Legendary Hunts

by Boone

  Photo from B&C Archives

  Bighorn Sheep, Scoring 200-1/8 points, Taken by Mavis M. Lorenz in Granite County, Montana, in 1993.

  Lady’s Day in the High Country

  By Mavis M. Lorenz

  22nd Big Game Awards Program

  “DAMN, DAMN, DAMN. I SHOULD HAVE TAKEN THAT LEAD RAM OF THE FIVE I SAW OPENING DAY,” I THOUGHT AS I PLANNED MY NEXT THREE DAYS OF HUNTING.

  I saw 25 or so rams, with at least 12 of them presenting good shots, but they all appeared too young. I was warned by sheep-wise hunters, outfitters, and game experts not to take the first ram I saw because they always look big to the novice hunter.

  I was a novice hunter but I spent considerable time learning about bighorn sheep. I studied videos about sheep behavior and learned all I could about field judging of trophy bighorn rams. I read masters’ theses from the University of Montana that reported the studies of bighorn sheep in my hunting permit district in Granite County, Montana. I picked the brains of as many knowledgeable people as would answer my questions. Still, I felt there was so much to learn in such a short time.

  Would I find the ram I hoped to find? What if I didn’t?

  After 18 years of unsuccessful attempts to draw a permit, this was my one and only chance. I would not be eligible to apply for another permit for seven years. By that time, I would be well over 70 years old and no longer able to climb mountains.

  My plan for the next three days of hunting was to climb to my spike camp (a tiny mountain tent with backpacking equipment), hunt the benches on the northwest side of the mountain, drop into the next drainage, hunt out the pockets on a south-facing drainage, on the third day, hunt down a long ridge back to the bottom.

  I left the pickup in the dark and started climbing the 3,000 feet to the top of the mountain where I hoped to find sheep. I moved slowly and did a lot of looking and listening. I reached a point on the ridge at 9 a.m., set up my spotting scope and examined the edges of the openings above me.

  I picked up four sheep in the scope. They were feeding away from me towards some benches near the top of the mountain. One ram looked like it deserved closer scrutiny. I decided to work my way up the mountain and position myself in order to locate the rams on the benches later in the day. I backed off the point and climbed up along a fringe of timber to a fallen fir free. The sun was starting to feel good, so I sat with my back against the downhill side of the log when I heard a rattle of balsam root leaves behind me.

  “Nuts, here comes another hunter,” I thought

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a ewe walking. It went around to the end of the log behind a Christmas tree-sized fir and stood 40 feet from me. It bleated softly and repeated it insistently. I heard the balsam leaves again. Mother ewe appeared and joined the first one. This was repeated and the pair became a trio. All this took place in a space of three or four minutes. The ewes nonchalantly moved across and down into some timber. They had no idea I was there.

  I gave the ewes a half-hour to get out of the vicinity so I wouldn’t spook them and started to put on my pack to move up the mountain. Just then, the five young rams trotted across the open hillside 150 yards above me. I waited for them to feed out of sight. Before they were gone, three more young rams appeared in the far corner of the hillside. I was surrounded by sheep. Every sheep in Rock Creek, Montana, seemed to feed between 10 a.m. and 1 p.m.

  I waited another half-hour and worked my way up through a line of trees to the timber A storm came in from the west so I hunkered down in a patch of young firs while the thunder grumbled. The rain didn’t amount to much, so I decided to explore a few grassy benches toward the top of the mountain. As I worked my way through the benches, another storm cell came across the mountain. I decided to move to my spike camp before the storm hit.

  I moved along too fast, not paying attention to my surroundings. Three magnificent rams stood up and stared at me from 40 to 50 yards. I had my hat in my left hand because I was hot and sweaty. My rifle was in my right hand. I remember thinking I didn’t want to drop my hat for fear the sudden movement would spook the rams. The hat was still in my left band as I brought my rifle up slowly and grasped the forearm. Which of the rams was the biggest? I couldn’t tell. They weren’t going to stand there much longer.

  “Come on, Mavis. Put your research and experience to work Make up your mind,” I thought.

  The middle ram turned and gave me a profile. That was it The ram’s horns matched the criteria I studied on videos. The size of the hole in the curl, the drop of the bottom of the curl below the jaw line, and the way it carried the mass of its base out to the fourth quarter told me this was a keeper. I didn’t dare move into a kneeling position so I took an offhand shot. I was close and didn’t want to shoot over the ram, so I held on its shoulder. I hardly remember squeezing the trigger.

  KAPOW! Down went the ram. I jacked in another cartridge, hit the safety, and climbed up to the ram. I hardly believed my eyes. The size of the ram looked huge with all those horns and large head.

  “Yahoo! I did it! I did it!” I yelled. I was shaking as I cut out the month and date on my permit. I must have figured it three ways to confirm the date was October 6, 1993.

  About the time I marked my permit all hell broke loose. The storm that had moved my way hit with thunder, lightning, snow, sleet, and rain. The wind howled and the three snags overhead groaned. It was too dark to take pictures. I had to work quickly since it was almost 3 p.m. A taxidermist had shown me how to properly skin out the animal for a full mount, so as the storm howled around me, I set to work I had the ram skinned with the heads and horns draped over a stump and the meat quartered in three hours.

  Darkness was falling at 6 p.m. when I started down the mountain. I alerted a local outfitter that I had taken a ram and would need help in the morning hauling everything off the mountain. Rain poured all night and I didn’t sleep much, worrying about the meat and cape. The ram wasn’t disturbed when we returned the next morning. Four inches of fresh snow had fallen in my spike camp and rain and sleet made the day miserable, but I was so happy I hardly noticed. My feet were barely touching the ground.

  After the 60-day drying period, my ram was scored by an Official Measurer of the Boone and Crockett Club at 200-1/8 points. Not bad for a woman who will never see 65 years of age again.

  Image from B&C Archives

  Original score chart for Mavis M. Lorenz’s bighorn sheep, which scores 200-1/8 points.

  Photo from B&C Archives

  Bighorn Sheep, Scoring 197-1/8 points, Taken by Armand H. Johnson in Sanders County, Montana. in 1979.

  Bighorn Vacation

  By Armand H. Johnson

  18th Big Game Awards Program

  I BEGAN APPLYING FOR A PERMIT TO HUNT BIGHORN SHEEP IN 1957. TWENTY-ONE YEARS LATER MY PERSISTENCE PAID OFF. IN AUGUST 1979, THE MONTANA DEPARTMENT OF FISH, WILDLIFE AND PARKS ISSUED ME A PERMIT TO HUNT THE CABINET MOUNTAINS SURROUNDING THOMPSON FALLS, MONTANA, AN AREA WELL-KNOWN FOR ITS SHEEP POPULATION.

  I live in Missoula (which is about 100 miles southeast of this area) making it possible for me to hunt on weekends with my son Kenton. In the month before I began hunting, Kenton and I mapped-out the area and decided that Priscilla Mountain would be our central point.

  Our first hunt was on September 23, 1979. After hunting four weekends, I was discouraged at not having seen more sheep. However, the opportunity to hunt bighorn sheep had come once in a lifetime for me, so I scheduled two full weeks of vacation to hunt. I hunted 12 out of 13 days of vacation.

  It was November and Kenton was in school, so I hunted alone. The days were warm, to the mid-forties, but cooled quickly as the sun went down. I decided that my camp trailer would be much more comfortable than camping-out for two weeks. On November 9, I pulled the trailer up the Thompson River to the West Fork and parked it in a camping area. This would serve as my home for the duration of my stay.

  The next morning I began an expedition which spanned ten days that I will never forg
et nor tire of telling. The mountains the sheep inhabit are rugged and rocky, with shale rock and steep ledges covering Priscilla Mountain. I glassed the area surrounding this mountain every day. That first day, I saw a ram with a 3/4 curl. It was exciting for me because I knew the sheep were there; it was just a matter of finding them.

  I met a hunter who told me of a bunch of sheep at a log landing near the highway. I went back to the Jeep and, after reaching the site, discovered the hunter wasn’t exaggerating. There were at least 50 sheep, just 50 feet away from me. I recorded their activities with my camera, watching for hours with awe.

  The morning of the 12th, I glassed four rams a mile above me. I climbed through the shale rock and ledges to get a closer look. However, when I got to a vantage point they were gone and I didn’t catch sight of them again. Across another ridge, I spotted a 3/4-curl ram. I watched as he worked his way across the ledges to within 50 yards of me. Quietly, I waited until he moved on. I hadn’t moved when I saw a little ram coming toward me, using the same route. He got within 40 feet of me and then just stood there. It seemed as though he had been run out of a bunch and was merely looking for a friend. He stayed with me as I worked my way down the ridge.

  The next few days I observed several sheep in their natural habitat, fighting, feeding, and bedding down. I spotted a couple of 3/4-curl rams and a few that were better than 3/4, but I decided to take pictures rather than shoot as I had plenty of hunting time left.

  Tuesday, November 13, I called home. Kenton needed help packing out a spike elk he had shot, so I returned home.

  I resumed my quest on Thursday morning, climbing the ledges and shale rock where I had seen a big ram a few days earlier. I had no luck, but I continued searching.

  Saturday was rainy and foggy, with visibility only about 100 feet. I climbed the slide rock to a small bench. The fog wasn’t lifting, and it was so cold that I built a fire, quite a feat since all the wood was wet. Just after noon the fog lifted, allowing me to glass the ridges. However, the sheep were under cover from the weather also.

  The rain held through the next day which meant fog again. By noon the dreary gloom started to move out of the valley but it was too late to climb into the canyons. I tried a trail I had used earlier that week, seeing a couple of 3/4-curl rams with a group of ewes and lambs. Darkness set in before I could reach the Jeep. The main ridge along this trail changes directions several times, going up and down. Because of the rain clouds I was unable to use the moonlight to see. After both sets of flashlight batteries had gone dim, and I had crossed my tracks in the half-inch of snow now on the ground, I decided it was time to build a fire and spend the night.

  I cut pine boughs and built a shelter between the fallen timber to stop the wind. I then cut more boughs to lie on, but this proved very uncomfortable due to the icicles frozen on the needles beneath me. The temperature had already dropped to about 20 degrees, so I kept a fire going and took short cat-naps throughout the night.

  Dawn was a welcome sight. I started walking at about 7:00 a.m., and found I was only about 100 yards from the ridge that led into the main ridge. I went back to the camper to eat and fix a lunch, starting again about 11:00 a.m.

  I drove east, following a four-wheel drive road. Then I followed sheep trails on foot which led me into the steep slopes and ledges the sheep love. Below me, I saw some sheep grazing in a meadow. I took off my pack board and set-up the spotting scope. I studied a couple of 3/4-curl rams in the bunch. Falling rocks above me turned my attention to a fairly nice ram coming down the trail. He came close to me and watched me for a few seconds, then turned and looked out over a ledge. I picked up the camera and rifle, hoping to see the large ram that had been so elusive. The rocks above me again stirred. This time another 3/4-curl ram and a ewe followed the trail. A few minutes later, the rocks started falling and a big ram followed where the other three had come down. I could see that his horns were better than a full curl, protruding well below his jaw. He was in no hurry, and luckily he hadn’t seen me.

  When he reached the trail the others had taken, he stopped and looked at me. Again I could see that he had exceptionally large horns. I wasted no time; this was the ram I had seen, and I didn’t want to risk losing him again. I shot, felling him instantly.

  I knew he was a very good ram, but he was better than I had anticipated. On November 20 I returned to Missoula and called Jim Ford, Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks District Supervisor, because he is an Official Measurer for the Boone and Crockett Club. Jim’s green-score of my ram was: left horn - 46 inches long, 16-5/8 inches around the base; right horn - 44-6/8 inches long, 16-4/8 inches around the base. The total green-score was 200-6/8 points by the Boone and Crockett scoring system.

  On January 22, 1980, Jim Ford measured the horns officially after the 60-day drying period required by the Boone and Crockett Club rules. His scoring showed my ram to be the largest recorded in Montana since 1955, and the biggest ram taken by a hunter since 1924. It was also a dream come true for me.

  Image from B&C Archives

  Original score chart for Armand H. Johnson’ bighorn sheep, which scores 197-1/8 points.

  Photo from B&C Archives

  Bighorn Sheep, Scoring 200-7/8 points, Taken by Lester A. Kish in Deer Lodge County, Montana, in 1990.

  Old Flare

  By Lester A. Kish

  21st Big Game Awards Program

  TO SAY THAT HUNTING IS A SPORT OF LUCK IS AN UNDERSTATEMENT. IN 1990,1 HAD THE GOOD FORTUNE TO DRAW A BIGHORN SHEEP PERMIT IN MONTANA’S UNIT 213, NEAR ANACONDA. WITH ODDS EXCEEDING 100 TO 1, JUST DRAWING THE PERMIT WAS AN INCREDIBLE STROKE OF LUCK.

  Unit 213 has a transplanted herd that originated from sheep trapped in Montana’s Sun River area. In a little over 20 years, the herd had become a producer of super rams, with the herd consisting of over 400 sheep.

  Then, late in the summer of 1991, the population crashed due to an epidemic of pasteurella pneumonia. Writer Duncan Gilchrist and I visited the area in February 1992. Range that supported upward of 150 rams during the winter of 1991 contained only 22 sheep. While later counts were a little more encouraging, the total herd had been reduced to about 30 percent of pre-pasteurella levels. In addition, the majority of the big rams perished during the epidemic.

  I would not be able to write this story if my permit were for 1991 since most of the big rams had died prior to the hunting season. What a difference a year makes.

  During August and September of 1990, I made several scouting trips to the area. Sheep were plentiful, and I was able to find the favored haunts of the rams. One day, more than six hours were spent watching a group of 14 rams. Two of the rams were huge. One sported a massive, deeply dropping, heavily broomed set of horns. The other ram was even more incredible. He had it all. Built like those of an argali, the horns were long, massive, relatively unbroomed, and flared. I would later learn that this ram had been observed, photographed, and even videotaped by Duncan Gilchrist and others during previous winters. The ram had aptly been nicknamed Flare. The shadows lengthened and darkness fell as I walked off the mountain. Sheep season was still three sleepless weeks away.

  September 15, 1990, finally arrived and with it the opening of the Montana sheep season. Ironically, I had scheduled my vacation for this date. Imagine, nine whole days to hunt ram.

  The weather was superb, though actually too warm during the first days of the season. My hunting partner, Jo, accompanied me the first two days. We saw lots of country and quite a few sheep, but nothing exceptional, so the hunt continued. I was glad that Jo had the opportunity to share the thrill of glassing for rams in the high country. Few people have been so fortunate.

  From the third day on, I would be hunting alone; Jo had to go back to work. Early that third morning, I climbed out of Lost Creek Canyon. From my vantage point, I could see an expanse of rock and timber. Occasionally a ram or two would appear briefly in an opening and then disappear. Some rams were respectable yet not tempting enough to make me want to end t
he hunt of a lifetime. Vivid memories of those giant rams seen during preseason scouting kept me from getting too excited about taking an average ram.

  That afternoon, I hiked out and moved camp to another area. I would concentrate on the area where I had earlier seen Flare. With camp moved, I did some hiking and scouting. Around dusk, several rams were spotted, miles away. While I could not be sure, I had a feeling that they might be the same bunch I had watched for six hours during the preseason. Would the big rams still be with them?

  For some reason, I did not get any sleep that night. I almost wore out the switch on my flashlight by checking the time every few minutes. At 4:00 a.m., I couldn’t stand the waiting so I got up and made some coffee.

  Soon after, flashlight in hand, I was hiking up the ridge toward the rams, hoping they were still bedded. I knew my intended approach well. I had worked and reworked the stalk during the sleepless night. The rams were approachable, provided that they stayed put.

  What were the odds that this was the same bunch of rams that I had glassed for hours during the preseason? Better yet, what were the odds that the old argali named Flare would be with them? It just had to be the same bunch. I knew it was the day for a big ram.

  The sky brightened. Soon, the first rays of morning sunshine would illuminate the neighboring peaks of the Pintlars. Spectacular scenery is usually available on demand when sheep hunting, and the Pintlars obliged each time I looked over my shoulder.

  Only the sheep hunter knows the inexorable lure of hunting the high country. While I had spent years stalking the Rockies for other mountain game, those experiences paled in comparison to this hunt. The sheep hunting mystique was real; Jack O’Connor was right. Once you contract sheep fever, you are a goner.