RC
After last year's “no tag cut” sheep hunt, Helen and I once again pointed our noses north in search of her first Stone sheep ram.
1000 km of pavement, 400 ‘clicks’ of gravel (complete with one flat tire), 130 km in a 185 on floats, 10 km on foot to a base camp and we were at it again!
We picked up a horse trail about 4 km up the drainage (came in from a side valley) that made the pack in a bit easier.
We set up a camp at about 6000’ and headed out in different directions each day...
… except for this day…
We searched high and wide…
… but not a sheep did we find.
So in the last few days of our trip we turned our attention to goats, somewhat accidentally as I was glassing a side hill and spotted a Billy as he moved out of one hollow to the next. Helen had a tag so an hour later we were creeping down the side of the mountain to where I was sure I had correctly land-marked his location. Much to Hel’s surprise I was right this time and, after initially freezing for what turned out to be a large white rock, we saw the top of a goat’s back, its hair rippling in the wind.
We made ourselves small on the side of the mountain.
The goat disappeared behind the rise.
“What’s the plan?” queried Helen
“Wait”
“What?”
“Wait” I said again. “It will probably feed its way out in a minute”. Surprisingly that’s what happened. A few minutes later the Billy strolled out from behind the small hump and without so much as a glance our way, stood and surveyed the valley below. Being right twice in one day was indeed a big accomplishment for me but I didn’t dwell on it too long.
He was 70 metres away.
I watched him through my bino’s and Hel had him lined up in the scope of her muzzleloader.
“Is he a good one?” she asked.
“Not too bad” I said. “Looks bigger than your last one”
“Should I take him?”
“Up to you”
“ShouldIshoothim!?”
“Your call”
I thought for a very brief moment she was going to let him walk, but then a roll of thunder and a cloud of smoke let me know she had sparked the powder in her Knight .50.
For once I was on the right side of her cannon and smoke didn’t obscure my view of the goat. He hunched up like he was hit hard, looked up the mountain at us, looked back down at the valley, turned and took 3 steps and fell over stone dead.
Hel had taken her second muzzleloader goat.
The pack out to the lake was one of the tougher ones I’ve done.
I realized it was going to be trouble when we had all our camp divvied up and loaded, and I also had most of the de-boned goat and the whole hide, and I went to stand up with my pack on. I tried to roll forward to get up… nothing budged. I tried to roll from one side to the other to get the weight under me… nothing budged. This wasn’t going to be good.
I got Hel to come over and lift the pack and push me forward at the same time and finally I staggered to my feet.
Once upright, the 150+ lb/69kg pack (I weighed it when I got home) didn’t feel too bad… for the first 400 metres. Then my hips started to protest this injustice. At 51 my bumper to bumper warrantee has long since expired but I figured if I might need “after-market” replacement parts this was going to tell me, so I was happy it was only my hips that were ticked off- they’d get over it. The “you’re too old for this shite” side of the brain kept piping up with that statement but then the optimistic side said “hey you’re still able to do it!” 5 km in the “too old” side was starting to win the argument. We might have to bring the kids next year.
The 10 km pack out to the lake was fairly uneventful, except for a terrifying moment when I stepped off a small bank and a rock rolled out from under my back foot. I pitched over to my left and managed to plant the trek pole into the rocks of the creek bed to stop me from going over. My back leg was stretched out and partially bent (like doing a lunge) and all the pack weight was on my rear leg and pole. I looked down and the Leki pole was bent like one of my strung recurves and at the angle I was at I couldn’t stand back up. I was really hoping that pole would hold and not snap and pitch me into the creek bed.
“Ahh, Helen!” I believe there was a tone of urgency to my voice.
Was I ever glad to see the lake. There were a couple of airline sized shots of whiskey in the “lake bag” and 40 Creek and hot chocolate never tasted that good. That and a couple of fresh trout for dinner put a happy stamp on the end of our trip.
Tim and the “Fresh Air” Cessna picked us up the following day and we had a beautiful flight back.
So strike two on the sheep but another goat for Hel and a fine adventure regardless.
The remote areas are my "happy place". Moose hunting up next in October.
I know I have said it before but I'm sure I would have trouble sleeping over there. 
