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frantic messages at all of his contact points, asking him to call back immediately. Knowing that others might be trying to do the same thing, I wanted to lock him in for the early part of season. It took three long hours before he rang back. "Things have changed since Ross' hunt," Keith began after hearing my news. "Access isn't what it was, and most of the sheep are located by glassing from private property, anyway. You know Chris Faber, right? He's the guy you need. Let him outfit your hunt." Chris Faber and his Montana Outfitting Company are blue chip. My wife, Kellie, and I had drawn elk permits in the Bear Paw Mountains just north of the Missouri Breaks several years before, and they took care of us in grand fashion. Kellie found her great bull during opening week. Me? I looked over nearly 200 bulls, even passing on several that were larger than anything I'd ever taken. After hunting hard for 23 days and hoping to relocate a world- class old boy we had seen in the distance, my season had ended with an unpunched tag. No matter, as it had been the best elk hunt I'd ever experienced, especially because I was able to share in Kellie's success. Chris proved to be as hard to reach as Keith, but we connected later that afternoon and set things in motion. Opening day was three months out, and I swear every second was counted down. My routine changed immediately. Every morning began with conditioning. A bitter tonic, I knew it was necessary and hit it hard, pounding the steep part of a convenient hill into powder through the summer's heat. My dogs kept me company, seemingly confused by the early hour and random nature of it all. I canceled business appointments, put off an African safari, and pretty much ignored everyone unfortunate enough to be in my life in the first place. I even swallowed vitamins and choked down healthy foods in clearest violation of my religious beliefs. In my new world, there was only room for sheep. The permit naturally provided a defensible excuse for a new rifle and some appropriate gear, so it wasn't before long a Weatherby Mark V Ultra Lightweight chambered in their dead-flat shooting 6.5x300 Weatherby Magnum took up residence. Topped with a Swarovski Z5 3.5-18x44P, I was off to the range as soon as the Loctite was dry. Finding the zero came quickly. More importantly, accuracy was sub-MOA. September's opener was a long time coming. Ross signed out for a week of vacation and made the drive to Chris' lodge with me two days before season. I wanted his sharp eyes to help us take apart the country, but even more for him to be there when it was time to take the shot. Chris put us up in his remote family cabin, the same special place Kellie and I had shared during our wonderful hunt. Sitting on the porch, we listened to the elk bugling well into the evening, then finally forced ourselves to cut the generator and try to sleep. It was a fool's errand. The three of us were deep into the Breaks before first light, and I'll admit to being surprised by the enormity of it all. Plunging canyons scarred the earth as far as we could see, and the great Missouri River traced its brilliant, golden path far below. There were sheep, too, seemingly everywhere. A few smaller rams were banded up in the distance, and larger herds of ewes and lambs grazed across several sidehills. We found our first big ram later that morning, a lone old warrior with one badly broken horn. He bolted away just as we were walking away from Chris' hunting rig. Ross and I followed at a run in hopes of getting him in the spotting scopes. Chris was on the other side of the truck, and upon seeing us sprinting, jumped back in and lurched up the narrow trial to gain the top. We had left our Montana's Missouri Breaks is as magnificent as it is rough. Knife-edge ridges are often the only routes between observation points. the season's second week, and as we packed my grand old ram down the mountain the farthest thing from my mind was being fortunate enough to hunt sheep again. After all, the odds of drawing for a Rocky Mountain bighorn were akin to that of Hillary doing anything good for America. O ne morning last June I was on the phone and deep into negotiation for a spectacular firearms collection. The representative of the estate and I had been throwing numbers back and forth for an hour or so when my son, Ross, called and then called again. After his name popped up a third time in as many minutes, I began to get aggravated. When it continued, I grew concerned. "Can I take a quick break," I remember asking the hard-nosed seller. "My son is trying pretty hard to reach me, and I want to make sure all is well." "Dad, you drew for the Breaks," Ross blurted, having picked up halfway through the first ring. Stunned by the news, all I could manage was, "I gotta go. I gotta call Keith." Keith Atcheson knows as much about Montana sheep hunting as anyone, alive or otherwise. When Ross was in high school and somehow managed to draw, Keith guided him to a fantastic Breaks ram. Before and since, Atcheson and Sons has been my primary source when it comes to choosing permit application areas and selecting outfitters. Keith was nowhere to be found, so I left 180 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S