Redemption Ram - A fatal second encounter in Wyoming

With one measly preference point, I wasn’t expecting to see “Successful” next to my Wyoming bighorn sheep application. I logged in again and again, convinced I was hallucinating. When it finally sank in, the phone calls started.

Drawing a sheep tag is intoxicating. Friends and strangers reached out with advice, and I can’t thank them enough for their generosity and sharing hard-earned information. Fighting fire all summer meant no chance to scout, so I turned to research. The unit had been slipping, and I knew this hunt would be about the experience as much as the size of the ram itself.

Still, I believed that with the right crew, we could dig a ram out of sheep country unguided. My dad was an immediate pick for the team. My good friend John signed on and volunteered his dad (also John) to help pack us in, and "the Johns" had good stock and decades of packing experience. Also joining us were my hunting buddies Jake and Landon, both killers.

On October 3, we saddled up and rode 15 miles into base camp. Jake, Landon, and I planned to break off and backpack a loop through the high basins. None of us had seen the unit before; the plan was built purely through OnX.

Within minutes of hiking, I picked up 18 ewes just 600 yards away. Then, I glassed the first band of rams well over a mile away. I was expecting to go days without seeing a sheep, so I felt a weight lift, and I began to really enjoy just being in sheep country.

Two of those rams looked mature. The distance and 40-mph sustained winds made field-judging difficult, but I just didn’t get the feeling they were that next class of ram. Going after them would also pull us away from the terrain and route I wanted to cover, so, to Jake and Landon’s disbelief, I passed. I needed to see more country.

Continuing on our planned route had us cliffed out in less than a mile, so we found a skimpy group of trees and pitched camp. That night, the winds picked up even more, and amazingly, we only had to restake the tent once. We got no sleep. The next morning, Landon’s climbing skills pulled us through cliffs I wouldn’t have touched without him. We were definitely sheep hunting.

Crossing into the next basin, we found the remains of a six-year-old ram washed down from the cliffs. I wondered if he fell, or maybe a grizzly got to him. Either way, it was a good reminder of how tough these animals are to live at 11,000 feet. That evening, we glassed even more rams, likely in the same 5-6 year old age class we saw before. I still felt good about holding out.

At last light, Jake and I simultaneously spotted new sheep down-valley, but could only judge their body sizes. By morning, they were still there. Among them was a beat-up ram we nicknamed “Scar,” but there was also a chocolate-colored ram, heavier-bodied and darker than the rest. This ram was obviously the dominant sheep of the band, and it began to sink in that this was what I had come for.

By the time we broke camp, they had vanished. We slowly moved closer and picked apart the mountain all day with no luck. Then, just as the sun set, Landon hissed, “I’ve got sheep!” They were much lower than expected, moving through the timber. I scrambled to set up behind the rifle… and missed. For the first time in my life, I had missed a big game animal. Twice. With a sheep tag, nonetheless! My heart sank.

The rams regrouped and climbed into the safety of some cliffs. We camped right there, digging out a semi-flat spot with our trekking poles, and waited for daylight.

When morning finally came, I was less than optimistic, but by God’s grace, we picked them up across the drainage, almost at the top. We had to make our move, and I wasn’t going to mess it up this time.

It took some deliberation to decide what the play was as we sat within 200 yards of where they were last seen. The wind was risky, but with food and water running low, Jake and I had to make a play. Around the ridge, I cut a fresh track. Moments later, I spotted a bedded ram below. It was Scar, but I couldn’t be sure which of the other two was the chocolate ram with a tree obscuring their horns. When he finally turned his head, I could tell it was him, and I had a shot. The rifle broke the silence.

At 9½ years old, he was everything I had hoped for and more. The bitterness of the miss made the redemption even sweeter. InReach messages were sent, and I organized for the rest of the crew to meet us a few thousand feet below on the trail. Around midnight, we stopped to take a few swigs of whiskey from a bottle left in a tree hollow by a fellow sheep hunter some time before. Maybe one day I’ll be back to replace it.

By Ben Titus