I Arrowed the World-Record Bighorn with a $25 Sheep Tag

This story, “World Record Ram,” appeared in the November 1970 issue of Outdoor Life.

My respect for bighorn sheep is enormous. As far as I’m concerned, no animal has better eyesight or a greater ability to elude the hunter. The odds on merely seeing a legal ram, much less killing one, are stacked against the average big-game hunter. Sightings of legal rams are few and far between because there are so few of the animals and because sheep habitat is rough and remote wilderness. It’s work of the hardest and most dangerous kind to climb up among the crags and ledges in sheep country. A man has to love it up there, or he has little chance of being a successful sheep hunter.

A desire to kill a trophy ram with bow and arrow has to border on the ridiculous. When I first set that goal for myself I began to wonder whether I was crazy. I knew that only one arrow-killed bighorn ram had ever made the Pope and Young Club’s list of trophy game killed by archers. That ram was taken in September 1962 near the north fork of the Saskatchewan River in Alberta, Canada, by Larry Jones of Eden, Utah. It is probable that very few bighorn rams of any size have ever been felled by arrows in the United States.

My dream of driving a broadhead into a bighorn began about 1960. I had seen a few sheep during the winter in the mountains near Livingston, Montana, my home town. I’d hunted them unsuccessfully with a rifle, and I had also tried to stalk them during archery hunts.

In 1968 I decided that there was only one way for me to take a ram with an arrow. I would have to concentrate exclusively on achieving that goal. I would plan a weeklong hunt. I would schedule it for a period when the sheep bands would be easiest to find. And I was well aware that a lot of hard work would have to mesh perfectly with more than a little good luck.

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I’m 30, and I work as a power-plant operator in Great Falls. I was born and raised in Livingston, where most kids start hunting and fishing at an early age. My dad began showing my three brothers and me how to shoot as soon as we were big enough to hold a .22 rifle. In those days just about all the meat on our table was wild game. If we didn’t score, we didn’t eat well, but it was all fun for me. I spent every free minute hunting or fishing.

I became interested in archery while I was still a small boy. The Yellowstone Valley and surrounding mountain ranges were once prime hunting grounds of Indians. Signs of their activity were very much in evidence there. Tepee rings-circles of stones that had held down the edges of skin tents-always intrigued me. So did “buffalo jumps” — cliff edged bluffs on the rolling plains. The Indians killed herds of buffalo by running them off those bluffs.

The Indian lore soaked into me, and I took to bow and arrow quite naturally. I was still a boy when I downed a two-point mule deer with an arrow. My bowkills since then include three elk, 12 deer (whitetails and mule deer), two black bears, one moose, one antelope, a lot of small game, and several rattlesnakes.

I haven’t given up hunting with rifles, and I never will, because I love firearms. Game meat is still very important to my family, and I harvest most of it with two Model 70 Winchesters.

I use a .300 H. & H. Magnum fitted with a 2-to-7X Leupold scope for big animals such as elk. For deer and antelope I use my .243 equipped with 2-to-8X Bausch and Lomb optics. With rifles I’ve scored on about 30 deer, 20 elk, a dozen antelope, three black bears, and one moose.

Ninety-five percent of the antlered game I have killed were bulls and bucks. Although I understand and agree with the principles of modern game management, I still can’t force myself to shoot a doe or a cow unless my family really needs meat.

That ingrained feeling goes back to my childhood. I well remember my dad telling me, “Ray, don’t shoot unless it’s a buck. When you kill a doe you’re not killing one deer; you’re killing at least three or four. Any hunter worth his salt can find a buck to shoot.”

The challenge is the big thing for the bowman, and the stalk is most important. In the mountains you won’t score with an arrow if you can’t stalk. The excitement comes after you spot your quarry, and the longer the stalk lasts, the greater the thrill. I believe that successful bowhunters have a natural talent for stalking, and many of them put in long hours to develop their skill.

I couldn’t even guess at the number of practice stalks I’ve made. During off-season camping trips I’m continually sneaking up on big-game animals. My wife Harriet and our two small children enjoy the outdoors as much as I do. We go up into the mountains almost every weekend all year long, and we make extended trips during the summer.

A primary purpose of our summer camping trips is to find choice areas for my big-game hunts in the fall. It was during the summer of 1968 that I made up my mind to devote a week of my vacation time to trying for a ram with a bow.

Bighorn-sheep hunting in Montana is limited to 10 specified districts. Only rams with a three-quarter curl or better are legal in most of the districts.

Hunting permits for sheep in all but two of the districts are limited in number and are issued by drawing. The number of permits is unlimited in districts 301 and 501.

Why is unlimited hunting pressure allowed in those two districts? The state’s sheep-hunting regulations include this statement: “Applicants for districts 301 and 501 are advised that these areas are high, rugged, and difficult to hunt. As a result success has been very low.”

District 501 is in the south-central part of the state near Livingston. I knew that mountain country well. I’d hunted sheep there with a rifle, but I never did find a legal ram. I was back in those sheep haunts during the summer of 1968, and I saw enough droppings and trail sign to get excited about the possibilities of a fall hunt.

Incidentally, all bighorn hunters in Montana must have a special sheep permit. Residents of the state pay $25 for the sheep permit; the nonresident tab is $50. In addition, nonresidents must have a $151 combination game-and-fishing license before entering drawings for sheep permits. That $151 license entitles the hunter to one deer, one elk, and one black bear as well as fish and gamebirds.

Residents and nonresidents alike are required to buy a basic license before any other fish or game license is issued. The cost for that license is nominal — 25¢ for residents and $1 for out-of-staters. It is unlawful for a nonresident to hunt sheep in Montana unless he is accompanied by a resident who is licensed to hunt game animals.

I decided to hunt in the Stillwater Canyon area south of Big Timber. All districts were open to riflemen and bowmen alike. Though the 1968 sheep season ran from September 15 through December 15 in most districts, I scheduled my hunt for November 28 through December 4.

There is a good possibility of deep snow that late in the year, and there aren’t many ridges where sheep can feed under those conditions.

Only the long, treeless ridges where vicious winds blow remain relatively free of deep drifts. The sheep find patches of grass in those places and concentrate there, and that narrows an enormous hunting area down to a few choice spots.

On several of these wind-swept ridges I’d found sheep sign the previous summer. Even so, I spent many evenings studying U.S. Geological Survey maps of the area. These maps are very accurate, and they are extremely helpful when you’re looking for a certain kind of terrain. By late November I had pinpointed the ridges I wanted to hunt.

I never considered taking a partner along. The odds against a successful hunt were so great that I couldn’t even think of anyone who would be interested in going with me. The trip would be a physical hardship because of the miles of hiking and climbing through deep snow. Provisions and camping equipment would be minimal because you can’t carry much on your back during snowtime in the mountains. Snowshoes would be a must.

Besides, there’s no question that a lone bowman has the best chance. An animal is less likely to spot a single hunter, and the stalk has to be silent.

A skilled stalker knows how to keep to the quiet areas-bare ground, flat rocks, soft snow, and so forth. He knows how to move slowly and how to keep his weight on his back foot until his stepping foot is securely placed. He knows that listening is often more profitable than moving along, especially in the mountains, where movement is often accompanied by the clatter of falling rocks and stones. He knows how to determine whether tracks and droppings are fresh, and how to anticipate changes in wind direction.

I’m convinced that an archer has to love the hunting far more than the killing. If you set your heart on getting 1 meat every time you go hunting, you’ll I never be a successful bowhunter. Sure, • it’s great to get what you go after, but if that’s all an archer enjoyed he’d be i disappointed 99 percent of the time. I 1 looked forward to being in the moun tains during the winter with just as much enthusiasm as I had for killing a ram.

I had no qualms about going up into that harsh and dangerous country alone. I’ve camped all my life, and I spent three years in the outfitting business. I knew exactly what I was getting into. My family and I left Great Falls shortly after I got out of work on November 27. We drove 170 miles to Livingston in fine shape. Harriet and the children would visit her parents there while I hunted.

Though I had packed and repacked my packboard many times during previous weeks, I went over it again and again until late that night. It was important because I had to consider equipment and food for several days in a rugged wilderness. I planned to end the hunt with the least-possible amount of gear and food. If I was successful, I’d be able to pack out a heavy load of ram. I had selected dried, packaged foods for my meals, mostly soups and stews. I used a lightweight 4 x 7-foot nylon tent. My down-filled sleeping bag weighed practically nothing.

My archery gear was kept to a minimum too. I took eight arrows, a lightweight bow quiver, and a hunting bow with a 60-pound pull. I make my own arrows — 29-inch wooden shafts with razor broadheads.

When I tied up the packboard for the last time, it weighed 20 pounds and the balance was perfect.

I got up three hours before dawn and drove to my father’s place, where I’d left my jeep following an elk hunt. My plan was to trailer my snowmobile behind the jeep. I’d drive as far up into the mountains as I could with the jeep. Then I’d continue on with the snowmobile until the terrain became too rugged even for that vehicle. After that I’d snowshoe and hike up to the treeless ledges where I hoped to find sheep.

Seven inches of snow lay on the ground and the temperature was 4 ° above zero when I headed up the highway toward Big Timber. Dawn brought the promise of a crisp, cold day. After I’d driven for four hours the going became difficult. Snow was drifted as deep as three feet in places on the highway, hut other sections had been blown bare by the wind. After I turned off on a gravel road I found more and deeper drifts and less bare ground the higher I got. Eventually I had to stop and put chains on all four wheels.

By the time I reached an elevation of about 6,000 feet, I was on a dirt road and the jeep was smashing through wind-piled snowdrifts like a boat hitting big waves. I was still about 30 miles from the end of the canyon where I wanted to start my hunt, but I knew I couldn’t go any farther with the jeep. I parked it on a hill and continued on with the snowmobile.

The ride up the canyon was fast and exhilarating. Once, I spotted three elk standing in two feet of snow on a hillside. The animals were 500 yards away, but in the brilliant sunshine they contrasted beautifully with the clean snow and the dark greens of scattered pines.

I stopped for a few moments and watched them through my 15-to-60X Bausch and Lomb spotting scope. The bull was a fine six-pointer.

It was midafternoon by the time I reached the high end of the canyon. That area is the beginning of a large drainage, and it borders on the divide that I hoped sheep would be using as a wintering ground.

I couldn’t get any higher with the snowmobile, so I stopped, gathered some low limbs, built a fire, and then scanned the high ridges and ledges with the spotting scope. Far above me I spotted a trail in the snow. The tracks could have been made by a mountain goat crossing the ridge, but I hoped they were sheep sign.

I figured that three hours of hard climbing would take me up there. That was the end of the warm fire. The snow below timberline was as deep as four feet, so I strapped on my snowshoes. When I reached higher ground I took the snowshoes off and stashed them for pickup on my return trip.

The climb got tougher with each step I took until I got high enough to reach hard-packed snow. Finally I reached a ridge at about 8,500 feet. The mountain’s crest was 500 feet above me. I found a tiny patch of scrub pine that would serve as a campsite, put up the tent, and gathered some firewood. Then I headed up again, to get one quick look over the top before the daylight faded.

The exertion of climbing kept me warm until I reached my destination. Then I realized that the wind was viciously strong and cold. I tried several times to use my spotting scope, but the wind made my eyes water too much and seemed to stiffen my exposed face. Finally I huddled behind a huge rock to get out of the wind, and I scanned the ridge’s back wall. I saw no game.

When I got back to my campsite I found the tent half buried in a new snowdrift. I was beat, so I didn’t dig out the buried firewood. I gulped down some cold stew mix and crawled into the sleeping bag.

The next morning I hiked back up on the ridge and found the trail I had looked for the previous evening. Frost was heavy in the tracks, but they had obviously been made by a large sheep. I followed the tracks up to another ridge and then down into waist-deep snow. Finally the trail turned and led toward the peaks to the west.

I figured that the best way to get up there would be to break camp, walk back down to the snowmobile, drive across the canyon, and then locate an easier approach. Those efforts shot the rest of that day, so I took time to make a snug camp and enjoy a warm meal.

The weather turned foul the next morning. Snow was falling, and the high peaks were hidden in fog. I was pretty discouraged until late in the day, when I finally spotted seven ewes after hours of glassing between patches of fog. They were about 2ó miles away and were feeding along an open ledge.

It was too late in the afternoon to climb up there. I spent the remaining hours of daylight studying the mountainside for the easiest route to the top.

I knew there had to be rams somewhere near those ewes, and I knew the band of sheep wouldn’t move if food was available. I didn’t sleep much that night. I was so worked up with visions of a stalk that I spent most of the black night huddled by a crackling fire with a steaming cup of tea in my hands.

Dawn finally arrived. As soon as there was enough light to use the spotting scope, I discovered that five ewes were in the same area where I’d first seen sheep. I scanned the slope for the two missing ewes until my eyes watered, but I couldn’t locate them. I found them only after several hours of hard snowshoeing and climbing. They were high above me, close to the peak.

I located two more ewes later but no rams, even though there were plenty of sheep tracks in snowbanks and drifts. As evening came on I had no choice but to head back for camp.

The next day was December 1. It was snowing lightly in the morning, but the temperature had risen to about 20°. At first light I set up the spotting scope and located several ewes. Scoping was difficult because of a strong wind and swirling snow.

I moved the scope and found another sheep, and that one had horns. For a moment a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds. It made the ram’s horns stand out black against the snow. Then I saw two more legal rams.

The last animal was the largest bighorn ram I’d ever seen. I had found the mother lode.

I pulled on a large pair of white painter’s pants, put on a white shirt with a hood, and then snowshoed up through scattered pines until I hit crusted snow. The thick crust was hard as ice, and walking on it was very difficult.

By midmorning the snow was coming down harder and warm gusts of wind from the south were forming eerie walls of fog. The fog created an illusion of distance, and it looked farther to the top than I had figured. I decided I was becoming impatient, and I said to myself, “Take it easy. Those sheep aren’t going to move unless you spook them. Just keep on climbing the north wall until you are above them.”

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I had all the time in the world as long as the sheep couldn’t sight or scent me. Several times when the fog really closed in, I stopped and rested. Finally I decided I was well above the rams. All that remained was to stalk slowly down and around the ridge and hope that I’d see the sheep before they saw me. I was well camouflaged, and I knew that sheep seldom expect trouble from above.

The knowledge that I was so close to fulfilling my dream was building an enormous nervous excitement within me. I had to force myself to calm down. The fog made me wonder whether I could really get the job done. When the fog cleared from time to time, I could see for up to 200 yards. But most of the time, I was stalking in soup.

Finally I became sure that I was right above the sheep — if they hadn’t moved. I already had one of my homemade arrows nocked when a sudden gust of wind swirled holes in the fog and an enormous bighorn ram appeared 60 yards ahead of me near the crest of a small knoll. I was crouched in an awkward position, and I fumbled when I drew back the arrow. The ram was gone in a flash. He simply jumped over the knoll and disappeared.

Intense disappointment knotted my insides. I had committed the sheep hunter’s cardinal sin-somehow I had worked my way below the animals.

Suddenly I saw movement in the thinning fog 30 yards above me. There was another huge ram, and I’m sure we saw each other at the same instant.

I don’t recall picking a precise target area before I shot. I can remember seeing only the end of my razor-edge broadhead and, in front of a rock wall, the ram’s broadside body. The arrow sped away, and then I heard a loud, sharp crack as though it had hit a board.

I strung another arrow as the ram jumped to my left. Then he swerved to my right, and my second arrow caught him as he spun around. The shaft sank deep into his midsection. I saw and heard it break off with a snap.

Instinctively I sent a third white-shafted arrow on its way. It hit bare rock above the ram, showering sparks.

The sheep was now out of range and heading downhill.

I was sure my ram couldn’t go far. I found a lot of blood as I followed his trail. I didn’t press him hard. He went about 250 yards, and I found him dead below a ledge, his nose buried in snow. My first arrow had pierced his rib cage and then ripped through to lodge in a shoulder blade. The second arrow went through the lungs.

I skinned out the cape and then boned all the meat and placed it on snow to cool. All the while, I admired the heavy, tightly curled horns. It was a far-better trophy than I had ever hoped for.

By the time I had the meat and head packed, it was late in the day and I was tired. I was so exhausted by the time I reached camp that I didn’t move a muscle for an hour. Then I hit the sack.

When I returned to Livingston I took the head to Dean Jehowski, who owns a taxidermy shop. Dean is a bowhunter too and knows bowhunting records.

I found out how exceptional my ram was when he said, “Ray, it wouldn’t surprise me if your, sheep sets a new world record for bowhunters.” Months later the horns were officially measured for the Pope and Young Club by Glen St. Charles. The right horn is 39 inches long, the left 37 3/8 inches. The greatest spread is 22 inches. The total score is 176 3/8, exactly 8 3/8 better than the score of the former world-record bighorn ram, taken by Larry Jones.

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That news just about floored me. But more honor followed when I won the Pope and Young Club’s Ishi Award, highest form of recognition that the club bestows on a bowhunting trophy. My award is the third Ishi presented in the entire history of the club. The handsome plaque is named in honor of Ishi, the last of the ancient Yana Indians, who was the bowhunting teacher of Saxton Pope and Art Young.

At the award presentation Dick Mauch, chairman of the Pope and Young Club’s Records Committee, told me, “I suspect that your trophy will hold the No. 1 position in the bighorn-sheep category for a long time.”

The current world-record archery bighorn measures 209 1/8 inches and was taken in Pennington County, South Dakota, in 2018.

The post I Arrowed the World-Record Bighorn with a $25 Sheep Tag appeared first on Outdoor Life.

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