Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/116174
It was news to me. Down my right side my clothes were ripped through from my shoulder to the cuff of my pants. The exposed skin was cut and scraped in a dozen places and bleeding freely, but I was so happy to be alive I hardly noticed. I cut strips along the torn edge of my shirt and pants, then tied them together for at least partial protection from the freezing wind. that rock chimney was mighty familiar. We arrived back at my ranch late at night in the midst of a howling snowstorm, exhausted, happy and a little worse for wear. A couple of days later I said good-by to Proctor at the railroad station as he headed east with his two big sheep heads. I never saw him again, but I'll never forget him. My whole side was burning like fire, but I hardly felt it as I heaved the head up onto my shoulders and gave a jubilant yell. Proctor answered from a short distance upstream. "I got it," I sang out, "and it's as good as new." A I looked at the lucky stone that had saved my life and prodded it gently with my toe. It was frozen down. When I kicked it lightly with my boot heel, it cracked loose from the thin film of ice that held it and skidded over the edge. My client continued to look at me as though I had returned from the dead. He was white and shaking. It took me several minutes to assure him I could travel, and longer still to persuade him to tackle the chimney. Tying the rope around him again, I acted as an anchor, paying out the rope as he gingerly picked his descent. Then, bringing the rifles, I would join him, and so we proceeded to the bottom. All the time I was worrying about the magnificent sheep head that was probably smashed to pulp at the bottom of the mountain. Leaving the sculptor to find his way to the creek, I searched back along the foot of the cliff. Finally, in a fresh gouge in the loose shale, I found a couple of hairs and a tiny spatter of blood. Figuring the line of fall as closely as I could, I headed down the slope through the mist, searching as I went. When I came to the creek, I stood looking up and down, wondering if I'd passed the head in the brush. Then I glanced toward my left and felt a great surge of relief. Half submerged between two stones in about a foot of water was the great sheep head. Scarcely daring to hope, I picked it up and found it was as good as ever except for a tiny scrape on the bridge of the nose. My whole side was burning like fire, but I hardly felt it as I heaved the head up onto my shoulders and gave a jubilant yell. Proctor answered from a short distance upstream. "I got it," I sang out, "and it's as good as new." He smiled as I came up to him, shook his head in a disbelieving sort of way, and fell in behind me on the trail. Next day I went back and packed out the other head and the meat. Meat was precious in those days, and I didn't leave a pound. By the time I finished, S P O R T I lot of water has gone under the bridge since that day on Mount Yarrow, when a lucky stone saved my life. In 1950 Phimister Proctor died in Palo Alto, California, at 89. He remembered the head well and says it was then the unofficial world record. For a time it was on loan either to the Camp Fire Club or the American Museum of Natural History, both in New York, but then returned to the sculptor sometime between 1925 and 1929. The head was then sent to storage – nobody knows where – and has not been seen since. I've done a lot of guiding for bighorns in my time. Over the years my clients have taken 66 bighorn sheep, all over 36 inches on the outside curl and quite a few better than 40 inches. In 1924, up on Oyster Creek, Martin Bovey was with me when he killed his great bighorn ram, which now holds first place in the Boone and Crockett records. All trace of the Proctor ram has been lost, but I can't help but believe it must still exist. If it is ever found, it may take its place at the top of the list as the largest bighorn ram of all time. Note: A Record Twice Lost is from Great Outdoor Adventures – Twenty-four of the greatest true action stories ever to appear in Outdoor Life magazine. It was co-published by E.P. Dutton & Co Inc. and Outdoor Life. The family of Canadian born Alexander Phimister Proctor (1860-1950) moved to Denver, Colorado, when he was 11. There, he developed outdoor and hunting skills that would remain with him for the rest of his life. On his many big game hunts throughout the West, Proctor always took along his pencils and sketchpads and was careful to measure, draw and sometimes dissect the game he'd taken. Those studies helped him to sculpt wildlife in action and eventually earned him widespread acclaim as one of the world's greatest animaliers. N G C 44 L A SSICS