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| The Biggest Bighorn |
By Windell W. Winterbottom
A startling change in viewpoint gives me a
once-in-a-lifetime chance at a record trophy
I DON'T KNOW JUST HOW cold it got on top of Oregon's Steens Mountains the
night of September 26, 1971, but I've never been any colder. I'd been looking for bighorn sheep for three days. Everything had gone wrong. Now I was curled up in a sleeping bag on the seat of my car.
A roaring blizzard was sweeping across the peaks. In the blackness I wasn't aware at first that snow was blowing intothe car through cracks around the doors and windows. Then I rolled my head into a batch of snow that had accumulated
on the car's seat and was jolted full awake. At the moment, my once-in-a-lifetime hunt seemed to be destined for failure.
Two months earlier, on July 15, I had received my sheep tag from the Oregon State Game Commission. Most big-game hunters in Oregon dream of scoring on a bighorn ram, but the odds against doing so are astronomical.
The state opened its first modern sheep hunting season in 1965. Since then, 52 Oregon hunters have been issued tags, and they have taken 30 rams. In 1971, when I hunted, there were 2,106 applications for the 11 sheep tags that were issued.
An applicant is permitted to draw only one sheep tag during his lifetime.
I'm 31 years old and live with my wife and three young
children in Grants Pass, Oregon, where I'm a construction worker. I've taken every species of animal available to the state's average hunter, including elk, bear, antelope, and deer. For years I felt that going after a bighorn ram would
be the greatest thrill in hunting. I'd read stories about sheep hunting in Canada and Alaska. Most of the stories emphasized the hard work of hunting in very rough, mountainous terrain. That type of activity appeals to me.
I majored in health and physical education while in college, and my construction work helps keep me in excellent condition. But with my income and family responsibilities, I couldn't afford an expensive hunt for a ram. So I was really thrilled when I got that $10 Oregon sheep tag. In Oregon, bighorn rams may be hunted in only two areas Hart Mountain and the Steens Mountains. I applied for a tag for the Steens, a range that rises 30 miles southeast of Burns and extends about 100 miles southward to within about 25 miles of the Oregon-Nevada border.
I had never been in the Steens, but I was determined to get a lot of first-hand experience with those mountains before the September 26 to October 1 sheep season opened.
I made my first scouting trip the weekend after I got my tag. With me were my brother-in-law Butch Jubera, who is 15, and Dusty Willis, a 16-year-old family friend. Both boys are dedicated hunters. Their enthusiasm for climbing mountains and getting a look at wild sheep was as keen as mine.
Right after I got out of work on a Friday we left Grants Pass and headed for the Steens, some 460 miles away. You can drive to the top of the range from the west side, so we drove all the way up before settling down for a couple of hours of sleep. We slept in our sleeping bags on the downwind side of my car.
The next morning I got my first inkling of how tough sheep hunting can be. I've been in the Rocky Mountains in several places, but I've never seen a mountain range as rugged and impressive as the Steens. The east sides of the mountains drop almost vertically from 9,760 feet to 4,100 feet in elevation.
The boys and I scoped several valleys with my 15X-to-60X Swift zoom spotting scope. One time I zeroed-in on several small mule-deer bucks and does.
Later, in a canyon, we spotted five huge bucks. I'm sure that each of them wore antlers with a spread of better than 30 inches. We hiked over a lot of rugged terrain that day but didn't spot any sheep. We were exhausted by sun-
down and in our sleeping bags by dark. The next day we were scouting again at dawn. We decided to look over a new area, so we drove along the road that winds across the top of the Steens. We traveled about seven miles south to another likely looking valley, where we parked and climbed to various vantage points. We found several benches that offered plenty of vegetation and water—seemingly ideal for sheep—but we failed to spot a single
bighorn. During the long drive back home that night I decided that I would have to scout the mountains a different way the next weekend. I would return to the top on Friday night, hike down to the desert floor on Saturday, and then climb up on Sunday.
The next Saturday morning Butch and I were back on top of the Steens. With us were Dan Applebaker and Bob Southerlin, two friends from Medford who would help us scout the area by working down a different ridge.
Butch and I saw sheep while we were still on top.
Two rams were in a basin a half-mile below us.
One was a half-curl, the other better than a three quarter-curl. I zeroed-in my spotting scope, and I've never seen a more intriguing sight. Those sheep looked larger than deer, and their horns were massive compared to deer antlers. Their white noses and rumps contrasted with their gray bodies. I had the feeling that I was glassing the epitome of wildness.
Later in the morning we spotted three more sheep, far down the mountain. They were bedded on the side of a big valley, beyond a hogback that ran down the slope. We sneaked over to the hogback and then used it to shield our
movements as we approached the wary animals.
By 3 o'clock we figured that we were as close to the sheep as we could get without running out of cover. We peered over the top of the hogback and saw nothing but rock.
I moved higher to gain a better vantage point. Suddenly part of the mountain seemed to explode with movement. Six bighorn rams jumped up and stood in single file within easy rifle range. Two of them had almost full-curl horns. I estimated one set of horns at 40 inches. The largest ram's horns were broomed off, and I didn't get much chance to study them.
That big ram hit high gear almost immediately and disappeared over rim rock two miles away in what seemed like seconds. The five other rams ran halfway up the other side of the valley and then dropped back to the bottom and disappeared among jumbles of boulders.
We didn't see any more sheep that day or the next day.
Though I planned more scouting trips, I knew where I wanted to be at dawn on opening day. Three days before the season opened I would pack up to the canyon where we'd seen the six rams. I would camp behind the rim rock we'd used as stalking cover, find the rams again, and be ready for them on opening day.
On September 23 I checked in at the Oregon State Game Commission office in Hines. All hunters who draw a sheep tag have to attend a preseason indoctrination session. Part of the session acquaints hunters with the difference between a half-curl, a three-quarter curl and a full-curl ram. It's pointed out that rams must have at least three - quarter-curl horns to be legal targets for hunters.
Hunters also learn that Oregon's original bighorns disappeared about 1900 because of liver fluke disease, over hunting, or a combination of both.
The Game Commission reintroduced sheep to the state in 1954, stocking 20 head obtained from British Columbia. Those bighorns were released on Hart Mountain, where they prospered and reproduced.
In 1960 and '61, 11 animals were captured from the building herd and stocked in the Steens Mountains. The state's overall sheep population has continued to increase each year.
Sheep hunters are required to report back to the Game Commission office at the end of their hunts. The game men want to know how many sheep were seen, where they were seen, and how many were rams. All large rams killed
are scored under the Boone and Crockett Club system by Game Commission personnel.
Though the sheep season opened on a Saturday, I packed into my hunting area on the preceding Wednesday. I had enough food and supplies to last me a week.
Things began going wrong from the start. I climbed around the cliffs in that canyon for three days without finding sign of a sheep. On Friday evening I changed my plans. I hiked down the mountain to my car, drove more than 100 miles to another part of the range, and prepared to hunt from the top down in the morning. I didn't bother with camping that night, sleeping in my car instead.
About 4 a.m. I was awakened by the sound of sleet driving against my vehicle. Dawn came with a fog so thick that I couldn't see 50 yards. The sleet had changed to snow. The weather was so bad that hunting along the steep cliffs would be too dangerous.
In early afternoon the clouds began breaking up. I went to work with my spotting scope, and three hours later I spotted six sheep. They were so far down the mountain that I couldn't see whether they had horns. I tried to figure out how I could stalk them the' next morning.
I was parked at the very top of Steens. Kent Teufel, his father Fred, and his 60-year-old grandfather Joha were camped up there with their pick.up and camper. Kent had the only sheep tag in the trio. He's 16, and the older men were trying to help him get a ram. They live in Hillsboro, Oregon and operate a rose-growing business. I talked with them awhile and they walked back to my car and went to sleep.
That night the wind must have I reached 60 miles an hour. At 5 a.m. I' was jolted awake by the incident I mentioned at the beginning of this story. I got up and turned on the headlights of my car. Snow was piling up everywhere.
I forgot about sheep and tried getting my car down the mountain. I drove only 50 yards before the car hung up in a snowdrift two feet deep. I shoveled the vehicle out, but 10 yards farther on I hung up in another drift.
The situation was hopeless, so I walked up to the Teufels' camp."Well," I said, "we're snowed in. All we can do is sit tight and make the best of it."
In midafternoon the blizzard let up. Kent, Fred, and I left the camper, walked down a ridge, and spotted 11 ewes, four lambs, and four half-curl rams in a basin far below us. Then we saw a half-curl ram standing on top of the highest peak in the Steens. It was an impressive sight. No human being could possibly climb the sheer cliffs to where that ram was standing.
On Monday morning the sky was still cloudy and dumping snow. Kent, Fred,and I decided to walk down to where we had seen the sheep the previous afternoon. Before long we spotted six ewes and lambs in the same basin.
A half-mile from the group, two half-curirams were standing by themselves. We couldn't do much spotting, because the thick clouds and swirling snow frequently cut off our view of the animals. We figured that a big ram or two might be near the other sheep, and we decided to find out.
The deep snow helped cushion the noise of tumbling rocks that we knocked loose during our descent. The terrain was so steep that many of those rocks dropped 100 feet or so before they plunked into snowdrifts. We descended only when clouds and falling snow blanked out the basin. During clear intervals we stopped and glassed the two small rams.
The first 1,000 feet of our descent was a slow and dangerous session of crawling and sliding, but then things began going our way. We reached the backside of a high rim rock that enabled us to continue our stalk without being seen. The terrain became less sheer, and our progress was virtually silent.
We hiked around the backside of the high rim rock to a point where a smaller rim rock, 1,000 yards farther out in the basin, shielded our approach to where the two half-curl rams should be. When we got 40 yards from the top of that!
last wall of cover, Kent and I took off four packsacks and laid them in the snow. My pack contained binoculars I spotting scope, food, knife, extra clothes and other gear. If I got a quick-shooting opportunity I didn't want to be hampered with that extra weight.
We cleaned the snow out of our rifle scopes, which had clogged during our falls on the cliffs. Then we inched to I the top of the rim rock and peered out into the basin. Though our stalk had taken nearly three hours, the two half-curl rams were still where we'd first spotted them. I examined them through my 4X Leupold scope. They were about 400 yards away, and I think I could have dropped either of them with my Model 700 Remington .30/06.
The longer I looked into the basin for bigger sheep, the lower my heart sank. Then I realized that one part of the basin was out of our view: the area below us, shielded by the rim rock we were lying on.
"Fred," I whispered, "you and Kent sneak left along the top. I'll go to the right. Maybe there are some rams below us that we can't see from up here." I'd gone about 20 yards when four large rams suddenly burst into view below me. My partners had spooked them. The rams were running at full speed, broadside to me. I was getting ready to shoot when they halted on top of a small rim rock 250 yards away and looked back over their shoulders toward Kent and Fred.
I decided to hold off shooting, because I wanted the boy to get a shot | too. I whistled and motioned for him to hurry to my position. Then I looked at the rams through my scope. All four sets of horns were better than three-quarter-curl. I glanced at Fred and Kent. They apparently had been confused by my signals, because they weren't moving my way. The rams were getting nervous. I knew that Kent would never get to me before the sheepwere gone. For me it was now or never.
My heart was going like a jackhammer as I sat down in deep snow and steadied my rifle. I zeroed the scope on the lead ram and squeezed the trigger. The 165-grain hand loaded bullet hit home, and the big sheep went down
The three other rams had run clear across the basin by the time Kent reached my position. I tried to point them out to the boy, but by the time he saw them they were out of rifle range. They soon disappeared behind cliffs a half-mile away. My partners took off to try intercepting the sheep in the next valley while I headed toward my ram. When I got to where he'd dropped, I couldn't find him.
I panicked for a moment, but then I found a blood trail that led me to the animal. I couldn't believe how large his horns were.
It took me two hours to gut the ram, skin him, and pack his head and cape on my pack board. The load must have weighed about 80 pounds, but I was so happy with my success that I hardly noticed the weight when I stood up.
Soon, however, I began to wonder who was packing whom. I was so top heavy that I frequently went tumbling into the snow. Then I would have to turn onto my side, get to my knees, and pull myself to a standing position.
My plan was to walk down to the Alvord ranch on the desert floor. I made the three miles to the ranch by 6:30 p.m. My feet were wet and badly blistered. I sure was glad to get that first cup of coffee from Ed Davis, the ranch manager.
Some time later Kent and Fred got in. They had been unable to find the three big rams before dark. Then they'd tried climbing back up the cliffs to their camper, but they couldn't make it, so they'd walked out to the ranch. When I closed my eyes that night I had visions of those four large rams.
But increasing pain in my swollen and blistered feet kept me awake, so I got out of bed, soaked my feet in hot water, and drained the blisters with a needle. After that, sleep came easy.
The next morning I put Band-Aids and tape on my feet. Though they were still numb, I climbed back up the mountain. When I neared my ram's carcass, I noted several ravens circling overhead. Half of one ham had been eaten by ravens or eagles. I boned out and packed the rest of the meat. By midafternoon I managed to get back to the ranch. Some of the people there looked at me as if I was crazy to go to all that work on pain-ridden feet. All I cared about was that I had my ram.
Meanwhile Fred had become very concerned about his father, who was alone atop the mountain in their camper. He'd phoned his mother from the ranch and learned that the older man had left a vital medicine at home.
Storms were raging, so Fred decided on emergency action. He phoned the jet helicopter base in Vale, Oregon, and asked for an airlift attempt to get John off the mountain.
Then he made arrangements with police officers in Burns to pick up the necessary medicine at a local drugstore and rush it to the ranch.
The rescue was a near miracle. A few hours later a helicopter landed at the ranch, and John stepped out of the aircraft in his long underwear."I didn't have time to wait for him to get dressed," explained pilot Clyde Ritter. "There was just a small opening in the blizzard up there. As I landed I knew the storm would blot out all visibility almost immediately. When John opened the door of the camper I hollered at him to forget about dressing and jump aboard. We just made it."'How much snow is on my car?" I asked Ritter.
"Car?" he said. "There's no other vehicle up there." "There was a couple of days ago," I said with a chuckle. "I doubt if it's moved very far from where I "It's there," John cut in, 'completely covered by snowdrifts.
On Wednesday I caught a Hines with Dick Corbett of Bureau of Land Management. Game Commission office Vie scored my ram's horns. The right horn measured. 33%, 32%. The total score was 162,.! ever for an Oregon bighorn ram. state's previous top ram scored It was killed in the Steens in 1' Sam Nagel of Pendleton.
After checking out with the Commission people, I tucked the a head under my arm and walked out to the highway leading to Grants Pass. A lot of passing motorists looked at as if I were a nut, but I manage hitch a ride home.
Eleven days later I got a phone from the B.L.M. office in Burns. I was told that if I wanted to see my car again that winter I should be on top of the Steens at noon the next day. Lyle Miller, a local friend, drove me up there We noted that the Teufels' camper had been hauled out, but my earn still two miles away. I had to walk those two miles, and when I reached my vehicle the battery was dead.
I reversed my hike, got a charged battery and some jumper cables , and then returned to my car. didn't leave the mountain till 10:30 pm
I suffered frostbitten feet for six weeks, I missed eight days of work, and I'd spent 13 days in the Steens. That hunt was by far the toughest I've ever made, but it was also the most rewarding. My ram's head is an exceptional trophy, and I'll have it to treasure the rest of my life. THE END
Outdoor Life April 1973