Greg wakes us all up at 6.00, and immediately announces we are at battle-stations.
On the mountain where Jay saw his sheep yesterday there are now seven beautiful white shapes grazing. This place is like a zoo. The landing-strip beside our camp runs south-east to north-west, according to the compass in the GPS. The rams are in a north-eastern direction from us. It's not so much of a mountain, more the ridge of a hill, which is exactly parallel to the runway, but a little bit longer. The rams are on the side facing us - otherwise we wouldn't be able to see them..- so we don't have to move at all to keep an eye on them. Between the ridge and the runway, about 150 ft from us, is a small rise. It doesn't block our field of vision, as it only covers the lower part of the ridge and the rams are in the middle. There's a quick debate about how best to approach them. We can go from the left, the right, or even the middle.
Our guides retire together, to discuss tactics.
Finally, the white smoke rises: a decision has been reached. As clearly as we can see the rams, they can see us; as well as each foot of the path leading towards them. There aren't many places to hide along the way, so there's not really any point in leaving. Slowly, but surely, the sheep are drifting towards the top of the ridge, so it seems that waiting is the best solution. We are waiting for them to reach the top and go down the other side. Then we can set off in a straight line to the ridge, and either by going over the top, or around the sides, we will be able to creep up on the sheep. So, standing beside our packed rucksacks, we watch the sheep intently and bide our time.
Even though we have different guides, Jay and I will head in the same direction. There's no point in separating now, with one of us having to look for a different place to hunt. As we can see, both of us will be able to pick a suitable male with spiralling horns from this company of seven. There's no breakfast, which I find very painful, so I eat a couple of Snickers bars instead. I put a few more in my pocket, but meanwhile, using our binoculars and the one and only spotting scope, we keep our eyes glued on the sheep. We take everything out of our rucksacks so that we'll be ready to move quickly.
At last, at 8.00, Greg gives the order to leave.
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We go to the left of the hill, beneath the ridge; the guides consider this our best option. We've travelled about 2500 ft when Greg turns and asks me if I have all my different permits on me.
Needless to say, I haven't. In order to reduce the weight of my pack, I removed the top part; and, of course, the permits are in there. I dump my rucksack and race back to the camp. All that hard training is finally paying off. I collect the permits and rush back. We are now walking along the banks of the stream that provides our water supply. There is no path, and as we go forward we have to cross it several times. Eventually we get to the rim of the ridge, the point at which we have to go round the hill.
But the rams have been very crafty.
They are lying down at a strategic point, just under the lip of the ridge, from where they can keep an eye on the entire area, including the part that we intended to use to creep up on them. And what's more, one has come down and is standing on the only path leading up to them.
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Another discussion. What shall we do, and how shall we do it? What should our tactics be?
Between us and the sentry lies an open, exposed area. The undergrowth is no higher than 12ins
- too low for us to crawl through. We have to find a solution... Greg and the other guides decide that we'll use an unusual and adventurous type of camouflage. With their knives they cut down four complete bushes, which we are going to hold in front of ourselves as we make our way across the wide danger zone. I examine the bush I'm given and decide to hold it in front of my chest, as my pants are already camouflaged. It's quite heavy, and will be difficult to carry. We are warned that we will have to walk in a single file. Our group must appear as small as possible to the sentry, to reduce our chance of being spotted. Stealthily, we begin. I can see nothing but Jay's bag and the bush he is holding; I've no idea what's going on at the front. We stop every 30
ft, and the guides talk together in low voices; we are progressing slowly.
We have been successful.
Though we almost broke our necks navigating the swampy, uneven bog.
Now that we are beneath the rams' mountainside we don't need to worry about being seen; they are right above us. A small river runs at the foot of the mountain, and we continue our pincer movement along its banks. The mountain looks like a collection of huge rocks, just thrown together, and the inhospitable terrain reaches right down to the riverbank; but there is no other way. There is a murderous stretch coming up, which promises broken ankles. We are trying to balance on the rocky river bank, wearing our rucksacks, our binoculars getting in the way, and still dragging the bushes along in case we need them later. That is how we have to stagger over the rocks. We are dripping with sweat from effort and concentration, and the temperature is starting to rise. Our foursome begins to move apart, as we warn each other about the unstable boulders. After this dangerous section Greg announces a halt. The pincer movement is in its final phase, and we are now behind the ridge.
We can't go any higher.
The rams have picked an extremely inaccessible place to rest, and it cannot be approached from the front, back, or side without being seen. This is only our first day hunting, and there's no point in upsetting the animals with a hopeless stalk. This is the final decision - there's no appeal. We will never be able to get to these seven rams today; they have won. There's another hill, beyond the rams' slope - quite a few of them, in fact - and the current belief is that we'll find a complete ram-farm on the other side. There'll be so many that we won't be able to move without treading on them. This, anyway, is what Greg says to comfort us. And we need to be comforted, as the
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peak looks very high - that's just a minor problem - and is composed of huge, sharp rocks. I've seen many mountains, and this is the type of ground I'm most afraid of, and consequently, like the least. The entire business with the mountain seems a bit dubious. But, as it would be useless waiting for the rams to come down, we set off. Getting there isn't easy. For the first 600-900 ft we follow a caribou trail, but that leads us to a river, which separates us from the mountain. There's no other choice: we must cross it.
Everyone, except me, takes some strange footwear out of their rucksacks. They can best be described as waders that fit over your boots. By putting them over their boots, my companions get waterproof insulation up to the middle of their thighs. I don't have anything like this; I've never even seen them before. With careful steps, the others cross the river. There are parts where the water might go over the tops of their waders, so they have to proceed very cautiously. Jay has the best waders, and Greg brings them back over for me. I start. The river current is very strong, and the waders slip on the wet rocks; I only just manage to keep my balance. On the other side I take them off, and we all rest for a while, staring at the mountain. We still have that climb to get through before we reach the alleged ram paradise on the other side.
No terrain is more difficult than this. You can't maintain an even pace, and at every step the stones slide under your feet. You have to take care every moment, and your concentration must not falter for a second. The stones wobble and grind, and if the noise is too loud Greg looks back resentfully. We go on in single file, and whoever finds a stable foothold informs the person following. At least the weather is nice. The temperature is around 46 F, ideal for a tough mountain hike.
It's a wild, merciless environment, which will not tolerate anyone with a soft, fastidious nature.
You've got to work for every inch, and be prepared for any sort of weather. And be ready to react to anything, at once. You learn to appreciate every moment of sunshine. Dry clothes and hot food become your top priorities when you're wandering around Alaska.
We are climbing up. From rock to rock. Always getting higher. We are still dragging those much-cursed bushes behind us. Greg notices a slackening of discipline, and orders us not to drag them, but to hold them up in front as we approach the summit. If a ram happens to look this way we should still be hidden from his gaze. It's not easy keeping our balance while doing this, but we go on. Greg's popularity drops somewhat.
Far away beneath us our colorful little tents stand out next to the runway. For us, they now represent home, and the small planes are our only link to civilization. Another halt, and this time I
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eat a high carbohydrate energy bar - it tastes like pig-shit - and I dream of my big breakfasts... If I don't get my breakfast I'm a dead man. And today I didn't. So I'm not in a good mood.
Our eyes are attracted to some figures moving beneath us. Mark is down there hunting bears.
The entire maneuvre is taking place in front of us, though it's difficult to make out individuals because of the distance. A shot booms out... It's Mark's .375... One, two... There are five bangs...
Then another two, which are audibly from a different gun. That was Bruce. Seven shots should have been enough, but our guides shake their heads. That many shots are not a good sign; they suggest a series of mistakes.
Before we go on, Striker - Greg's friend and the leader of the group - trims the bushes that we are still carrying. Previously they were large, and now they are small. The top of the ridge isn't far, and it would be fruitless if our fading bushes gave us away, instead of concealing us. Nothing must must appear over the ridge, and Greg signs to me not to lift it above my hat. 150 ft later, Striker halts our climb, and leaving his pack behind he crawls up to the ridge. The ridge forms a semi-circle, gradually rising, and we are at its lowest point. When he reaches the rim, he will be able to see the inner side of the entire arc, as well as the mountain opposite.
We stare at him with bulging eyes as he makes the long crawl...
He looks through his binoculars for at leasr 10mins and then, still lying down, he sets up the spotting scope ... He makes a ring with his thumb and index finger, and holds it up to his eye, signalling that he has seen the rams!
My mouth goes dry, and you can feel the tension in the air. No-one dares to speak.
Exciting moments like these are unforgettable! The rams are here, right in front of us! Striker crawls back and, softer than a sigh, there is a whispered discussion... We descend a safe distance from the edge of the ridge. The golden rule for hunters is the same as for soldiers: never walk on the top of a hill. If you do, your outline will be visible for miles. Greg comes up to me, beckons Jay over, and, almost silently, explains to us: we will go on , following the top of the ridge, but taking great care to remain beneath it, and keeping really quiet. He won't tell us exactly what his fellow guide has seen, and we are too excited to ask. Slowly and cautiously we continue stalking the rams, planning and calculating every step in advance. Greg suddenly freezes, like a hound when it first smells a pheasant... He points at his nose... Now we can smell it too: the smell of sheep! The wind is coming from the valley behind us, which means there has to be sheep there too! We stick to the original plan, and keep climbing, staying as close to the rim as possible.
It would be a bad idea to disturb the sheep beneath us, as, if we can't get within firing distance of the rams we've seen, we'll try for them instead.
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There are sheep in front of us, behind us and beside us; but we can't see any of them.
We reach the highest point; there's nowhere else to go. We are still lying down, and hardly dare to move during this nerve-racking time. Striker picks up a piece of dry moss and crumbles it, checking the wind direction... It's perfect. Again, he crawls up to the rim, and signals Greg to follow. We stay behind. They continue to make hand-signals. There are two large rams 1500 ft away, according to the laser. Jay and I decide to get a little closer, if possible. We can't go any higher as we are already level with the rim, so we creep along the arc. We crawl on all fours.
When we reach the end of the arc, Striker crawls back; we can't get any closer: we must shoot from here.
It's now or never.
The laser is passed from hand to hand, up to Striker. There are several rams at a distance of 1000-1200 ft. We nod in agreement. This is the right distance, and we stand a good chance of making a hit from here. Jay and I decide which snail-horned sheep we are going to shoot. He would like the one with diverging horns; I don't mind. Meanwhile, the boys drag a rucksack forward; this will be the gun-rest. Greg explains: we must keep our eyes open, and stay flat on the ground. These are his main instructions. Jay goes first, crawling up to the pack lying on the ground, and I follow. We crawl over sharp stones which hurt our skin, but we don't care. I get there, but there isn't much room beside Jay. Our shoulders are touching... There is grass all around the gun barrels, and, because of a small bush in front of us, the laser gunsight only registers 3 ft. I can't shoot like this. I can't even see the target. A protruding rock is blocking the view. Jay is better placed, but can't tell which is his ram. Everyone is whispering together. Finally, Striker realises that this is not going to work; there's not enough room on the rucksack for two hunters. Meanwhile, more rams are coming down the hillside opposite; we have more discussions on how to share them out. Jay is explaining, Greg is explaining, and I'm just trying to follow what's going on. Striker brings up another rucksack. I leave Jay; my new gun-rest is 3 ft to his right, where the new pack has been placed. I put my gun on it to try it out, and aim the laser at one of the rams, about 850 ft. away. It's not the right ram; I get an order not to shoot this one, but to try for the next. Meanwhile, Jay is ready to fire, but is told to wait. Then I am told not to shoot the second ram, but to wait for a third. Now I'm completely lost, everyone's talking at the same time; the three of them have all picked completely different sheep. I keep moving my sight, but every time I find a target, they tell me it won't do. I get caught up in the general tension, which, combined with the hunting fever, produces a feeling I've never had before. My sight is fixed on one of the rams, and suddenly I decide that I'll shoot, come what may, as I can't bear this feeling of tension and pressure anymore. Striker can see I'm aiming at something, and asks which it is. I
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point it out. No, he says, that's no good; I mustn't aim for that one, but go for the one above it; but I'm in such a state that I can't see anything above it. He sets the spotting scope on it, and I crawl over for a look; then it's back to the gun-sight and the laser... 924 ft.
But now I'm not to shoot it - Jay is aiming at it too!
My nerves are in shreds; it's all the same to me whatever I shoot - I just wish they'd give me a target. Finally, Greg and Striker agree on a ram for me; I take aim at my target, but, once more, I'm told not to fire. They're not sure if I'm aiming at the biggest and strongest ram; I have to tell them what it's doing right at the moment. Of course, now I forget all my English. Finally, I manage to gibber something, and they say fine, that's the right one.
Jay shoots first, hits his target, and the snail-horned ram is lying on the ground.
On hearing the shot, my ram disappears from my gun-sight, and the guides seem to lose track of it too. There's another whispered discussion; the rams aren't aware of what has happened, and do not run away. The decision has been made; again I must describe what the chosen animal is doing - it's looking round, wondering what's going on, never having heard such a loud bang before - and the laser is on it: it's about 1000 ft away! My nerves are in tatters: just what you need when taking a long shot. Because of the unstable gun-rest the reticle is dancing about. And now the wind is getting up...
BANG! The Blaser roars!
The ram falls.
Have I killed it? I have.
But, suddenly, it jumps up; the others circle around it and I can't see a thing. For no apparent reason, Jay shoots at it. This shot might also have hit it; it's shaking its head... but it's not clear what's happened. I shout over to Jay not to shoot again, and he shouts back that he won't. I'm feeling very nervous and shoot again, but fortunately I miss, as that sheep isn't my wounded one.
It's lucky I didn't shoot another. All of us are talking loudly, but then the ram solves our problem by falling down. My first shot has finally had the desired effect. If this frenzied situation had continued for a moment longer, I would have gone completely crazy. I lower my gun, breathing heavily, and ask at least five times if the ram is still lying there. It is. I stand up, and my jubilant shout fills the valley!
I've done it!
I've bagged a Dall sheep!
I've bagged the first prey of my expedition, my first game in Alaska, and my first big game outside Hungary!
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And it is an elegant ram! I feel really happy, and we are all slapping each other on the back; that was good work! Two rams are lying on the mountainside opposite. Two new ram-hunters have been ordained in Alaska! We have to get down to the valley floor over neck-breaking rocks, and it's impossible to keep up with the guides.
They are almost flying down the hillside. Jay and I are only half-way down, when they are starting up the other side. We don't have to do much to get to Jay's sheep, as it has almost rolled down to the bottom of the valley. By the time we have staggered down, my ram has almost been dragged to the valley floor too. It's a really excellent, huge trophy. The tip of the right-hand horn is chipped
- life on Brooks Range can be harsh - on its inner side a fresh and severe wound can be seen.
Jay's shot.
It can't be anything else, as I aimed for the left-hand side of the animal, and, if anything, my shot drifted towards its rear - that's why the sheep didn't collapse after the first shot - it couldn't have caused the damage to the horn. I'm not particularly bothered by the head-wound; it can only be seen from behind and inside. I'm starting to build up quite a collection of these damaged snail-shaped horns. I damaged one of the horns on my beautiful mouflon trophy myself, with the pellets from my cartridge as I shot it.
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This Dall sheep is a huge creature. It's much bigger and stronger than a mouflon. You're only allowed to shoot them if their horns form a complete circle, and both of these trophies meet that criterion. We start taking endless photos and making video recordings, while thoroughly discussing every moment of the hunt. We take pictures of each other with guns, and without; of the rams together, and separate; and in every other possible combination and position. It's hard to stop clicking the cameras, but finally Striker begins to skin and dismember the animals. Before he starts, we talk about how we want our trophies prepared. I'm not keen on having a complete head; when it comes to trophies, I'm a bit of a minimalist. Even so, the whole head is removed, along with the skin of the neck. If a hunter wanted his specimen displayed with a flawless hide on it, then this is the best way. By the time all the chopping up is finished, I have packed up my rucksack. I've got a strange feeling that I've forgotten something... I unpack again and go through everything, looking in all the pockets ... my binoculars!
My 10 x 40 Swarovski is missing!
We look for them here, there and everywhere, but they don't turn up. It's incomprehensible. Greg is absolutely certain that I had them before I took my shot. I've kept the co-ordinates of my shot on my GPS, and that is my last hope. It's difficult, among all the rocks, to find any points of orientation. Once you've moved more than 50ft from any particular point, you'll never manage to find it again. I have no other option - I've got to climb back up the hill again. It's been a long day, and we still have to get back to camp. Greg says that he would appreciate it if I could be quick. If possible, I shouldn't dawdle, picking flowers along the way.
I take off all my heavy clothes and tighten the laces in my boots. FORWARD! I set off over the rocks at a brisk pace, and almost run up the damned hill; the stones are continually sliding beneath my feet, and I start little avalanches. Greg and the others aren't in any danger; they have gone a few feet up the rams' hill, and the stones roll down from where they stand. I reach the top, puffing and blowing, and spend 10 mins. searching for the binoculars. It was hard to find them, as they were hidden under one of the camouflage bushes. Then it's back down to the valley... to be honest - I didn't enjoy it. When I arrive, Greg has a pleasant surprise for me; they can't take the trophies as they have to carry all the meat back, as it is illegal to leave it here. But it's not a problem; while I was away searching for the binoculars they have tied the entire head and skin to my rucksack. There's no room in the rucksack pockets for my gun, but I can't carry it over my shoulder either, because of the ram's horns. I must carry it by hand. I don't want to say too much about our journey back, staggering with heavy packs over the relentless stones, crossing and re-crossing the rivers, as a brand-new ram hunter shouldn't complain. Let's just say the three
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Americans learned a lot of Hungarian swearwords that night. We get back to the camp by 10.00, having spent the last 12 hrs marching and running over the mountains. But we've been lucky; our very first day has been a success. Other hunters spend days wandering around Brooks Range with no result. And if anyone accuses me of having too much luck on my first day out, and of not deserving my trophy - I'll send him up that mountain.
Twice.
The second time running!
Sheep and Caribou Camp