| This is from Mike Hohwy. This is the best hunting story I have read in a
long time. Don't you just wish you were there. He send all his regards
and asked me to tell you all that he misses you folks a lot.
Waiting for Curly
=================
Copyright (C) 1993 by Michael Hohwy
Please feel free to use this story for non-profit reproduction
provided you display the original copyright statement. All other
rights reserved.
The sound of the shot rolled through the canyon, reflected by the
steep walls back to us where we lay on the ridge. There was no
visible reaction to the shot from the white ram. Together with his
three companions he twirled and ran down their side of the canyon.
At that moment I knew that my nightmare had come through: I had been
offered what could well be my only chance at a trophy ram, and I
had missed.
The story rightly begins a long time before that morning on the ridge
above Rachel Creek in the Nutsozin Mountains of Alaska. Countless
were the times over the years when I had dreamed about hunting some
of the most majestic game of this world, the wild mountain sheep.
I had eagerly let my dreams be nourished by devouring all the
litterature available on the subject. From Jack O'Conner over
Elgin Gates to Craig Boddington - it was all added to my fantasy.
Finally, I decided I could manage a sheep hunt financially and
started planning. Clark Jeffs from Safari Outfitters in Cody, Wyoming
provided me with a wealth of options and a service far beyond the
call of duty. He put me in touch with Ray McNutt's Wrangell Outfitters
in Chisana, Alaska. I liked the idea of Ray having outfitted the same
area for over 30 years, and I liked the testimony Ray's customers
gave him and the results he could show on Dall Sheep (as close to
100% as you get). I booked. Now I only had to make the eighteen months
pass until the hunt was to take place - I figured I could use the time
to save, get in shape and read and daydream some more about sheep
hunting.
As much as I enjoy all types of hunting, mountain hunting is closest
to my heart. As a perpetual lover of mountains the scenery provides
me with an endless source of joy. But I also appreciate the way
mountain hunting should be pursued, endless hours of glassing always
with the possibility of a hard climb and a stalk at the back of your
mind. To me, there is no hunting experience above that of taking an
animal after having stalked it on foot.
Finally the 1993 Alaskan sheep season drew near, and the 6th of August
saw me arrive in Tok after a long drive up from Anchorage. Already
awaiting me in the motel was my new hunting companion Larry Fritz of
Washington, and a more pleasant partner I could not have asked for.
The following morning we were scheduled to fly in to Ray's base camp on
Horsefeld Creek. The ususal mixture of delays kept us stranded in
Tok for an unplanned 7 hours - never plan an Alaskan hunt on
too tight a schedule. Finally in the afternoon we were ready for
takeoff. As much as I enjoy trips into the wilderness, I thoroughly
hate flying in small airplanes. And if anyone calls me yellow because
I don't like the combination of a small coffin with wings and
turbulence or high sidewinds, I'll have to concur. Enough said about
that flight - I am sure that from the pilot's point of view it was
quite uneventful.
Safely on the ground again, Larry and I could take in the scenery
on Horsefeld Creek and enjoy the amenities of Ray's impeccable
base camp - the 30 years of experience were already showing up.
Among the many colourful and pleasant people we met in camp that
evening, I was introduced to my guide for the next 12 days.
Reuben Hanke was born in Wyoming and growing up on his father's
ranch provided the perfect introduction to hunting and trapping.
He has called Alaska home for a good many years now, and, together
with his wife Kelly and their 3 children, he operates "Harry Gaine's",
a flourishing salmon fishing business on the Kenai River. Reuben is
a tall, powerful man, an expert with horses and has 7 years of
guiding experience with Ray. He also holds strong and outspoken
opinions on anything from Europeans to hippies and spins a good
yarn about his many hunting and packing trips in the backcountry
of Alaska. Never a dull moment in camp with Reuben.
One of the things that became apparent very quickly, was that Ray's
and Reuben's experience in hunting their area had made them develop
a mode of operation which does not necessarily coincide with what
I had read in all my books. Ray is very conservative about how many
sheep he takes out of his area, and he adheres to a principle of
minimal disturbance. He wants his hunters to get into
the hunting area, stay in there and come out again with minimal
disturbance of the animals and the area. He is proven right by his
track record and a very healthy average sheep trophy size of 37". That
is pretty good these days. Even more so considering other
outfitters in the area have an average a fair bit below that,
admittedly taking many more sheep out of their areas. In accordance
with his philosophy, Ray was only going to let us enter the hunting
area the day before the season opened - contrary to my home made
plans of spending some days in the area scouting before season opened.
But, when in Rome...,so we spent a couple of pleasant days in base
camp. I kept busy trying to make up for the lost opportunities of my
Danish childhood by plinking away with Ray's .22. The squirrels
smartened up to the new threat pretty quickly.
The morning of the 9th of August dawned rainful and gray. Fortunately
the excellent and ample breakfast which Ray's wife Gloria cooked us
cheered us up for the long ride in the rain. There are many times in
outfitted hunting when you have to realize that trying to help will
only cost the professionals doing the job extra time. As much as I
hate feeling like a piece of luggage, I had to content myself with
watching the horses get packed that morning. I was not exactly looking
forward to the longest horseback ride of my life - an estimated 8
hours from base camp. I imagined being unable to climb the mountains
the next day due to saddle sores, not a pleasant prospect on your first
and long dreamed for sheep hunt.
There are not that many areas in
Alaska where the country will support horses - in particularly during
the winter. It is a tribute to Ray and his people that he has a fine
string of range horses - even though it sometimes means wrangling
them from as far away as the Yukon part of the Alaska Highway. The
horses fend for themselves and come spring it is not easy to tell
how many will have braved the wolves and winter nor where they
may be keeping shop. Many hours in the saddle are required by the
wranglers, but by knowing the country and making sure the horses
stay in good shape during summer, most of the horses miraculously
make it.
The horses packed, the rain letting up, we set off in the late morning.
Our party consisted of apprentice guide and wrangler Jason, Reuben
and I with saddle horses and a packstring of four. We had not ridden
far when we spotted a magnificent caribou bull. He had great tops
and possibly double shovels. Alas, caribou season was still 20 days
away, so we let him and his lesser companions in peace and continued
on our way. That bull was marked in Reuben's mind for later clients,
though. Later we spotted a cow moose, and a bunch of Dall rams high
on a ridge. It was good to see the rams, they were living proof
that there were sheep in the country. As the hours slowly passed,
the sun gradually came out, and my discomfort in the saddle
grew. By the time we reached the drainage we were going to hunt
the sun was shining brightly over the green valley and I was feeling
pretty beat after 8 hours in the saddle. Fortunately, a few minutes
on foot was all that was required for the discomfort to disappear.
Spike camp was an amazingly comfortable affair with 2 wall tents
and cots packed in on horse back. The horses also meant that we had
an ample supply of food - we did not need a single freeze dried
meal on the entire trip. Truely, this was mountain hunting luxury!
Unsaddled and unpacked, while Reuben and Jason was still putting
the kitchen tent in order, I started glassing for sheep. Lo and
behold, after less than 2 minutes of glassing there were the first
sheep - high on the slope above camp, some way up the creek. They
turned out to be three rams of which one was legal. Over the
next couple of days we would have the opportunity to see these
rams repeatedly as they stayed above camp. We also spotted
several other bands of sheep that evening, and Reuben's prophesy
that the drainage held good numbers of sheep certainly was proven true.
It was also proven true that the bands of ewes and lambs and some
bands of immature rams tended to prefer the one side of the drainage,
with mature rams mostly spotted on the opposite side in a few
particular locations around the forks and headwaters of the creek.
We spent the first day of the sheep season glassing from the valley
bottom at the fork of the creek. Although we spotted several bands
of sheep, either there were no legal rams among them or they did not
match the ram we had seen the first evening. That ram we glassed
again in the afternoon after returning to camp. Reuben, with all
his experience, was pretty sure that was the ram we should
go for. Still, I requested that we look over the remainder of the
drainage before making a decision. Consequently, we left the ram
above camp and spent the next day making our way up to a pass above
the headwaters of the creek. As we came up there, we were caught
coldhanded out in the open by two of the rams we had spotted the day
before - we never saw them again. A pretty good example of the
risks involved in moving around in an area known to hold sheep,
without a plan to avoid detection. We spotted rams again that
day as we glassed from the wet and windy pass. They were too far away
to try anything and well positioned to spot any movement from our side.
While freezing up in the pass, Jason said he heard
two shots from the valley behind us. We never got a confimation
of that, but as we started moving down from the pass shortly after,
two or three bands of sheep came streaming over the ridge from that
watershed. They had us pinned down, and even in this band there was
not a ram as good as the one we had left above camp that morning.
Score yet another point to experience, it looked like Reuben was
right in his prophecy.
As we came back to camp that afternoon, the clouds had settled
in, and shortly after a rainstorm struck which was to last until
next morning. Yet in a freak break of the clouds we managed to
spot our old friend above camp - he and his two partners taking
very little notice of us - as long as we stayed in the valley.
By this time we had started calling the ram "Curly", and had decided
we would give him a try, if he stuck around long enough for us to
establish a pattern to his movement. As long as he stayed on the slope
just above us, we could see him, but making a move at him would
be next to impossible as we would be in full view whatever we attempted.
Still Reuben was confident. I was about to witness a lesson in
sheep hunting far removed from what my books had intended to
teach me, the lesson was: wait! Be patient, establish the habits of
your quarry, look for a weakness, but above all wait and glass.
Lessons learned from 30 years of sheep hunting.
The next day as the fog finally lifted, Curly and co. had vanished,
and my hopes of ever seeing the ram again sank. Reuben was more
confident, he stated that if the sheep had actually left he'd
eventually wash up in one of two other locations, and then we
would have a go at him. I was sceptical but still hopeful. We spent
that day glassing from camp, receiveing yet another lesson in
what happens when you walk into sheep country blindly. At noon Jason
spotted two hunters skylined on the ewe-side of the valley. It was
unlikely that they could make it down to us, but they proceded to patrol
the edge trying to spot sheep in the wall below them. I doubt if
they ever saw any of the sheep in that wall. All afternoon we
watched the sheep move out of the country well ahead of the hunters.
The wall of the valley was easily large enough to hold tens
of sheep and never allow you to see any unless you were where we
were - in front of the wall. By late afternoon I had almost given
up hope of spotting Curly again that day. As a matter of fact, I
was working hard on an afternoon nap, when Reuben came up to my
tent: "I've spotted your ram, come and see him". And, by Joe, there
he was. A bit further down valley on the same slope we had seen him
on the days before. Only 20 minutes did he allow us to admire him,
then he went back to the other side. We contemplated a move on him
right then and there, but Reuben still urged patience. The chances
that he would spot us moving up the slope would be too large before
we had him patterned. I swallowed hard, and tried to stay patient.
The next day the pattern repeated itself, glass from camp all day,
no Curly! As a matter of fact we did not see him all that day.
But come late afternoon, one of his companions
again could not resist the temptation of looking into our valley.
We saw him for maybe 20 minutes, and again our hopes returned.
Poor Reuben by now had a pretty hard time convincing me of the
virtues of patience. I must have thought up atleast a thousand
plans of how to stalk that ram - there was precious little else
to do (other than glass sheep). It was shortly after the ram went
back out of sight that a small plane came up along the valley, low
over the ridge following the wall all the way up to the end of
the valley and down the other side. It turned and did another pass
along the walls of the canyon. Needless to say we were not quite
speechless. What on earth was that pilot doing buzzing the ridge
where our ram was! We figured it was somebody involved in the
slightly dubious practice of trying to spot game from a plane. In
the end it turned out to be a plane from National Parks Service,
probably with the official purpose of checking out the outfitter's
camp. Regardless of the purpose, that plane made a pretty good stab
at running off the ram we were watching. Quite an extraordinary
behaviour for Parks Service with the explicit multiple purpose use
policy (including hunting) governing the area. We had no way of
knowing whether the rams were still there, so it was off to bed on
yet another nail biting hope that Curly would still be around.
The nightmares had started when we stayed in camp,
glassing for that one ram. It would not be entirely true to state
that the inactivity and psychological pressure did wonders to my
sleep. I started having recurring nightmares of all the things that
could possibly go wrong if and when we tried to make a move on the
sheep. He would spot us in the open, he would be spooked by too
much noise, or, worst of all, I would be presented with a shot and
inevitably miss. Strangely, the nightmarish scenes were often
interspersed with scenes of imagined triumph, the ram safely down.
This went on for two or three nights.It was probably all getting a
bit much for me. It was time to make a move - even Reuben agreed.
The next morning we got up at 5 AM, out of camp by 6. Fortunately
the weather was good and the ram did not poke his nose across to
our side of the ridge. We could only hope he would still be around
somewhere on the other side, plane and all. We had to cross the creek
and make our way over the floor of the valley to the bottom of
the slope. Once there, we discovered that shale slopes are extremely
noisy when you try to cross them. We continued making progress
along the slope, trying to make as little noise as possible. Reuben
had a wolwerine almost run over him before it spotted the human shape
and disappeared into the willow and alder bushes. More shale slopes
finally brought us to the bottom of the grassy spur which we had
planned to follow to the top of the ridge. The good news was that
the slope was probably not nearly as high as it had looked from
camp, maybe 1000 feet. The bad news was that it was pretty steep and
the shale made it noisy. Up we went, trying to use whatever vegetation
we could find for hand and footholds as well as to cut down on the
noise of the shifting stones of the shale. We knew that we had to pass
two rock steps to gain access to the central - more grassy - part
of the spur. The first proved to be little trouble, the rock
gloriously solid offering an easy scramble. The second rock step
was more difficult. While in no means high, the rock was loose and
no hand or footholds seemed to be trustworthy. I remember struggling
to find a way up it, and thinking that Reuben could atleast have
stayed on top of the step to free me of the akward burden of the
rifle - rifles and rockclimbing don't mix. I finally managed to
get up the last step, with judicious use of a loose foothold which
promptly broke off as I transferred my weight away from it. Phew!
The first thing I saw above me was Reuben with a grin on his face
clearly saying: "Ah, you made it as well, that was interesting wasn't
it?" And I suppose it was - once above it. Above the steps the spur
was still very steep, but the grassy surface provided for excellent
footholds, and we made good progress. As we neared the top of the
spur, we were running out of grass to step on, and had to carefully
weave our course upwards from grass patch to grass patch. Every
step had to be more silent than ever. Finally we reached a small
grassy saddle on the ridge, got out of our backpacks and slowly
bellied our way up to have a peek. We had been stalking and climbing
for about one and a half hour since we left camp. At that moment
in time I decided it did not matter too much if the ram had moved
off, this was some of the most exciting hunting I had ever experienced!
I kept below the ridge to minimize our signature, and when Reuben
came worming down again he said: "There are two rams below us
in the creekbed and two out on the tip of this ridge. The ones
in the creekbed are an awful long way off, maybe 500 yards". I
said, I thought that was too long to chance a shot, besides we were
not beat yet. The pressure was steadily mounting. Reuben moved up
to glass from a higher vantage point while I tried to find some
clothes out my pack that would be both warm and silent for any
imminent stalk. Presently, Reuben came down again and announced that
the two rams on the tip of the ridge had run down to join the
two grassing in the creekbed. We would have to try to make it to
the saddle the two rams had just left, and maybe, only maybe, we
could get a shot at the rams in the canyon. In any event it would
be a long shot. I tried to steel myself against the disappointment of
possible failure as we put on our backpacks again and readied
ourselves for a stalk along our side of the ridge.
We probably only had to cover about 200 yards, but we had to
stay low enough on our side of the ridge to stay out of sight.
That, and the ever present problem of stepping on noisy shale, plus the
wind which blew from one direction one minute and from the opposite
corner the next, were our main problems. In the end it took us
another one and a half hour to make the 200 yards, one foot
painstakingly set in front of the next. Talk about an exciting
stalk! It was impossible
to avoid noise completely, but we were hoping that the distance to
the rams would keep the sound from reaching them. Besides, mountain
animals will accept a certain amount of "natural" mountain sounds
without spooking. Fingers crossed we crept forward, knees bent
forward to lower ourselves below the ridge. At one stage we reached
a grassy patch and left our backpacks. That made progress easier, but
we still had to cross the last slope before we reached our goal.
That slope was made of what appeared to be rain compacted dirt. Before
we ventured out onto it, Reuben offered the advice: "once on the
slope, don't stop". Indeed, that strategy made crossing the slope
possible, but looking down while on the slope was not advisable.
Fortunately the dirt was dry and held footholds silently kicked in
fairly well. We had reached the grassy saddle at the end of the ridge.
We crawled up towards the very tip of the ridge, Reuben angrily
signalling me to get down on my belly as I crawled forward
on all fours. Boy, this was almost too much excitement to handle!
As we were just below the edge of the ridge, Reuben silently asked
for my rifle and soundlessly slid a cartridge into the chamber. I
had practised that maneuver, but Reuben had the most experience.
Meanwhile I took my soft hat and gloves from my pocket and held
them in my left, rifle on safety in my right hand as we wormed
up to the ridge. There they were! Unspooked the four rams were
feeding on the other side of the canyon. Reuben was right, it would
be a long shot. While he started to glass the rams, I
settled in behind a slight ground swell, using my hat and gloves
as a rest for the rifle forearm. I had decided to hunt with my
Winchester, M70 Supergrade in .300 Win. Mag., a cartridge which
is almost certainly more powerful than required for a thin skinned
animal like a sheep. Yet, as I turned my scope up to 6x (too much
power is a liability if the rest is not absolutely perfect) I was
happy to have the .300 for the shot offered. Reuben took the glasses
down and whispered: "Curly is the one on the bottom, they are 300
yards away. Wait until he stands broadside". I was settled in
beautifully behind my makeshift rest, not even needing to hold
onto the foreend of the rifle. I felt confident I could make the
shot. It was the longest shot I had ever attempted,
but the rest made the crosshairs steady on the upper shoulder
of the white ram. He turned. I started my trigger squeeze.
The sound of the shot rolled through the canyon, reflected by the
steep walls back to us where we lay on the ridge. There was no
visible reaction to the shot from the white ram. Together with his
three companions he twirled and ran down their side of the canyon.
At that moment I knew that my nightmare had come through: I had been
offered what could well be my only chance at a trophy ram, and I
had missed. I'm not quite sure what I said at that moment, but
I can't imagine it was fit for a sunday school. I jacked another
round into the chamber, and jettisoned my rest to get ready for
a running shot. Reuben kept his cool, though, he cautioned: "don't
shoot, they are coming closer". And indeed they were, as they were
running down the slope the distance to us diminished. Presently
they stopped, obviously confused about where the shot had come from.
As they stopped Reuben urged me to shoot again, but I could not
do so without danger of hitting the trophy. I held my fire. The
ram turned. Eyes glued to his binoculars, Reuben said: "He is hit".
And indeed, as he turned I could see a bright red spot on his side.
But he was still capable of running away, so I let fly again. This
time I saw his reaction to the shot clearly. Even then he did not
go down, and by now I was pretty exited, and not about to stop
shooting. I fired again. This time he fell and slowly slid backwards
down the slope. It was all over.
Reuben and I both got to our knees, he shouted: "You did it, you
killed Curly!". Then we fell into a massive bearhug while shouting
and in general acting foolishly exited. The 3 other rams had stopped
to look after their missing leader, they looked at us disbelievingly
before slowly moving up their side of the canyon.
We continued our celebrations. Reuben kept saying: "That was the best
god d... shooting I have ever seen". Flattered, I would like to
believe him, but in all honesty it had not been all that hard a first
shot due to the rest, for the following shots I had been too excited
to be conscious of proper shooting techniques. Our celebrations
finally dying down, we went back up the ridge to pick up our
backpacks and made our way down a steep shale slide, down to the
little creek below. When we reached the ram on the other side, Reuben
said to me: "You know this is funny, this morning when we left camp,
I said to myself that this ram would be for my baby girl, and now
we shot him on Rachel creek bearing her name. I'll tell her about
this ram one day".
After pictures, we caped and cut up the ram. I was relieved to see
that I had not missed the ram with any of my shots. It was too
confusing to tell which shot had hit where. He had three holes
in one side of the ribcage and two on the other side plus an entry
hole further back. As we prepared to move off, Reuben packed the head
and cape plus one half of the meat. I took the other half. Even with
only one third of the load plus my gear, I'm sure I had atleast
70-80 lbs of weight. I don't even care to guess what Reubin carried.
Slowly we made our way down. Fortunately we were just outside of
camp, and made it there in only an hour. Pretty luxurious as far
as packing sheep goes! My sheep was typical of the area in which he
was taken. He had very light coloured horns with a fairly shallow
curl. His long tips gave him good length, though, and he measured
in at 38 7/8 and 38 6/8. Reuben kept saying the ram would have
made 40 inches earlier that season, before he started brooming.
I did not really care, he was all the ram I could possibly hope for.
Furthermore, we had taken him the best way of all, coming
into the drainage not knowing what we would find, waited him out,
established a pattern, taking advantage of his weakness with a
well executed - and lucky - stalk on foot. What more can you ask
for? I cannot praise Reuben enough for his skills, patience and
drive when we finally made a move. That was a sterling performance.
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If you don't mind, I will put the stats at the bottom (that way you have
to read this, since I am pretty proud of this guy, my first one!!)
Saturday in the mountains of NH was very windy and fairly warm. All through
the morning we were pushing through the beechnut swamps and hemlock swamps
since they were all loaded with tracks/rubs/scrapes. Morning stands were
un-eventfull (except a bear I watched walk across a clear cut on the way
in in the morning, saw him for about 5 minutes at about 200
yards).
After a brief meeting for lunch (5 of us), we split up myself, uncle and
cousin went up the hill. My father and uncle went up the logging road to
push another swamp. Once into the woods, I suggested we push through the
hemlock swamp again, very very slowly. My uncle went up the middle, me to
the high edge, cousin to the low edge. After about 30 minutes of this,
I heard someone below me shoot twice. I waited for couple of minutes to
see if something would come out at the speed of light, nothing. I started
angling down into the middle (we had agreed to do it like this). When I
started moving I heard two shots way in back of me, figured it was my father
or uncle. On I went into the swamp, slow as I could go. I crashed through
a particulary thick section, breaking a 4 inch tree in the process, in
other words, far from quietly. I had just stepped into a somewhat
thinner area when I saw him, walking directly perpendicular to me, 25 yards
out. Saw the antlers (bucks only area) and raised my gun. To this point
I had not breathed since seeing him, not intentionally. Through the scope
I could see him, but lots and lots of branches between us. There was
a pine blow down halfway to him. If I let him walk further he would be gone.
I side stepped to the left about 10 feet, somehow, he never noticed me.
I raised the gun again, and shot. Down he went. I watched through the scope
for a few seconds, then started around the blow down, when I cleared the blow
down, he started to raise his head (in hindsight, I think it was just a nerve
twitch, but he wasn't gonna get away from me :-) ), so I shot in the neck
and down went the head.
It wasn't until I got closer and started around him that I got a good look
at the antlers, I just about fell over......
Date: Nov 13
Time: 2:00 pm
Place: Easton NH
Weapon: remington 742, .30-06, 150 gr
Distance: ~25 yards
Shot: Neck
Distance after shot: 0 (best kind)
Weight: 171 pounds
Rack: 9 points
Measurements (all guess), long tines are about 7 inches, outside spread
is about 14 inches, girth at base of antlers is about 4 inches.
The shots I heard that made me come down, were my cousin, busting him out
of bed and missing once, nicking the front leg once. The drag was alot of
fun, all I can say is thank god for cousins that are built like an ox!!!
The shots I heard behind me, before I shot, were my uncle:
Same date/time/place
Weapon: Ruger 44 mag
Distance : 130 yards (hell of a shot if you've seen the ballistics)
Distance after shot: 0, got up once, but was quickly convinced back down.
Weight: 125
points: 4.
Funny part was, they never heard my shots. My father showed up at the trucks
after dark, looking for the "young muscle", My uncle told him, we were off
checking in my deer, he almost fell over!.
A great day, two deer, my first, and my father was there to see.
--Bob
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