12 days in the field under less than ideal conditions with a nagging injured finger and a pair of ugly dogs became a mental cornerstone of mine. Particularly when you're eating dinner under a tarp in pouring rain 3 miles from camp and you just don't want to move, in fact you consider sleeping right there. Everything I'd been reading over the preceding years regarding ram hunting echoed a similar theme: the mental game. You have to focus on what's going well. We were routinely finding rams, some with better stalking scenarios and able to close the gap for a better look. Just sub-legal is all, every damn day. Physically I could do the work despite the aforementioned impediments, my kit was exceeding expectations for the most part and it wasn't blizzard conditions. We had easy access at camp to water from a spring and by the end of week one we were starting to get some pockets acceptable weather. All good things. Just no legal rams. My self-reinforcing pattern of thought was punctuated with a balance of the good and the maddening.
While I'd stated I was having boot issues, we all were. Theirs were less pronounced than mine but because of the wet there wasn't a lot of hanging around outside while getting sorted for the night and comparing booboos. Agent Golf Ball has a Seek Outside teepee with stove, it's the small one for one man. Proved invaluable for huddling in there trying to keep the fire going, and licking clean a pouch of Mtn. House Turkey Tettrazini. For the most part, upon returning to camp I was just happy to get my boots off and slip on my crocs. Socks & bandages would stay. Let my feet breathe and relieve the swelling. I'd had my Lowa's up high in Kodiak, Oregon Coast Range elk hunts, all over the Santiam unit and more. Lot's of miles in wide swaths of terrain types. But never had I put them to this type of test. My problem was undersized boots that fit great until my feet grew beyond my experience under the downhill loads I asked of them - while close in the past, not enough to duplicate present demands. I'd tend to foot care in my tent where I could spread out into the vestibule for the most part. My tape supplies were replete with about a half a roll of athletic tape, some large bandages and about 1/3 of a moleskin packet. I'd become so confident with the Lowa's that I'd neglected my foot care supply, I found myself doing tape math and figuring my remaining budget of supplies, I didn't particularly like taking the tape off as it was always a mess and stuck right to the meat under my skin it seemed like. Luckily I was well versed in Rambo III where he cauterizes his abdomen wound with fire and gun powder, and my comrades were both doctor's with solid med kit supplies. Once we had a dry evening near the end of the first week I showed them my boot meat; pain pills to the rescue and lots of "Holy S@!#"
While I could move well enough I was slow as I'd pick my way through rock gardens and gain vertical elevation. This started to bother me too because I didn't want them waiting for me if they stumbled on a situation where they had to change course quickly.
On September 8th we set out from camp to climb a slope in a drainage we'd watched 4 rams feed up and over the night before. We'd gain roughly 2900 feet in elevation total, 2000 of it coming from the slope itself after about a 2 mile hike. Mtn. House granola, coffee, fresh socks & bandages, improving weather and some apparel that had actually dried out somewhat - all good things I told myself. I was borderline getting angry about it. I'd come all this way after a year of planning and years of want; I've gleaned experience over many years of how outdoorsman tasks are done, my big "ram hunt" was the centerpiece of many conversations, separated myself from my family for what seemed like ages - all this, all this to be kidney punched by sour paws.
As an athlete in my younger years I benefited from a massive supply of will power which abundantly made up for my lack of genetic ability. While I had the physique of a linebacker it was my endurance that let me defeat opponents in the 4th quarter. As a collegiate swimmer my desire to race carried me further than I should have gone considering the genetics of the best swimmers and how I didn't measure up. This was the day I needed to step up, deal with the pain and put a ram on the ground.
At the top they were 1500 feet below us in the next drainage below a pass we climbed two days prior. We knew how to get to them. The sun was out, it was beautiful out. We could see forever. It would have been my dad's 67th birthday. Seeing what I could see with my little Leica 62x spotter was breathtaking. Except, 3 clearly sub legal rams and one we debated but concurred was also sub legal. To the West was another river and some big mountains. We glassed 9 ewes and lambs and three other 4 year old rams. We sat up high on top of 5000 foot knife edge ridge top for a few hours. Sometimes quiet, joking about life or speaking about the hunt (we were under no illusions, the end was closer than the beginning and we were running out of options). There's no way I can extend my range that far and not become a serious liability. Those were the cold hard facts.
It was warm enough back at camp with sunlight to spare that everything came out of the tent for a splash of light breeze and warmed conditions. No shirts even. What to do next was the topic. My sheep hunt up high was over I told them. There's a 5th valley to the northeast of where we were that opened up about a mile from where we were dropped off on the 1st and it probably held some toad rams we reasoned. The guys could go in fast and light and have at least one night if needed. They made that plan and we decided to break camp and hike back to near the airstrip the next day. My plan was to climb a few hundred feet up and glass for moose or bear and see if I can't put something together. But, I had to get there first. While my pack was lighter it was still a big challenge and I guessed it'd be roughly 3 hours of hiking and singing my kids' songs to myself to keep my forward progress steady. 1/3 easy creek bed, 1/3 side hilling, 1/3 downhill: the worst is last which is good because there's no hill for a climber as my dad always said.
"I like Moose camp I thought out loud." "Me too, and me" were the replies...