2010 Nevada Desert Bighorn, by Mike Glock

On this seventh day, Christmas Eve, I was to hunt alone. The other three guys were going to split up and search some different areas that we had not investigated before. I sat down just before sunrise and started to scan an area of the range that I had not viewed before. As I started to scan the mountains before me, both five miles left and five miles right, I began to see some white spots that might be likely candidates for the famous white rump of desert bighorn. The heat waves were starting early this day and starting to have an effect on the clarity of what I was seeing, even before the sun rose on the terrain in front of me. I knew I would have to see/find as many as potential candidates as possible in the next few minutes before the distortions eliminated my ability to see. I was thinking that I would not have more than 30 minutes of viewing this morning.

 With the heat waves obscuring all but the white dots directly in front of me, I was seeing movement, but couldn’t make out horns, or the lack of. As with all spotting for bighorns, seeing one will often turn into several. Today was no exception. As I concentrated on the two dots in front of me, I began to see more, but the view was rapidly degrading. Then I notice the horns. My heart jumped. Then, I saw more horns. I started to shake. Two rams! I started to breathe faster. Then three, four, and eventually five rams. I knew that for me to be able to identify a horn from five miles away, these guys had to be worth a closer look. As it turned out, they all fed or worked themselves out of my sight behind a canyon rim within 10 minutes.

 It was now 8am and I didn’t want to leave the moment or take the time to drive up and down the mountain range to search for one of my remaining helpers to go with me. So, I loaded up my pack with spotting scope, tripod, food, water, clothes, camera, GPS, meat bags, knives, a saw, flashlight(s) and the rest of the usual first aid and trip saving gear that I pack. With my 15x binoculars around my neck and my rifle on my shoulder, I set out through the Joshua forest with 30 lbs of gear on my back.

 After an hour and a half of hoofing through 50-foot deep ravines and dodging some, less than friendly cactus species, I was starting to feel the weight of the pack. I knew that making the stalk to the top of the range was within my ability, but I was tiring and only half way to the summit ridge. I was wishing for one of my helpers, more like praying for one.

 I had forgotten to turn off my walkie-talkie last night and the batteries toast. Great, I thought to myself, but not a deal-breaker. Together with a spare pair of AAs in my pack and those from my handheld GPS, I replaced the 4 dead batteries and attempted a call to any of my remaining helpers that might be in the area. Scott answered immediately. I sighed with relief. Scott and Chuck were close, parked at my pickup. I set out a white meat bag over a Joshua cactus for a marker. At 23 years old, Scott closed that 2-1/2 mile, ravine gouged, cactus infested distance in 45 minutes. Youth has a lot of advantages, especially at this moment.

 After transferring the spotting scope and tripod to Scott, we continued on. Reaching the summit, we dropped the packs and the spotting scope. Now, I wonder why I brought it along. I gave Scott the 15x binoculars in hopes that he would be able to tell me if any of the rams were of an acceptable size, and which one would be the largest. I also gave him my slope indicating rangefinder. At distances beyond 350 yards, I would need to compensate for bullet drop.

 The excitement was huge for both of us, increasing with every step. As with all stalks, the terrain is never what you expect when you arrive at the last few yards, especially from 5 miles away. We inched over a spot that appeared to be the rim of the canyon where I had last seen the rams. Crawling on our toes and elbows, we move down into the canyon 20 or more feet. No sheep! It had been 6 hours since I last saw them and I began to wonder if they had moved on or if we were in the wrong canyon. Scott was probably thinking I had made the whole thing up.

 Slowly we returned to the ridgeline and moved to another location with a different view of the canyon below. Literally, inching forward, we again crawled with our toes and elbows. Now at 2pm, we were in the shadow of the canyon rim and took up a rest to search the rocks and ledges below us. No Sheep! I began to feel that sick, dejected feeling and started to relax, losing some of that excitement.

 Scott was scanning for white or movement in the shadows below. Nothing. As each second passed, so did the adrenaline of the stalk and the anticipation of seeing those big horns. With only my gun in hand, I couldn’t stand to wait for Scott’s assessment and began scanning with my scope. At 20 power, the field of view is very small, and the scanning is slow. It was so slow that it was almost not worth doing, but I had to do something.

 Then it happened. I saw one! One with horns! Big horns! Oh, my God! My heart must have jumped 50 beats in a split second. I turned my head and whispered to Scott, I see them. But, I had only seen one. I looked again but couldn’t find him. Scott couldn’t find him. From our location, I knew we were totally exposed and visible to the ram. I began to panic. Fearful of the sheep seeing us in our sitting positions, I laid flat and told Scott where to look. He still couldn’t find the ram. With every second, my heart raced faster. I couldn’t find him again either. Through my shaking and rapid scanning, everything in my scope turned into a blur. Then I saw him again, but only one, and he was bedded. I refined my description to Scott. My panic was building, fearful of the ram seeing us and bolting. He only needed to run 50 yards to a point that he would be out of our sight. I still had no idea if he was big enough to shoot.

 After what seemed like an eternity, Scott picked “them” up. Them, turned out to be 8 rams! All were bedded and probably asleep. 16 open eyes would have surely seen us. Scott told me which one was the biggest. There was no doubt, even from my small view of the herd. Only one had the mature look of squared up horns that extended below the jaw line. Scott ranged the ram at 309 horizontal yards. Still somewhat fearful of the herd bolting I hurried a shot into the middle of the body of that big ram. I heard the famous “thud” of the bullet striking flesh.

 The herd sprang to attention, but not moving far from their beds. Scott told me that I must have missed. I was excited, but I had a good rest on a rock and couldn’t believe that I’d missed. At this moment I was heavily dependent on Scott to convince me that I needed to shoot again, and at which one to shoot, because I was confident that there was a dead ram lying below. Seeing that set of mature horns again convinced me that Scott was correct. This time, I made a steadier shot through his front shoulder. He dropped to his belly and didn’t move. As it turned out, the first shot did strike him, just behind the rib cage. This is one time that luck was on my side because he could have easily run with a shot in his intestines.

 While the adrenaline from the excitement eased, we talked with hushed voices and watched the remaining rams for 15 minutes. They were like loyal soldiers waiting for their leader. I don’t know how long they stayed with him because time was growing short for us. Now at 2:30, we needed to get moving. It would be another hour before we could reach the ram and be able to see how large or small he really was.

 Returning to our packs, we made a radio call to Chuck to let him know of our success and situation. An experienced hunter himself, Chuck was jokingly critical of me taking two shots. Agreeing with him, we laughed and exchanged a few sarcastic digs at each other.

 To reach the ram, Scott and I negotiated about a dozen 6-8 foot vertical rock walls before we turned into the canyon at approximately the ram’s elevation.  After a few yards, we could see him two terraces below us.  Scott reached him first.  I asked him what he thought. He replied, “short of 160”.  After seeing the ram, I agreed.  I’d seen a few sheep over the years, but usually miss by about 5 inches.  Regardless, he was my ram and I was happy.

 As required by Nevada regulations, all rams harvested in the State must be measured and the horns plugged with a unique pin by an NDOW official within a few days of the kill.  Three days later, they aged my ram at 7 years and scored him unofficially at 167 inches. According to NDOW”s tabulated data for the Unit, this is the largest ram taken in the last ten years, and second largest on record.  (Scott and I were apparently a bit off in our estimates.)  I feel very fortunate that he scored as high as he did.

 Although he’s now at a taxidermist and I’ll be waiting for about a year to see him again, the memory of every detail of that experience and my appreciation for those who helped me will be with me forever.  I can’t wait to go again.