I was already unslinging my pack and positioning myself prone on the steep mountainside. I had enough wits to put in my right ear plug, leaving out my left so I could quietly communicate with Don. He confirmed that our old ram was the furthest left, at 166 yards. I chambered a round and steadied the rifle on my pack. After one more confirmation, I took a deep breath in, slowly exhaled, and began taking up the slack of the trigger.
The shot broke, and immediately my left ear was ringing. I racked another round and reacquired the ram in my scope, just in time to see him teeter and fall backward. I had killed the old ram we were after. I was in disbelief. From the time I spotted them to the time I shot, no more than 90 seconds had passed. Just like that, my tag was punched.
It’s not uncommon for hunters to experience an adrenaline dump post-shot, and they come in all forms. Some hunters begin to shake uncontrollably, while others scream with excitement. My dump was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I gave Don a huge bear hug, and as I looked up the mountain, I began sobbing. I couldn’t nor want to control the tears. I was brought to my knees—I was a mess!
After regaining my composure, I began the short but steep hike up the mountain to lay my hands on my trophy. Yes, TROPHY. That term gets such a bad rap in the hunting space, primarily from non-hunters, but I can tell you this: any and all animals I kill are trophies to me, and nothing is wasted.
After what seemed like more than enough climb to where I felt my ram should be, I saw nothing. I climbed a little further, thinking, “Just keep climbing...” At one point, I looked back to Don, asking if he saw him yet. “No, not yet, just keep climbing,” he replied. Maybe the shot wasn’t as good as I thought. Maybe he got up and ran off. Demons...
Then I caught a glimpse of white, and my heart started racing. A few more steps up over a small rise, and there he was. Had he gone another couple of feet, he would have tumbled down another 800 feet to the valley floor. The tears came again as I knelt down to thank this old warrior and pay my respects. I was in complete awe of the animal and the moment.
Perhaps it was the four-year lead-up or all the preparation, both physically and logistically. This was far from a cheap hunt—outside of a house, college payments, and vehicles, this hunt was the largest single payment I’ve ever made. The brief history I had with this old ram—letting him walk on day one, then glassing him out of reach for 12 hours, only to lose him for another day and a half—certainly added to the drama of this hunt.
We sat for a long while admiring him, taking in the moment and reflecting on the hunt. It was a bluebird day, and we had a good spot on the side of the mountain with a postcard backdrop. We relived the hunt, each recounting our own perspective of how the morning played out. We shared our personal emotions about what hunting means to us. Don spoke about family members lost in tragic hunting accidents, and I recounted how I hadn’t felt emotions like this since the birth of my children and my mother’s passing. I wouldn’t trade the time we afforded ourselves for anything in the world.
We took full advantage of the weather and scenic backdrop to capture photos that I will forever cherish. Then we got to the task of skinning and caring for the meat—yet more trophies.
We enjoyed a small snack, and then with heavy packs, we began our descent. The first few steps off the mountain were the sketchiest, given the steepness, loose shale, and heavy load challenging my balance. After a couple of failed attempts to drop in, I finally mustered the courage and began my controlled slide down—what a ride!
Clay later measured and scored my ram at 10.5 years old, with a respectable score of 156 inches. Exactly the type of ram the team likes to take. While the old bruiser might have lived another winter or two, it was time to let the younger, stronger rams take over the breeding and lead the next generation forward.
Congratulations, great write up! You will forever have the sheep bug. I think it comes from drinking out of streams sheep drink from. I know I have an incurable case of it.
In the end, I felt an incredible sense of accomplishment and, with that, relief to have completed what I set out to do. Yes, I got my ram, but in the end, I got so much more—more than I ever knew was possible. I tested my mental stamina, overcame fears, and kept my head in the game. The experience was not just about the hunt; it was about the journey, the challenges, and the emotions that came with it. It was about pushing myself beyond my limits and emerging on the other side, not just as a successful hunter but as someone who had truly lived out a dream.
The adventure of hunting Dall sheep in the remote wilderness of the Northwest Territories was everything I had hoped for and more. It tested me in ways I hadn’t anticipated and rewarded me with memories and experiences that will stay with me for a lifetime. As I reflect on the journey, I am filled with gratitude—for the opportunity, for the people who helped me along the way, and for the incredible animals that make these adventures possible.
The dream that started in 2017 had finally been realized, and it was worth every moment of the journey.
This hunt and all the others would never be possible without the support of my loving wife Angele. I am forever grateful for her understanding of my passion to hunt.
Thank you to all that stuck around for my story. I owe a lot to the ROKSLIDE community. I’ve bought and sold items on the classifieds, researched gear, tactics and hunts. I really appreciate the supportive nature of the group and especially the sheep page.