Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S • 85 C ome the back half of June, Montana is likely the most beautiful place in the world. Freshly dropped fawns are everywhere, tourists haven't yet stopped up the roads, and the country is so violently green that it hurts your eyes to just look around. This is the time of year that the sun works a double shift, melting off the high-country trails that soon become a canvas for the great, pigeon-toed tracks of grizzly bears. Down low, rivers clear just enough that a fly dropped into the right spot might gain a serious rise. I count myself fortunate to have lived in Montana most of my life, but I'm always miserable during June. You see, that's when the good people at Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks announce the results of the annual bighorn sheep permit drawing. For my part, I want a sheep permit every bit as much as I want to believe in the goodness of man. Not just any sheep permit, either, but the permit—for the Missouri Breaks. For each of the last 33 years Montana FWP has sent one notice after another informing me that I'm not one of the chosen. Better luck next year, expect your refund shortly, or you've earned a bonus point they might write—but their words never managed to console. I took every rejection personally, and my long- suffering wife will testify that I'm always down in the mouth about it until well after the Fourth of July, and some years clear through Labor Day. I'm not sure exactly what stars aligned this June, but it finally happened. Within seconds of discovering my good fortune I was on the phone to Keith Atcheson. He and his brother, Jack, know more about Montana sheep than anyone has a right. In fact, it was Keith who had guided my son, Ross, to a great Breaks ram ten years ago. "Things have changed since Ross' hunt. You want to go with Chris Faber. He's got it wired," Keith advised between congratulations. Having chased elk with Chris and his Montana Outfitting Company several years before, I knew how to reach him quickly. Within an hour I'd booked for Adventures by dwight vAn brunt He drew tHe Hunting permit of His dreams. tHen came sHeep apnea. the opening stretch of season, with the option to stay as many extra days as necessary to find a world-class ram. Once the venue had been secured, I was surprised how easily everything else fell into place. Physical conditioning began the next morning. By lunch I'd ordered all the necessary clothing from Kuiu and an appropriate backpack from Blackhawk. The rifle was next, and for that one I thought long and hard. Several on hand would certainly work, but I had an itch for something perfect. Weatherby's Mark V Ultra Lightweight in 6.5x300 Weatherby Magnum stood out. Firing a 127-grain Barnes LRX bullet with more than 3,500 fps muzzle velocity, it has the light weight, flat trajectory, and wind- bucking speed needed for what could be a long shot. The scope would be a Swarovski Z5 3.5-18x44P—something that removed all the guesswork. Both were ordered by dinner. Then came sheep apnea, the moniker I long ago hung on the obsessive affliction common to sheep hunters through the generations. It came on hard, too, even bgsmith/istockphoto.com