Hunters of the White Sheep: A collection of Dall Sheep Hunts, and an assortment of Dall Sheep Hunters

By Lynn Soiseth

The experience of an alpine hunt for the golden-crowned King of the Alaska Alpine, can be a life-changing event for both the hunter and the hunted. It is part of the mystique of sheep hunting-that the ‘sport' learns as much about himself and his capabilities, as he learns about the hunt. In Hunters of the White Sheep you will encounter an eclectic collection of hunters and their backstories as they hunt for the golden-horned rams. Read along and you will be transported to base camps in the sheep mountains by foot, airplane, ATV, jet boat, and bicycle. Once at the base camp, the hunters forgo mechanized transportation and revert to shoe leather as they pursue the white rams over wind-swept ridges, frightening chasms, chilly-blue glaciers, and sometimes, surprisingly gentle hills. Although much hunting information, such as techniques and locations can be gleaned by reading the stories carefully, this is not intended to be a how-to-hunt sheep book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publication Consultants
• Release date: Oct 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781594338014

Lynn Soiseth

Lynn Soiseth is the author of a number of published short stories which have appeared in: Wild Sheep (The magazine published by the Foundation for North American Wild Sheep.), The Ram (The defunct quarterly publication of the Alaska chapter of the Foundation for North American Wild Sheep.),The Alaska Professional Hunter (The quarterly publication of the Alaska Professional Hunters' Association.), and North Dakota Outdoors (The monthly publication of the North Dakota Fish and Game Department.). Lynn believes that sheep hunting is to hunting what fly fishing is to fishing. Forty years ago, that belief prompted his move from the flatlands of the Midwest to the mountains of Alaska in order to pursue the white kings of the peaks. He has been a passionate hunter for six decades. Now, at the age of seventy and much slower of foot, he still ardently hunts.

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Chapter One

Introductions

Geez! Jean will have my head on the wall if I don’t get the kid picked up on time. He stomped the accelerator; the truck responded with a satisfying moan. Pedestrians paid little attention to an older Suburban speeding to the Anchorage International Airport on a typical fall mission. Its hand-lettered signs read: Classic Trophy Hunts with Master Guide Cliff Sheraton.

The truck slid to an abbreviated stop in the short-term parking lot with a move that had been perfected over the years by side slipping a Piper Super Cub onto too-short landing strips. The door opened; in the same movement, the driver launched out and strode to the terminal. Red-eyed arrivals paid no attention to a middle-aged man taking stairs two at a time.

By the time he arrived at the gate, the first passengers had already exited from the jet bridge. Jean said he’d have a blue daypack. I wish I had a current picture of him. The line of passengers kept moving, but no blue daypack appeared. Alarmed, Cliff searched the departing travelers’ backs a second time just in case an eighteen-year-old boy had slipped by. A knot tightened in his stomach. Maybe he decided not to come back—just like his dad. As he turned to check the gate one last time, his gaze fell on the last passenger.

A young man stood, warily surveying the room. Before leaving Boston, his dad had given him a sealed envelope and a crinkled photo. He searched the waiting area for the face in the photo.

The old guide’s eyes narrowed. That has to be Matt. Looks just like his dad when he was eighteen. He started forward. Halfway over, their eyes met.

Matt? Glad you could make it, he said stiffly.

Hi, the boy muttered, tentatively extending his hand.

Your gear will be on the lower level in a couple of minutes. We should be there to meet it. Cliff used his business voice. He had hoped it would be easier, that the kid would look like a stranger.

In awkward silence, neither attempted the usual hunting banter. As they strolled to the baggage claim, they cast sideways glances at each other. Both walked with the same easy stride, but the two could not have appeared more different: a middle-aged Alaskan hunting guide dressed in a bush rat tuxedo of hard-finished wool, gold sheep’s-head bolo tie, and well-worn hiking boots; an eighteen-year-old, back-East city kid with lug-soled Doc Martins, sagging, too-big pants, flopping shirt, and a pair of gold earrings in his left ear.

At the carousel Cliff grabbed the duffel bag. Matt hesitantly picked up the suitcase.

We’ll walk to the truck. It’s just a short way, Cliff finally broke the tension with his practiced line. He always had his sport walk to the vehicle for an early read. If the hunter could pack some of his own gear the block or two to the Suburban, he had probably engaged in some physical conditioning, was serious about the hunt, and the assistant guide’s job would be easier.

Matt matched Cliff stride for stride, hoping that the older man wouldn’t see the beads of perspiration on his forehead as he walked from the terminal at the torrid pace.

We have to get you back to the house. I imagine your grandmother’s about worn herself to a frazzle by now. She’ll probably think I was late to the airport and missed you.

The boy nodded politely.

She was waiting for them on the front porch when they drove up the driveway. Smiling, she got to her feet.

Matt. Oh, I’ve dreamt about this for so long. She swept down from the porch and enfolded him in her arms.

Matt absorbed her hug stiffly.

As Cliff walked around the vehicle to grab the bags, he noticed her tears. Yeah, I guess this should have happened a long time ago. He carried the bags into the house with the same detached, bellhop manner that he used with all first-time clients.

She talked incessantly through the dinner. Matt listened politely, speaking only when asked a question. Unusually quiet, Cliff added little to the conversation.

Later, she asked Cliff to show Matt around the high-ceilinged trophy room.

He started the tour tenuously, not sure that he wanted to share the hallowed memories with Matt or that Matt would appreciate the trophies that evoked them.

The young man listened politely as Cliff pointed out the old polar bear mount, the B&C moose, the double-shoveled caribou, and finally, the four full-curl Dall rams. The sheep arrested Matt’s gaze.

Did you shoot all these sheep, sir?

No. I shot the two smaller, full-curl rams. Your grandmother shot the big broomed ram in the Chugach Mountains the year we got married.

What about that biggest sheep?

Pretending not to hear, Cliff walked to the corner gun case.

I think this will fit you, Cliff said, pulling a stained, green canvas and leather rifle case from the cobwebbed recesses of the gun vault. Unzipping the case, he pulled a rifle out and handed it to the young man.

Matt stared at the streaked-walnut and blued-metal sculpture. It’s beautiful. The wood flows around the metal—like it grew that way. As he mounted it, the rifle fit perfectly—like it was made for me. Later, he checked the caliber stamped on the barrel—.270 W.C.F.—and noticed the inscription—A. B. Arms-Spokane, WA.

Cliff watched closely. Matt knew where to look and what to look for. Jimmy didn’t appreciate that gun when I handed it to him twenty years ago—didn’t even bother to check it out.

So, what animal would you most like to hunt here in Alaska? Cliff asked, warming.

I would like to shoot a ram like that biggest one over there, sir, Matt responded with stiff politeness.

Well … that ram was real special. He’d still score over a hundred and eighty points. On the longest horn, twenty years ago he was forty-six inches, with fifteen-inch bases. He would’ve been one of the top ten Dall rams ever taken if I’d had him officially scored. I don’t think I’ll ever see another ram like that again. Times have changed, and we’ve all had to change too. We can’t even hunt some of the old areas anymore."

Who killed that ram? Matt asked.

It was years ago, and the hunter didn’t appreciate it. Cliff spat the words out, turning from the boy. He didn’t want the head either, so I kept it.

Here’s some coffee and cookies for you boys, Jean said, sweeping into the room.

Cliff was glad for her interruption.

He hadn’t noticed her watching them from the hall with a sad hunger in her eyes. Please, God, she had entreated, let this introduction go well. It’s taken eighteen years to bring these two together. Let Cliff ease up. At least, don’t let him say the same things to Matt that he said to Jimmy. Just let him accept Matt for what he is—and let him forgive Jimmy.

Matt says he wants to hunt sheep, Cliff said approvingly.

That’s wonderful, Matt. Until a few years ago, sheep camp was my most favorite place on the earth—high in the Wrangells with the eagles and the bears and the sheep. I always slept better up there—away from television and the world’s problems. I’ll bet your appetite improves in the mountain air too; although judging by the way that plate of cookies disappeared, it’s already pretty good. I know you’ll love sheep camp. As she spoke, her eyes swept over the uncased rifle propped against the wall. Jimmy’s rifle. Cliff has not pulled that out of the case for twenty years.

We’ll fly out to sheep camp in the morning, Cliff said. It’s about a three-hour flight in the Cub, so we should get some extra shut-eye. You’re probably bushed after that long flight from Boston.

The next morning they flew through Tahneeta Pass, which separates the Talkeetna Mountains and the Chugach Range. Matt stared in awe at the permanent ice caps to the southeast. In a few places, knife-edge ridges of bare rock sliced up through the glacier. On one of those ridges he was sure he saw some white sheep? That’s where they live? Am I tough enough?

The drainage we hunt is easier walking and climbing than that ugly stuff over there. Don’t let that spook you, Cliff reassured him. Most first-time sheep hunters have the same fears.

Three hours of Cub time passed quickly as Matt watched the tableau of Southcentral Alaska’s geography slip beneath the Piper’s wings in the smooth morning air. They flew by the upper arm of Cook Inlet, the Chugach Range with its permanent ice caps and forbidding ridges and peaks, the more friendly-looking Talkeetna Range, into the heavily treed Copper River country, and finally, past the hulking dominance of the Wrangell mountains crown jewels—the magnificent Mounts Sanford, Wrangell, and Drum. Matt’s head swiveled like a metronome from window to window as Cliff pointed out other wilderness sights.

No one Matt knew back in Boston hunted. It had been a complete surprise when out of the blue his dad asked if he wanted to make a hunting trip to Alaska—a surprise high-school, graduation present from the grandparents he’d never known. Surprising everyone, he had said yes. His mother, the environmentalist, had, of course, fought the decision as best she could, but finally, she surrendered. His dad had been uncharacteristically silent, allowing Matt his own decision.

In preparation for the hunt, his dad had taken him to an indoor rifle range for target practice and hunter safety training. Matt was a natural with the pellet rifle, and he enjoyed the shooting practice.

Why do you look so sad? Matt had asked one night after the shooting practice ended.

His dad turned from him without answering.

Another day in the shooting range’s lounge Matt thumbed through a discarded hunting magazine. A well-illustrated article on Alaska Dall sheep hunting stopped his page riffling.

Hey, this is about Alaska. Did you ever hunt sheep when you lived there?

Yes, I did. Got one too, his dad had responded with a grimacing set to his jaw and curious sadness in his eyes.

Was it fun? Matt asked, hungry for the details that boys love to hear from parental heroes.

His father, silent, shook his head and turned away.

Matt appropriated the magazine and sneaked it home, where he hid it from his mother with his secret collection of adult magazines. After reading the sheep article for the tenth time, he had it memorized; his hunting dream was formed. He would hunt for a Dall ram—like his dad.

At the airport in Boston that August, his dad handed Matt a ticket, a crumpled photo, a sealed envelope, and a small box.

I was given this years ago. Now it’s yours. his dad said opening the box.

An old Gerber locking-blade hunting knife gleamed dully from its leather sheath.

I had forgotten about this until last night, his dad continued. It’s been packed away for twenty years.

Matt took the knife and turned it over. The checkered walnut grips looked new and unused. He thought to look at the leather sheath. Inscribed on the back was: To JS with love, CS.

We’re almost to camp. See the tents and the strip ahead? Cliff’s voice crackled over the helmet’s intercom in Matt’s ear. Nothing in the jumble of rocks on the stream bed suggested a place to land, although white tent roofs nestling in the brush verified the camp’s existence. The sheep camp lay high in an unnamed drainage carved by a glacial stream that ultimately feeds the silt-choked Copper River.

Cliff made a high pass over the strip to check the wind’s direction, and then another pass, lower, to confirm. Satisfied, he side slipped the Cub to lose some altitude and lined up before flaring and touching down. In an incredibly short landing distance the Cub bucked to a stop. At the tie-down spot he gunned the prop, swinging the Cub around to face downhill. Pulling back the mixture knob, he killed the motor; the prop gave its last dying lunge. Suddenly all was quiet in the Cub. For the first time since he’d picked Matt up at the airport Cliff smiled.

Here we are at the Wrangell Hilton. Just being back at sheep camp was a tonic for Cliff. Like Jean, he loved this camp, although he didn’t spend much time here anymore. He took out very few sheep hunters now; there was a lot more money to be made guiding for the big brown bears on the Alaska Peninsula.

As he stood relieving himself after three hours aloft, Matt gaped at the huge mountains shouldering up on both sides of the strip. A new background noise replaced the airplane’s engine throb and the resonating plastic window noise. A nearby creek announced its presence with a rumble as it transported its cargo of glacial silt, boulders, and water. Miles upstream, white snowcaps and the deep Aqua-Velva blue of hanging glaciers hovered over the end of the valley. It looks like the ads for Switzerland. Beautiful. Inhibiting! I hope I’m tough enough to handle this sheep hunting. I can’t let my grandfather down—or my dad.

A man—an assistant guide—magically appeared from the bushes to help with the bags.

Matt! I’d like to introduce Dan Jones—the finest sheep guide in Alaska.

Assistant guide and novice hunter sized each other up.

Matt might have some potential. He looks like a typical teenager: slender, average height, manicured, probably well mannered. He looks like a younger version of his grandfather Cliff, and he looks like Jimmy, twenty years ago.

From the corner of his eye Matt appraised Dan as a scraggly, middle-aged man, dressed in Alaskan bush garb of flannel shirt and woolen pants. Dan had no gray hair, and there was still plenty of it. He was lean and wiry-tough like the Wyoming cowboy he was raised to be, sixty years prior. He has friendly eyes like my dad’s and Cliff’s.

Dan and Cliff had become partners long before Matt’s dad, Jimmy was born. Like lone wolves that eventually come on each other’s tracks, they had met as young men in the bush, running winter trapping lines. Each recognized a kindred spirit in the other, and they formed a guiding partnership. They matured together—learning from each other’s mistakes and successes. After so many years, each readily anticipated the other’s needs.

As in all good relationships, each partner had a different strength and role. Dan did most of the one-on-one sheep guiding, and he lived for sheep season; Cliff flew and took care of the business details. For Dan, the bear and moose guiding was something to put up with for the business’s sake. Sheep season, on the other hand, was something to look forward to and to dream about yearlong.

Old Cliff will need a hand with this situation. I wouldn’t have believed it was possible if I wasn’t seeing it, but it looks like he’s getting another chance. He can’t blow it this time!

Twenty years earlier another plane had landed. Two very similar people got out—Cliff, and his son, Jimmy. That was supposed to be Jimmy’s first sheep hunt—not his last. I wonder if Cliff has learned that lesson. Both he and Jimmy were so damn bullheaded. I sure don’t want to see another fiasco like that again, even if this kid isn’t cut out to be a chip off the old block either.

Come on, Matt. I need to get you settled into your tent, Dan said, grabbing the younger man’s bags.

A short walk through stunted black spruce alternating with white-barked birch trees brought them to the white wall tent that was to be home for the week. As Dan pulled back the flaps, the sun-bleached canvas gave off a musty smell that Matt found strangely comforting.

Dan stashed the gear in the tent. The last bag in was the rifle case—an old quilted leather and canvas case that looked vaguely familiar.

Matt. What did you bring along to shoot? Mind if I take a look?

No, sir. It’s not really mine.

As he slipped the marble-cake-figured, English-walnut-stocked Winchester from the case he realized: My god! Cliff gave him Jimmy’s gun! Dan had been with Cliff on that booking trip, years ago in Spokane when Cliff bought the custom rifle at an exorbitant price. It had belonged to an outdoors writer and carried considerable notoriety because of its frequent mention in published, hunting articles. Dan knew that the little rifle was destined to be Cliff’s present to his only son, Jimmy—a special rifle for a special son—the unique piece that was to unite them and their interests.

It hadn’t quite worked out as Cliff had envisioned.

Now, the rifle was back in a sheep camp where it belonged.

I hope Matt’s the right guy to satisfy all the baggage this gun carries.

Grab some rounds; we need to shoot and see if it’s still sighted in. You have sighted it in, haven’t you?

No, sir. I just flew into Anchorage last night. I’ve never fired anything larger than a pellet gun.

Well, we’ve got some shooting to do between now and dark. But I’m pretty sure I can get you both sighted in before dinner.

From the cook tent, Cliff heard the methodical practice rounds.

Shortly before dinner, Dan and Matt walked back. Each sported a satisfied look.

Well how’d it shoot? Cliff anxiously asked when Matt was out of hearing.

That thing was right on. Put three rounds in an inch at a hundred yards—like it always did!

And I want you to know, I’ve taken sports out who thought they could shoot, but this kid can really shoot—he’s a natural!

Cliff’s eyes widened.

The next morning in the cook tent over a meal of fried eggs, pancakes, and moose sausage, Dan and Cliff discussed where to take Matt for his sheep.

That batch of five rams was still up on Johnson Creek last week. There’s a good thirty-eight-inch, broomed, heavy- horned ram in it. Is that what Matt wants?

Ah, Matt told me that he wanted a ram like that Silver Creek Giant we found twenty years ago. Any like that around?

Pause.

Well, if there was one, he’d probably be across the glacier, in that little hidden bowl up above Magpie Creek. We can take a hike over there to check it out, but I doubt there’s a ram like the Silver Creek Giant anywhere. But we can look.

Matt. We need to get packed and hit the trail so we can check out Magpie Creek.

The hike was another rookie test. Although Matt carried only his rifle and a small daypack, he had to push himself to keep up with Dan. These darn rocks in the stream bottom hurt my feet. They’re tough to walk on. Doesn’t Dan ever slow down?

The side hills and steep slopes didn’t bother Matt as much, but at the glacier crossing, he almost asked to turn back. I don’t want to walk across that ice. What if we fall into a crevasse? People die when they fall into those cracks. But, I … I guess I can try it, as long as Dan goes first.

The stream crossings were the worst. I hate this! The current’s so strong. Water’s so cold. I could die from shock, if I don’t drown in the fast current. But I have to go through with this for Dad and for Grandpa.

After waiting for Matt to scramble from the stream, Dan slowed his pace.

The kid keeps up real well. I think he’s a good kid. I like him already—not like a few of those namby-pamby kids that some rich assholes bring along. He’s working hard at trying to impress me. I’d better slow down so I don’t burn him out the first day.

Dan was aware of Matt’s internal struggle. Many clients had similar, first-day fears. By week’s end, most had conquered their fears. It is part of the mystique of sheep hunting—that the sport learns as much about himself and his capabilities, as he learns about the hunt.

Matt, I want to stop before we get to the bottom of that little ridge, then we can inch up to the top and take a peek. We don’t want to screw up and top out where the sheep can see us or we will scare them and they will vamoose.

Matt nodded, breathless.

With laborious ritual, Dan assembled his old Redfield spotting scope, carefully wiping each lens. Cautiously, he pushed it before him as he crawled to the top of the ridge. Planting the tripod legs, he slowly rose up to take his position behind the lens.

Like surfers on a curling wave, the rams lay a mile away on the crest of a long, sinuous ridge. The talus ridge of ground-up bedrock had been pushed up by the edge of the glacier as it slowly flowed around the mountain. The rams faced in all directions. Dan knew they would be there. They had always favored the spot.

Although Matt was not aware, Dan had carefully navigated them to this spot, negotiating the air currents as carefully as a sailor, tacking this way and that in order to make it to the ridgetop’s downwind safe harbor without alerting the rams.

There you are, you big galoot. I’ve been saving you for someone special. I think that someone’s here with me now. After discovering him two years ago, Dan had kept close tabs on this ram without telling Cliff.

Matt! Slide on up here beside me. I think I’ve found your ram. Be careful; don’t get sky lined, or they’ll see us, and then they’ll be gone. Dan’s whispers revitalized the tired young man. Uncasing the binoculars that Cliff had loaned him, he quickly moved up.

See how deep his curl goes—below his jawline. That’s the mark of a long-horned ram! There … there! See the tips of his horns when he turned his head? That, my boy, is a forty-five-inch Wrangell ram. Good bases too! That’s the ram you said you wanted. Now all we have to do is get him. Dan had memorized the horns after watching the ram many times in the last two years.

That ram will score a hundred and eighty at a minimum.

Matt stared through the lens at the first live Dall ram he’d ever seen. He’s beautiful and elegant, like a king on a throne staring at his kingdom from under his crown of golden horns. He looks just like the mounted ram at Cliff’s house. That’s the one I want! I don’t care what my mom would say; I want to shoot that ram! At that moment, Matt joined the ancient and modern society of sheep hunters.

After waiting until evening, the guide and hunter finally made their move. They attempted a risky stalk—their only chance. Crawling around a boulder, Matt was momentarily sky lined. Instantly the big ram got to his feet, stared intensely in their direction, and then led the others away.

Hey, Matt. That’s okay. Sometimes the sheep win. It’s round one to the rams. We’ve got some more rounds left, though.

They stumbled back into camp late that night, aided by the feeble light of Dan’s head lamp. In the cook tent Matt, famished by the exercise in the mountain air, ate two amazingly large platefuls of moose roast, potatoes, creamed carrots, and fresh-baked sourdough bread. After a second piece of apple pie, he finally pushed himself back from the table, hands crossed over a rounded belly, a satisfied expression on his face.

Where does a skinny kid put all that? Jimmy ate like that too. That was probably the only time I saw Jimmy happy