6th Prize
Hunting Journal with Weatherby Logo (100 awarded)
Bill Everett, Pennsylvania
“The mountain monarch scanned the lush valley below from high atop the secret promontory he called home. There he lay calmly chewing his cud, feeling secure resting in a well-hidden alpine basin.
Then the much hoped for happened, as one-by-one hicks well-rested bachelor buddies rose to their feet and began stretching their heavily muscled bodies. Finally the king of the mountain followed suit just as shards of sunlight pierced the clouds of a glorious August day high in the remote interior of Alaska.
The monarch wore massive 40-inch tawny-colored horns. Thick at the base they swept long, wide and deep; ending in magnificant matching spiraled curls. The snow white coat of the trophy only served to add to his breathtaking beauty. His majesty truly was lord and master of all he surveyed, and we both knew it. I gazed in slack-jawed amazement from a slate covered ridge shooting distance away. Through the scope sitting atop my Mark V Ultra Lightweight .270 Weatherby Magnum, I aged him at about 9-10 years old.
The moment of truth had arrived and the time was at hand to hopefully fulfill my lifelong dream of taking what I consider to be the most majestic member of the sheep family—a trophy Dall’s ram! My trembling index finger slowly applied pressure to the curl of the trigger just as the crosshairs settled low and tight hind an ivory front shoulder. Seemingly in a time-warp, my heart beat slowed and I methodically exhaled half of my lung’s contents. Steadily, but deliberately, the muscles in my trigger finger began to tighten followed by ‘BANG!’
The beginnings of this hunt were born years ago while thumbing the dogged-eared pages of Outdoor Life. There, tucked inside, were articles written by one of the most famous hunters the world has ever known—Jack O’Conner; the gun writing gurn and sheep hunting aficionado. I vircariously accompanied him on his every hunting adventure to hunt what has become to me the top big game trophy in the world—the Dall’s sheep. With lustful desire I vircariously read and re-read everything I could about this big game animal and how to hunt him. I devoured every article and savored every work printed about this magnificent creature hoping that maybe, just maybe I might one day be able to hunt him.
But why the Dall’s sheep? Well for myself and many a big game hunter ‘OVIS DALLI DALLI’ is the most coveted prize among all of North American big game. I am a connoisseur of all things wild and like many consider wild mutton to be the finesst of all game meats. This thin-horned sheep is a creature of beauty and wears a magnificent year- round coat of white pelage. In spring and summer his dazzling fur coat can be seen from miles away. Dall’s sheep spend much of their time grazing in lush mountain meadows well above timberline on peaks that seem to scrape the sky. Their home encompasses the high lonesome of the far north and his range extends from the northwest and Yukon territories to our great state of Alaska.
Ah if there is one place that I would like to leave boot tracks before I meet my maker it is Alaska—the last frontier. The beautiful scenery coupled with the rich abundance of a wide variety of game animals must truly be something to behold. Wild and beautiful it is blessed with a bounty of awe-inspiring mountains in such places as the Wrangell, Chugach and Alaska ranges. Rich populations of sheep, moose, caribou, wolf and bear inhabit ‘Seward’s Folly’ and beckon to the hunter. Ma Nature must have spent a lot of time creating this great place and all of its magnificent creatures.
Hunting a trophy sheep is to many sportsmen, including myself and my son, Billy, the grandest and most difficult of all types of hunting. Most Dall country is a place so rough that horses fear to tread, but is a place sheer hunters on foot must go. To me there is nothing more gratifying than pushing oneself to his or her physical and mental limits in order to achieve the goal of bagging a trophy big animal. This is certainly the case with the Dall’s sheep.
In order to successfully hunt him, it is wise to know this noble adversary. The sheep hunter must work high above timberline, often scaling peaks that reach to the clouds. Always he has a vast panarama of a wild, lonely country spread out below him. And it is the norm rather than the exception, that the climbing that must be done to reach sheep paradise is not only difficult but also dangerous. To me nothing can compare to seeing a massive set of golden spiraling horns sitting atop the ivory white body of a fine old ram.
After years of planning and waiting my sheep hunt was finally coming to fruition and would be shared with ‘my best hunting buddy’, Billy Jr.—my son of 18 years. A true sportsman. He has been hunting with me since he was 12. He too has been fatally bitten by the sheep hunting bug—and what could be more enjoyable than father and son sharing the hunt of a lifetime together high among the clouds with soaring eagles deep in Alaska’s remote interior.
August the 14th finally arrived and brought us to a secluded landing strip high in a seculed meadow in the Chugach Mountains. The bush plane ride in was spectular as we were treated to some of the most breathtaking scenery to be found anywhere on planet Earth. Gear was unloaded and we talked sheep hunting with our guide until deep into the starlit night. Finally the babbling of a nearby brook lulled us to sleep. Visions of Dall’s (the four-legged kind) danced in our heads until the shrillness of the alarm clock brought us to consciousness.
I hurriedly exited the cabins squeaky door to answer a ‘nature call’ only to be greeted by a heaven awash with the glow of the Northern Lights. After a hearty rib-sticking oatmeal breakfast, our guide and the hunters geared up and began the hours long trek that would eventually take us to the top of a rocky escarpment several grueling miles away. We wrestled our way through several hundred yards of alders—finally freeing ourselves of the octopus-like branches. We broke out into an alpine basin while dawn was still only a promise. After a breather we continued our lung-busting climb onward and upward guided only by the light from a dazzling array of glowing stars. Muscles ached and chests heaved as we neared our destination—a high unnamed peak with a commanding view of long, lush valleys dropping off on all sides. I sure was glad that I was toting the Weatherby Mark V Ultralight on this hunt, as it only tipped the scales at an amazingly light 6¾ pounds!
In the dead stillness of the pre-dawn darkness we retrieved binoculars from our sweaty daypacks waiting for enough light to begin our search for a trophy ram. A gun metal sky slowly gave way to a cornucopia of pre-dawn colors that slowly bleed across the horizon. Long slides of grey shale disappeared into lush valleys below and awakened a multitude of rainbow colored meadows as far as the eye could see. My son and I gazed in as we took in the wonder of the moment and then silently looked at each other—sharing yet another of those golden moments afield. It was as if we were in heaven and didn’t have to die to get there.
An excited nudge by our guide brought us out of our trance. While gazing at the wonders of God’s creation, he belly-crawled over to a rocky outcrop to check a hidden valley. As he peeked over the escarpment and scanned the area he noticed several ivory colored rams bedded in a grassy meadow atop an overlook not 250 yards away.
Getting back to the beginning of this story; we slowly manauevered into position and I created a solid rest with my fanny pack and its contents. My face caressed the cheekpiece of the Weatherby Synthetic Composite stock as the buttplate found its home in the cleft of my right shoulder. Snake-like my index finger coiled around the trigger and readied itself to launch 130 grains of solid copper from Weatherby’s TSX bullet—hopefully into the mountain king’s vitals. Half a breath of thin high altitude air was exhaled and the crosshairs locked onto target. I felt confident in making the shot. Afterall I was cradling a legendary Weatherby and nothing shoots flatter, hits harder or is more accurate.
I could sense my departed father’s presence and thoughts of him flashed through my mind. Silently I asked him to intercede and guide my bullet home. To this day I am so grateful to him for introducing me to this great sport of hunting.
Hunter and rifle became one and the rifle cracked, echoing across the valley not unlike claps of thunder rolling across the sky. 3400 FPS later the monarch slumped back to earth and lay still less than three football fields away.
Father and son rocketed across the scree, like a jets leaving an aircraft carrier, to claim my trophy all the while shouting at the top of our voices, ‘We got him!’ ‘I did it!’ Suddenly and without warning it happened! I felt something violently grab me by the shoulder, and I could hear someone shouting,‘Bill!’ ‘Bill!’ I shook with disbelief! It was my wife, Donna, and I was only dreaming. Heartbroken I began wiping the sleep from my eyes. But maybe, just maybe this story will have a happy ending and my lifelong dream to hunt Dall’s sheep will soon be coming true.”