Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/769056
A Rightful ObsessiOn Preparation, even a lifetime of it, matters little in the wilds of sheep country. By Dwight Van Brunt S ome bugs bite hard, take a chaw out of your hide and then make themselves scarce before a malice- born swat adds insult to injury. They're easy to forget, if not forgive. The real bastards are the ones that set their jaws like a Newhouse trap and ride it out, commanding all thought until they drive you to the very doorstep of obsession. Hunting wild sheep did that to me. Absent slight exaggeration, the desire to search out these golden-horned monarchs has burned through my insides ever since I can remember. It would be easy to lay a quick blame on reading too much Jack O'Connor and Russell Annabel as a boy, which I most certainly did, or maybe on the envy felt later in life when others and betters shared photos or told their stories. No matter the why, it's real. Moreover, it has refused to dim with the passage of time. The primary reason I moved my family to Montana in the mid-1980s wasn't to get my children far away from the cancer of urban life. Neither was it for the economic opportunity, as Montana is rightfully known to be a beautiful place to starve to death. Rather, becoming a resident increased my odds of drawing a bighorn sheep permit. Then, as now, the trophy quality of Montana's rams curb-stomps that of every other state. Once settled, I began applying for the best big-ram areas. First it was Rock Creek, then Anaconda. When the Missouri Breaks came to the fore, I changed again and never looked back. Somewhere along the way I got serious about the other species, mostly because I wanted to hunt sheep—any sheep—so badly. As for Montana, I embraced the wonderful distraction of her deer, elk, and black bear. My opportunity to take a Dall's came first, as it does for most, followed by a more-or-less accidental chance at a Yukon Stone's. Both hunts worked out for the best, tough as they were, and the thinhorns were on my wall. That's it for me, I tried hard to rationalize. Twice lucky is way more than I deserve, and I'll never draw for one of the bighorns. Then a permit for a desert sheep in Arizona turned up. Success came deep into "As we ascended the river today I saw several gangs of the bighorned Anamals on the face of the steep bluffs and clifts on the Stard. side and sent Drewyer to kill one which he accomplished; Capt. Clark and Bratton who were on shore each killed one of these anamals this evening." Meriwether Lewis May 25, 1805 Missouri River Breaks