sagamore Hill Award to the hunter, Gernot Wober.

  Photo from B&C Archives

  Musk Ox, Scoring 126-2/8 Points, Taken by M.R. James near Kugaryuak River, Nunavut, in 2000.

  Our Way or No Way

  By M.R. James

  24th Big Game Awards Program

  “NO CLOSER!” CAUTIONED MY INUIT GUIDE CHARLIE BOLT, RAISING HIS RIFLE JUST IN CASE. “SHOOT NOW. SHOOT THE WHITE-HORNED BULL.”

  “Easier said than done,” I mumbled to myself. Over 50 yards of frozen, windswept tundra still stretched between us and the two huge musk ox that stood facing us, pawing at the snow menacingly while lowering their heavy-horned heads as if contemplating an imminent charge. What would have been a simple shot for any rifleman was next to impossible for a savvy bowhunter. Even if the buffeting crosswind miraculously failed to affect my arrow’s flight and accuracy, I knew from four decades of bowhunting experience that a frontal shot on such a large animal would be pure folly. Too much thick hair and hide, tough muscle, and dense bone stood between my shaving-sharp broadhead and the bull’s vitals. Somehow I had to cut the remaining distance by nearly half and work myself into position for a broadside shot — preferably without further provoking my obviously worried guide or the two agitated bulls. Fair chase bowhunting for musk ox, I was quickly discovering, can be an exercise in frustration. My hunting partner, Bob Ehle of Pennsylvania, and I had lost a full day of hunting to the fickle Arctic weather gods. Then, after locating two good bachelor bulls just after dawn on our first clear day afield, we parked the snow machines and began our stalk only to watch in stunned disbelief as the twin bulls instantly whirled and galloped away upon catching sight of us. Time after frustrating time throughout the long day, stalk after fruitless stalk, we tried and failed to move within good bow range. Fifty to 60 yards was as close as we could get. That’s tempting yardage, but impractical in bitter cold, wind-whipped shooting conditions. The last we saw of “our” two trophy bulls they were disappearing over a ridgeline a couple of miles away — still running!

  Leg weary, wind-burned, and emotionally drained, Bob and I returned to our comfy tent camp that night with a much better appreciation of the daunting task facing us. However, despite our disappointment, we agreed it hadn’t been worth the risk of wounding and losing one of those great shaggy beasts — or forcing our guides to finish off a poorly hit bull with a bullet. We’d do it our way or no way.

  The next morning we climbed into our enclosed sleds that were roped behind the guides’ snow machines and headed out across a great flat that resembled a snow-covered moonscape. Soon we cut the meandering trail of two big nomadic bulls made sometime the previous night. After a hurried and animated conference, our excited guides turned their snowmobiles to follow the tracks. One hour passed. Two. Three. The sunny but frigid morning slipped slowly away as we paralleled the bulls’ trail, our hopes soaring each time we approached a promising ridge, but falling each time we topped the rise only to see more empty tundra stretching endlessly ahead of us. It seemed as if we were following tundra phantoms, not flesh and blood creatures whose ancestors have tracked across these same icy wastelands since prehistoric times.

  Riding in a bouncing wooden sled across miles of frozen tundra is a bone-jarring, tooth-rattling experience. Our base camp was perhaps 90 to 100 miles from the small village of Kugluktuk on the shores of the Arctic Ocean — and how far we ranged from camp in our daily search for oomingmak, the bearded one, is anyone’s guess. All I knew was it would be a long hike back to civilization in the event of any mechanical breakdowns. But there was obvious comfort in hunting in pairs and in knowing a radio was our link to the outside world.

  It was late March. Already several days had passed since I winged north from my Montana home, overnighted in Yellowknife, and met my hunting companion and two other musk ox hunters who had also booked a hunt with veteran north country outfitter Fred Webb. Together we caught a morning flight to Coppermine to embark on what was an unforgettable adventure. I was discovering, just as every musk ox hunter I knew had told me, the appeal of this hunt lies in the overall experience. In this stark, frozen land. In the native guides whose knowledge of the Arctic and its wildlife is amazing. In testing oneself in an unfriendly environment where wind and bitter cold are constant companions. In finding a unique creature that is a true survivor in an inhospitable world, a special animal largely unchanged since Stone Age hunters pursued the forebears of these same beasts armed only with flint–tipped spears.

  Back to the present, our whining snowmobiles crested yet another ridge — and there they were! The two bulls, dark dots against a sea of frozen white, were plodding on perhaps a mile ahead. The Inuits quickly braked their machines and held a brief conference while Bob and I studied the distant bulls through our binoculars.

  Then we were off again, Bob and his guide veering to the left while Charlie steered his snowmobile in a looping arc to the right. Moments later we eased to a stop just below a ridgeline. As Charlie shouldered his pack and rifle, I stretched ride-stiffened muscles and pulled my bow once to make certain the rough ride or sub-zero cold hadn’t rendered it useless. And then we were moving to the top of the ridge and beyond, dropping into a shallow bowl where the bulls should appear.

  And suddenly the bulls were there. But this time there was no turning and running. This time when these two old bulls spotted us moving slowly down the frozen rise they simply stopped and turned to face us, waiting and watching without apparent concern. It wasn’t until we’d closed the distance to perhaps half a hundred yards that they began to paw the snow and shake their woolly heads. That’s precisely when Charlie readied his rifle and warned we’d moved close enough for me to shoot the white-horned bull.

  Turning, I shook my head. “Closer,” I said. “Can’t shoot. Too far.” And with each word I took another cautious step closer to the waiting bulls.

  Shaking his hooded head, Charlie moved after me. “Close enough,” he insisted. “Shoot now.”

  “Can’t,” I said again. “Too far.”

  At 40 yards I raised my tinted goggles and slipped the mitten off my shooting hand, slowly
easing to my knees to study the musk ox, with my worried guide crouching just behind me. The bulls still offered only an impossible head-on shot. Cautiously, I inched closer still, not taking my eyes from the shaggy apparitions looming before me, wispy guard hairs fluttering in the whipping crosswind.

  Although I would have preferred to close the distance by another 5 to 10 yards, I sensed this was as near as I could get without inviting real trouble. Staring at two agitated musk ox occasionally pawing the snow — with only some 100 feet of empty air between us — I couldn’t help but recall Fred Webb’s story of one rifle-toting client who had been charged, trampled, and injured when he violated a bull’s perceived “safety zone.” I certainly didn’t want to have to explain how I came to get hoofprints all over my snow parka.

  Speaking softly, I asked Charlie to move slowly to my left. If the bulls concentrated on my guide and turned to face him as he eased sideways, maybe I could get the broadside shot I needed. And the tactic worked perfectly, except when the bulls turned my white-horned bull was perfectly screened by his traveling companion. And even when Charlie moved behind me and edged to my right, the bigger bull wouldn’t turn far enough to present me with the shot I needed for a quick, clean kill. Talk about a frustrating standoff!

  As my mind raced for some solution, I spotted Bob and his guide watching the unfolding drama from a ridgeline maybe 150 yards away. A new idea struck me and I motioned Bob to circle around and approach from behind us. Within 10 minutes he was kneeling beside me, listening as I quickly explained what I had in mind while Charlie and Bob’s Inuit guide warily eyed the increasingly nervous bulls, rifles ready for instant action in case the bulls charged.

  Wishing Bob good luck, I carefully got to my feet and began sidling to my left. On cue, the two bulls turned as I moved and moments later I saw Bob draw, hold, and release. His arrow caught the second bull mid-body, angling forward. Immediately the mortally hit bull spun and lunged away in a spray of hoof-churned snow. My white-horned bull trailed close behind.

  Bob’s arrow quickly weakened the lumbering bull. He labored to the nearest ridgetop before pausing to bed down while his companion paced close beside him. Trailing quickly after them, Charlie and I ducked out of sight and crept closer. When I finally rose to peer over the ridge, Bob’s bull lay only 20 short yards away. My bull was standing just behind him, stubbornly refusing to leave. And when he turned and strode into the clear, he was perfectly broadside. My arrow struck him just behind the right foreleg, its 3-blade broadhead burying deep in the off shoulder.

  The huge white-horned bull spun in a tight circle and mere seconds later collapsed beside Bob’s bull. Our frustrating, memorable, once-in-a-lifetime Arctic adventure was over. Not only had we collected two great big game trophies, we’d done it our way — a very special way.

  Image from B&C Archives

  Original score chart for M.R. James’ musk ox, which scores 126-2/8 points.

  Photo from B&C Archives

  Bighorn Sheep, Scoring 204-7/8 points, Taken by James R. Weatherly in Granite County, Montana, in 1993.

  Twenty-Two Years Later

  By James R. Weatherly

  22nd Big Game Awards Program

  I MOVED TO MONTANA IN 1971 TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF GREAT HUNTING AND FISHING OPPORTUNITIES. EACH YEAR, I APPLIED FOR EVERY TAG AVAILABLE, INCLUDING BIGHORN SHEEP, MOOSE, AND ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT. IMAGINE MY SURPRISE WHEN IN AUGUST 1993 I RETURNED HOME TO FIND AN ENVELOPE FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF FISH, WILDLIFE AND PARKS WITH A PICTURE OF A BIGHORN SHEEP ON IT; 22 YEARS OF APPLICATIONS FINALLY PRODUCED A PERMIT.

  I knew the tag I drew was in an area with exceptionally large rams. I realized how little I knew about sheep hunting, so I prepared for the season by getting in physical shape, learning the territory and studying hunting techniques. I started an exercise program, watched sheep hunting videos and read numerous sheep hunting books. Five scouting trips were made prior to the season to learn about the hunting area and location of sheep. My friend Mike Moore volunteered to show me several areas where he observed sheep.

  Seven scouting trips later I was comfortable with my ability to find the rams. I located several record-book rams for which the Rock Creek drainage is famous. The season in this area ran from September 15 to October 31 which allowed ample time to find a trophy ram. I set a goal to spend the first month searching for a super ram that scored more than 190 points. Since the hunting area was within 50 miles of my home, I decided to hunt three days per week for the first three weeks and full time for the remaining three weeks of the season.

  The hike to the hunting area from the main Rock Creek Road required a three-mile trek up 2,400 feet each morning. Opening day brought pouring rain as I left my vehicle at 4:30 a.m. I neared the top of the ridge as the rain stopped. Occasional snow squalls made glassing for sheep difficult. I met a band of small rams at the edge of the timber and let them pass as I continued deeper into ram country. I sighted three more bands of sheep, including one herd that included a promising looking ram. Snow and poor light conditions made it impossible to properly judge the ram’s size.

  I made six additional trips to various parts of the mountain. On another hot afternoon, I was hunting alone and moving very slowly through the timber, scouting a new area. While watching a deer move through the trees below me, I noticed three rams staring in my direction. I rested my rifle against a tree and glassed the rams. A very large ram forced its way to the head of the band. Judging the left horn, I knew it was more than 190 points, and I instantly reached for my rifle. I was in very heavy timber with numerous limbs. I needed a solid rest to shoot through the small opening if the ram turned its head to allow me to verify the right horn. As I moved to the side for a rest, I was momentarily out of sight. The herd bolted.

  As the herd turned from me, I saw both sides of the big ram and it was well over 190 points. A dozen rams were suddenly around the big ram as they bolted through the timber. I never had a clear shot and followed the herd through three drainages but could not catch up to them again. As I passed the area where I first saw these rams I noticed they were bedded on the top of a rock cliff. I would have had serious problems retrieving the big ram by myself.

  I began to hear stories of sheep being taken by other hunters in Western Montana and began to wonder if I should lower my goals starting the second week of October. On October 9 I decided to visit the area where the big ram was last seen to determine if it had returned. I left Missoula about 3:30 a.m. to make sure I was on top of the mountain well before daylight to catch the big rams moving into the timber. Cold temperatures and three inches of snow were the conditions.

  As I reached the bottom of the first large clearing near the top of the ridge, I could barely see two animals through my binoculars near the top in the clearing. I saw several ewes and immature rams in the clearing on previous occasions and walked through the band in the dark one morning. I figured the two animals I saw were this band. Since I needed to climb in their direction to get to the big ram, I proceeded up the ridge towards the sheep. Light was coming, but the dark, overcast skies limited visibility.

  I eased up to the ridge and knew I was looking at two rams feeding in tall grass. I noticed three single trees on the ridge at even intervals, which would allow me to crawl out to the ridge to glass the sheep. From the first tree I could tell the lower ram was small but the upper ram would not lift its head from the grass.

  At the second tree I had a few quick views of the upper ram as it fed uphill, arriving at tree line about sunrise. The ram appeared to be very respectable, but I needed to get closer since I left my spotting scope in the truck to reduce my weight. As I reached the upper-most tree, I was at the same elevation as the sheep and 175 yards downwind. The upper ram finally raised its head and the size of its horns were startling.

  The ram turned around to look at the smaller ram and I verified its right horn was equal to the left. I did not attempt to score this ram as one look told me it was as good or better than any of the other
rams I viewed to date. I suddenly began to shake violently as I decided this was the sheep for which I waited 22 years.

  I realized I was freezing. The brisk wind blew through the light shirt I wore to climb the mountain. I put on my jacket and realized it was too cumbersome for shooting and took it off again. I removed my day pack and my fanny pack to get comfortable for my shot. I propped the rifle in the fork of the tree and found it impossible to get comfortable for a shot. If this sheep had been on a dead run, I’m sure I would have shot it without a second thought, but since I was given time to think, I was a nervous wreck. I settled myself, took careful aim, and squeezed off a round.

  The ram hunched up and turned straight away from me. All I could see was its rump and the back of its massive set of horns. I readied myself for a running shot if it bolted. The ram spun 180 degrees and faced me, shaking its head and attempting to rid itself of the effects of the bullet. The ram spun 180 degrees away from me and fell dead.

  I stood frozen in my shooting position for several moments, trying to comprehend that 60 days of apprehension had just come to an end with a viable trophy. I gathered my gear that was scattered around the tree and walked over to the ram. I stood in total awe at the size of this magnificent animal, knowing I would never experience anything like this again. A local outfitter helped me pack the ram off the mountain where we green scored it at more than 205 points.

  The taking of this ram was a great hunting experience and it allowed me to meet and associate with some of the finest sportsmen and sheep fanatics of our time. These sheep lovers donate countless hours and dollars to insure the viability of sheep hunting for future generations. The taking of this trophy caused me to read dozens of books on sheep hunting along with spending many hours on the mountain watching and filming sheep.