Lightning Strikes Twice

Wild sheep. It’s the stuff of legends. There is little that strikes deeper into the soul of a hunter than the thought of hunting wild Bighorn Rams. Monarchs who rule fortresses of stone and ice in lofty cloud shrouded kingdoms of the most stunning, yet unforgiving terrain on earth. Mountain Rulers - blocky shouldered and crowned with brutal rock helmets built for brain rattling battle. Even with their stout frames they show awe inspiring ballet nimbleness in sheer country legendary for chewing up and spitting out Hunters who fooled themselves into thinking they were ready to scale the treacherous heights to take the Kings crown.

Sheep live in scary haunts above where the eagles soar. Thousand-foot cliffs, precarious boulders, and life-threatening storms quick to anger at altitudes that will scorch lungs and strangle hearts. It forces you to engage with the most difficult mental and physical challenges. Just a few things that make sheep hunting as awesome as it is.

Yet many hunters die of old age without ever getting the chance to match wits, guts and their will against a wild Ram. Unless your rich and I'm, not astronomical draw odds determine your fate. In 2004 the silver dollar landed on its edge and I drew a Ram tag in my home state of Colorado. Little did I know then it would be a hunt and quarry that would change my life forever. I will never forget a detail of the day I took my first Ram.

I was 44 and never knew I could write a thing but was so energized and so blown away what had happened on the Ram hunt I had to write about it. So, I dove in winging it and wrote my first story. I seemed to have a knack for it and here we are. Rams have a way of changing lives and the way we look at things. They leave a mark.

I had serious Sheep fever with no cure in sight. For years I imagined another sheep hunt that I knew would never come, but I'm an optimist and it was fun to play the maybe game. I have sculpted many of them, think of them often and fascinated by them in so many ways not only as a hunter but a human being. I am the official bronze sculptor for the renown "Grand Slam Award." That "Grand Slam" sheep world brings me around lots of people that have taken lots of Rams, where I can live vicariously. Luckily, I was born without a jealous bone in my body because there is lots of be jealous of. People excited and caught up in the pursuit of wild rams. Yep, I get it. I always kind of chuckle to myself I'm a quarter slammer. But I had my Ram. My number one hunt and day ever, nothing could ever take that away.

Wild Sheep of the world live in those other worldly places almost all beautiful and brutal, country that could push back in the most extreme ways yet relinquish the most precious prizes. A sheep story is almost justifiably required to mention Jack O Conner. And I'm not going to break tradition now. When I was kid outdoor magazines were our only peek over the horizon to all sorts of hunting around the world and O'Conner was on many of those trips. He gave us a spy optic into sheep hunting, The Yukon, Alaska, the Highest Rockies, and sun-baked Desert to the south. Forbidding, wild, mysterious, and stunningly beautiful country, or lone and barren lands or any forgotten canyon or rocky peaks that might hold sheep. The pictures: grainy black and white almost like photos smuggled out of a gulag. A bi-speckled O'Conner hand on the battered horn of a curling ram, .270, the rifleman's rifle, leaning against his shoulder. He was always smiling, yet not a toothy grin but his smile came through his eyes with a sense of something well done.

He set a stage that the most difficult and challenging hunts with a taste of danger were the most memorable and satisfying, rare and to be relished. Hunting wild sheep presented challenges and difficulties of all flavors. Man against the wilderness, man one with the wilderness, real adventure, adventure just for the sake of it. It was pure, raw and wild. He chronicled his quest for wild sheep giving them a mystic quality and unleashing a sense of wonder for generations of hunters inspired since.

My chances to draw another Colorado Ram tag in my lifetime were infinitesimally small and getting grimmer by the year. But damn if that silver dollar landed on its edge again. I drew another a ram tag in the area I had taken my first ram. I was God Smacked. and floored at the same time. My head was spinning with the scenarios of hunting sheep I had concocted over the years. How could this be? The odds were astronomical. A drawing glitch? Maybe they made a mistake? No, I had drawn!

Then mid jump for joy... I thought about my first ram hunt couple of decades ago when I was in top shape and 18 years younger and how hard it had kicked my ass. It was a sobering punch. Last I looked those mountain peaks had not gotten any flatter or the thin air any thicker and I had I gotten any younger with now 62 birthdays behind me. The brunt of the hunting is steep up and down between 11 and 14 thousand feet and you will earn and feel every step you take. Did I have one more really hard "Do it Yourself" hunt in me? With the precious nature of the Ram tag the answer had to be yes. There could be no other way, no other option. Period.

I have always been a dreamer. But I’m also practical. My back always hurts and is a house of cards that pops and tweaks so regularly I hardly notice it and dam what the heck is happening with my left foot? I was a stronger hiker 20 years ago, hell who wasn't and I knew it was going to make a difference. I have always led a life that fitness is a priority but would have to up my heart, legs and lungs game without breaking anything on a body with its share of aches, pains and previous injury. I would have to be smart about training. A ruptured Achilles would be bad news for a sheep hunt. I knew this was going to be a real test with all my hunting dreams and aspirations on the line. The work began.

I felt like God had tossed me the ingredients for one more great do it yourself adventure and it was mine for the making. My overall excitement had a deeper feeling. There was something else there, something magic was happening. This was my dream hunt once again, yet I had the lightning in a bottle feeling this was going to be much more than I could imagine. I felt deep in my bones and soul something Truly Amazing was going to happen and it did.

I knew the area and knew map elevation lines so close they look like a chocolate smudge on the paper told the truth. The map spelled out nightmarish places like the "Bottomless Pit," "Windy Point," "The Crater" and "The Devil’s Playground." Not places for the faint of heart.

During my research I got wind of an interesting rumor. My hunting unit had taken dive as far as sheep numbers and ram quality in the past 20 years. The area had been producing smaller class Rams as a norm for a long time. Out the blue last year a big ram was taken by a hunter. Biggest in decades. I was able to speak with that hunter who told me his ram was with three other big rams. He was an outfitter in another part of the state and was nice but in respect for the outfitter he went with stayed away from anything that might help me in scouting. Fair enough. This is a do it yourself hunt so you must play detective and I cast my lines and nets in many directions. That news was a ten-pound trout. To say the possibility of three big rams was thrilling and unexpected news is an understatement. I but I also knew the vastness of the area those rams could disappear like grains of sand at the beach. The game just got a lot more interesting and the stakes much higher and the blessings just started adding up.

I couldn't stop thinking about these three rams and was sharing my thoughts a with a hunting friend of mine. I figured all three rams couldn't get snatched by a Mountain Lion, Fall off a Cliff get smacked by a falling rock or whatever else that might kill a ram. He piped in that they all could get whacked by lightening. He was messing with me, but it was true, Colorado had some sort of record for 300 or so elk killed in a single strike. Those rams would be living in higher and more exposed country. Crack! An idea for a bronze. All this sheep dreaming had me prime for sculpting a new bighorn bronze. It would be about my tenth. Three old rams in dramatic positions just getting missed by a bolt of lightning as it skips across rock between them. I sculpted the piece from right after getting my tag and through the season. Artistically, I felt supercharged by the upcoming hunt and bighorns and poured that overflowing energy directly into the piece. That bronze, “Flash Dance” is featured on page XXX

One of the best things about hunting is it brings you to places you would never visit otherwise. You go where your quarry lives, some places so beautiful they stun you and hardly seem possible, and places desolate and inhospitable. All these places change you.

Hunting pushes all your envelopes, As a hunter you are a predator in the circle of life and not just merely observing. Your senses become keener, more primal, your mind processes your surroundings differently. It allows you into a much deeper and meaningful engagement with your animal instincts, all the flora and fauna, the mysteries of the wild places, the mighty and grim forces of nature and the humbling Grace of the Heavens. Your choices can lead to life or death. You consume your quarry's flesh, the spiritual and physical essence of those wild places and its life force, energizing and nurturing your body, soul, and spirit and those of your family and clan. It has been a lifetime of finding and losing myself in those places and journeys, the soaring highs and the crushing lows, the struggles and overcoming, the anticipation and reflecting. Done right, with full engagement it becomes a life of transcending, being a hunter is not something you do it is who you are.

My first scouting trip was a wonder. I had been working hard and felt strong. God is the most amazing artist and the setting stunning. Every place you looked, something wonderful, something interesting, something beautiful and it was all bursting with life. The sky that day was a rich lapis blue and torn cotton wisps of cloud rolled over the peaks in the warm and cool breeze. The mountain is a series of sheer cliffs and impossible tumbles of Pink Granite sculpted by the wind, rain and time, some as big as a house, many smaller, accented with powder green, butterscotch and lavender lichen. The signs of vast time and erosion is everywhere you look. A week of rain followed by a string of sunny days had brought an explosion of high-altitude life to the spots with soil. Tiny wildflowers scattered like multi colored jewels glittering across the vibrant emerald green of the alpine grasses that swayed in the soft wind. Butterflies, all colors of the rainbow flew from flower to flower sacrificing their short and beautiful lives for a worthy cause. The rich breeze carried the fragrance of life; present and past. It was a perfect day.

Well maybe it would have been even more perfect if had seen sheep. No ram sightings, but in a grassy basin I found something interesting. A hardened, whitened leg bone that had been sawed cross wise. I liked the feel of it in my hand as I hiked. I thought what else up here than sheep and I imagined, rightly I think, a big ram that was being caped for a life-sized mount might leave such a bone. Something told me to keep it and thought it would make a good knife handle that carried a little of the magic of the mountain. I decided that a knife I cut into my Ram needed to be a real knife of bone and steel with a honed edge and I had to put it together. The efficiency and lightness of disposable knife's are undeniable, but not this time. I took a Norwegian hand forged blade I had, did some copper casting and cross hatched the leg bone and put it all together. I wanted it to look that might come from a mountain man’s practical’s. Before the hunt I fiddled with the knife, at times using it for dinner and letting it cut into last year’s game. I imagined what it might do its weight and purpose felt just right. It was razor sharp and ready.

On another scouting trip I dropped down in the jagged hell hole, I had taken my last ram in. Appropriately nicknamed "The Bottomless Pit”, It was still perfect place for an old ram to live in recluse alone or with a few buddies getting big, old, and studly. I placed a couple of trail cams to watch over the spot I had downed my ram in brought nothing to hint a ram might live around there anymore. I didn't even see chipmunks. It just didn't feel alive anymore, almost haunted.

Now I sat where I had fired from that day 18 years ago looking across the rock, I had rested my rifle on. It was easy to imagine once again what had played out so many times in my memory of that morning.

2004

At dawn we had studied the rams from a great distance. Moving towards us they had disappeared in impossible canyon and country. My buddy Ken with a raptors view was perched high on a cliff a thousand yards away. His hand signals had helped me pick the right place to wait as there they were 100 yards out still coming. The four stud bighorns ghosted out of stunted bristlecones like grey apparitions. It was going to be close. The sun was just teasing the bench they were on as they moved across beams of light and back into cold shadows. The scene was damp with morning dew, cresting sun rays danced through dewdrops that glittered gold. Heavy circular bone, pine sap-stained helmets crowned each ram whose heads bobbed and turned to the rhythm of their stride and the steam from their breath. I was close enough to hear hoove striking stone.

When I spied the blocky headed broomed full curl ram again with the double roman nose there was no doubt, he was the one I wanted. This was all unfolding like a dream. This was really happening. I was stunned the old ram had even existed my many scouting trips had produced nothing of the like but there he was. For the first and likely only time in my life I was looking at a big ram through glass with crosshairs. My .270 Winchester, Jack O'Connor's gun, tight to my shoulder. I clicked off the safety and tried to settle my pounding heart, the thin air wasn't helping as I gasped for breath. CCCCAAALM down...easier said than done. The old ram filled the scope from side to side, he wasn't far, and looked spectacular. He was a stone cold full curl stud. That image just might be the last thing I ever think about in my life but what happened next was even better.

The rams were slowly picking their way along in a slow uphill walk unaware of my deadly intentions. I could sense from the old rams slowing stride he was going to stop to scan the scene. He stopped, the crosshair stuck to his shoulder, and I touched the trigger. The whip crack of the .270 split the morning silence and the ram lurched forward and spun to the ground. I could hear the echo of the rifle crackle among the cliffs. I jacked in another round focusing hard. He wasn't getting up! His compadres shot out of cannons in scattered directions. As I scrambled down a steep boulder field towards the ram, I was excitedly jumping from rock to rock oblivious to what a fall would bring. As I got close, I slowed. I needed to relish this moment. It was just him and I. The first touch was my fingertips running along the dew-damp twisting bone of his weathered horns.

He was an old full curl warrior. Twelve growth rings with at least five inches broomed off would make him at least 13 years old. With broomed off inches of his youth long gone, growth rings almost worn smooth, chips from past fights, and the smell of pinesap and juniper, his horns were the history of his life. I kept wondering his life of 13 years in these mountains. How many close calls from mountain lions, hard winters, wicked lighting storms, droughts, rockslides, other hunters, bloody busted noses in fights, the other rams he hung out with and the lambs he fathered. This craggy old roman nosed Gladiator had been around. His few remaining teeth worn completely to the gums, skinny haunches, brisket worn clear of hair from endless hours lying on the rocks and I said to myself, "Yep, it was his time."

It appeared the Devil himself was cooking up the weather. The weather on a 14,000 foot a mountain can change in heartbeat, and it did. By the time we were done with pictures, caping, and boning, the sunny skies and cotton candy clouds of midday had turned a wicked black. Those once cheery clouds now low, dark, mean and muscular, looking for trouble. Those threats soon turned nasty, really nasty. We were first pummeled with a cold steely rain which then froze, leaving the rocks and cliffs with a translucent icy glaze. Beautiful to look at, but deadly. It was just an evil tease of what was to come.

The storm was gaining an awesome force. Sleet whipped at us in stinging bitter lashes, the wind, snow, and sleet supercharged with booming thunderclaps echoing off the cliffs, and lightening ripping the darkening skies. Forget about being cold, wet, and miserable this was the kind of weather that could kill you. There was no cover to speak of and hunkering down to wait was not an option. It would be like waiting in the open of an artillery assault hoping the enemy ran out of shells. Nighttime was lurking and we had to keep moving up. Straight up and into the teeth of the storm.

Each step brought thinner and thinner air and wearier and wearier backs and legs. Our water long gone we both were consumed by a ravenous thirst even though the turbulent air was filled with everything wet or frozen. The storm had become hellish and surreal in its intensity. We were completely exposed. The explosion of lightning bolts was in such quick succession they became a single deafening thunderous roar. The cracks of deadly light showing all the colors of the prism, the rank sweet smell of voltage in the air. But feeling the weight of my full curl ram on my pack and the strength in my legs, there was no place else on earth I wished I was. If I was to die on this mountain, I would die happy. I couldn’t think of another way I would like to hike into heaven than with my Ram on my pack and a smile on my face.

The ram had gone down soon after sunrise. Finally, breaking through the top of the storm, it was well after dark and the Moon burned bright, casting a lunar glow across the cliffs and tumbled stone. Now above the storm the air was dead still, clean and cold. The storm had settled low slowly marching east, the occasional cloud veiled purple and tangerine flash of lightning and low throb of thunder marking its way. I had never felt more exhausted or alive.

2022

Against all advice Jon, a young hunter I had met on my DIY Colorado Moose hunt and I were able to battle one of the gnarliest roads I have ever been on. Both of us and all our hunting and camping gear piled aboard an old ATV as we played slow motion rodeo along the boulder strewn “road” as the ATV grunted and we held on for about five miles.

We were camped at the base of Sheep Mountain which rose above us several thousand feet. Camp was set. The fire crackled warm, the rich smell of pine smoke in the chill of the air as the sun set, from warm colors to cool colors to darkness. It was a moonless night and the stars were in full display, the black mass of the mountain blocked much of the night heavens but above the peak was crowned by glittering stars. The next time there was light on the mountain we would be there hunting sheep.

It might seem like folly to pick Sheep Mountain as I had never seen any sheep there, was my judgment wrong and swayed by the magic feel of the place? But I'm not a fool, sheep have been killed up there in the past, but also, I had killed my first Ram in a spot vacant of life now. This was for real. There were lots of ways to get it wrong and this country does not easily forgive. This is a Ram tag and decisions have consequences.

I don't care what the advertisements look like you are never comfortable in a backpack tent. The early morning of the opener I had likely had less than four hours of sleep in the two previous nights. Ideas, checklists, worrying about weather, scenarios, what ifs, and mostly good old-fashioned excitement all pinballing through my head led to restless nights.

I laid in my tent alone, but not really alone. When I pray normally, I don't pray for things but strength, understanding and guidance. God is better at knowing what I need than I am. But this time I asked. " God everything has fallen into place with so many blessings..... all the ingredients are here..., I worked hard for this...today would be the perfect day it would be really great if it happened today". But let it be Your will not mine"

I had seen other sheep and rams in other parts of the unit. Some rams I would have been thrilled with if I hadn't heard the rumor of the big three rams. I just hadn't seen anything that might be them. I knew Jon could only stay with me two days of the season and I really wanted to share it with him and could use the help of a 28-year-old athlete. But nevertheless, I was mentally prepared to hunt as hard as I could for the full two-week season. Light was barely breaking to what was supposed to be a beautiful day.

No more scouting I now had a rifle and was focused on killing a big ram. We ascended Sheep Mountain in about three hours through dense Aspen groves, and heavy fire charred downed timber that lay like pixies sticks blocking our way. Up higher we navigated through massive stone slides in almost straight up elevation gains. from 11000 to like 12500. What was crystal clear day with a bright sun was being pounded with a blistering wind that was thumping hard and steady and had to be bursting to over 70.

We were prepared to cover the whole mountain and would need all day to do it. We had enough to survive overnight if need be. There is a grassy dish 800 yards across in the first section of Sheep Mountain I now call "Heavenly Valley." On the far side is what I call "Last Supper Ridge" whose wind and weather sculpted stone resembles colossal abstract faces of humans in a God crafted Stonehenge. "Heavenly Valley" is surrounded by massive piles of weathered pink granite. It is where I found the leg bone for the knife, it was where I had lost my expensive spotting scope only to be found by a Biologist and returned to me, it was where most of my dream scenarios occurred, and imagination roamed. It was the setting when I said my prayer. We eased around the rocks to get our first peek.

I grabbed Jon's Jacket sharply “Sheep!" Exactly where I dreamt and prayed, they might be about 450 yards away. I had been up Sheep Mountain numerous times it was the first time I laid eyes on sheep. Literally thousands of other places they could be but there they were... right there. It was impossible to hold my binoculars steady in the pounding wind, but I heard myself say "All Rams! "Some big ones!" as we ducked behind a boulder. We looked again... Jon said "Some big ones huh?... "Ohhhhh yeah" I knew what was happening was miraculous but would ponder it later. Time to get tacked down tight; this was for real.

There was another ridge of rocks above the rams that would bring us 200 yards closer. We dropped back and out the way we came to curl around out of sight and come around the rocks low shady edge. It was an accelerating pinch point for the wicked wind. It would be impossible to set up a shot here as the wind bullied you about and grass seed and grit whizzed past making it impossible to open your eyes. We quietly cursed the wind. Without it would be perfect.

We were able to scramble up the backside rocks and as if custom order there was a rock shaped snipers’ nest overlooking where the rams had last been. Peeking over the edge the wind a bit less furious, a little but not much and was dead in our face trying rip clothing off and watering eyes and noses. But there they were! Now 240 out.

It became quickly clear the best rams were milling about in the left-hand side of the herd of 19 rams; That’s right 19 rams, the view was heavenly and burned into my mind’s eye for eternity. For close to an hour, we studied the bigger rams. They played along and got up to graze to bed again giving us a good look from all angles. They seemed very content in this spot. The windy glassing was brutal and all image's shaky, but I was still able see what I needed. There was an old busted up ram with a big chip out of the top of his horn, good mass and broomed bluntly back to about 3/4 curl. I liked him a lot and I'm a sucker for a trophy tough guy. A Giant Banana-drop ram with little curl but massive horns. But the Ram that had kept catching my eye was the standoffish ram I had seen on my first scan of the herd. He was a Herculean Stud and the best of the bunch. His heavy spiraling horns looked golden and amber in soft morning light in contrast to his chocolate grey, and milk-colored markings. He had a handsome blocky head carrying it slightly set back chin tilted down to balance the heavy horns giving him a striking profile. Proud roman nose, horns heavy with mass and double broomed, the telltale sign of age in a Bighorn. All I had prayed for and more. I could see the rest of the herd was becoming out of focus as my eyes, spirit and purpose locked on him. He was the one.

Although I had a good rest and vantage point it was impossible to stay completely still with the pounding wind. The crosshairs bounced in the kill zone on his front chest. Randomly a hard gust would push the crosshairs off target. I didn't like that one bit. With such an important shot at hand and less than perfect conditions, time on my side it was time for a test run. I cleared my chamber settled for the mock shot and dry fired. I got to feel the tension and break of the trigger. The cross hairs stayed deadly. It calmed my nerves, and I kissed my bullet and slid it into the chamber. Next time it was for real. The ram had moved a bit from the main group and was broadside.

It was unreal what I was seeing. What sort of blessing had occurred to let this happen? This was much more than hard work crossing paths with a touch of good luck. That had happened to me before; this was different. This was clearly a specific answer to my prayer; it’s just what I prayed for. Honest to God it is.

Hunting is a risk. It can reward with the greatest of thrills, satisfaction and absolute wonderment and coldly hand out disappointments that are dark, deep, and lasting. I knew what happened next would be one of the most defining moments of my life. Make the shot and the magic goes to places only found in hunting where it lives forever, a pinnacle moment, miss and you carry a wound so deep and bitter you would never get over it. I took a deep breath letting it out slowly... pause...the crosshairs stayed true, and I touched one off.

I lost the ram in the recoil. Jon whooped "He's down" I cranked in another round and found the crumpled form of the ram in my rifle scope. The rest of the herd bolted in a pulsating swarm up the rock hill in front of Last Supper Ridge, stringing out across the next horizon now a thousand yards away and out of sight.

When we approached, I could see he was a brute. Jon and I were whooping like wild men. I lifted his head, and it was heavy. He was broomed on both sides one side one more bluntly than the other. A big stud ram and I couldn't be more thrilled or humbled. We were having fun the laughs coming easily. A few drops of blood dribbled from the ram’s nostril, without much thought Jon applied ram blood war paint to his face. I told him "It doesn't get any better than this." and have never meant anything more in my life.

In a surreal twist where the ram lay the wind was almost completely still. The difference couldn't be any starker and was just a little over 200 yards away. It looked like the rams had known to come here come here to be sheltered from the hard North wind. A God Whisper came to me; “God sent that wind.” We had seen the wind as our adversary, while in fact it likely pushed the rams into the perfect spot. The blessing and maybe the key for the prayer to be unlocked. How many times in life hard headwinds and turbulence was exactly what we needed looking back but cursing it while it was happening.

I was starting a tradition of my own; the handmade Ram knife still had a freshly honed Virgin edge. I put it to work, its hand hammered steel blade cutting clean and sure the cross-hatching helping with the grip of my bloody hand. After our butchering and caping we moved the ram to small spots of shade where it chilled quickly. It seemed clear this would take two packing trips each. Or would it.

Sheep hunting tends to be for folks with optimistic natures. I have a saying either it goes on the wall or in my mouth I leave it. Trim, bones, hide and hoof. I leave it. I found out later just the head and cape weighed 46 pounds, 10 pound rifle, spotting scope, meat, gear, and what little water I had left that part was mine. Jon is 28, a pro level freestyle skier and quads of stone, big heart and as determined as an avalanche. I have been around a lot of tough guys in my life, and he is the toughest. So, when he suggested we might make it in one load I listened. At least it's downhill.

We staggered on our way Jons pack north of 100 and mine a smidge south. In the rockier and more treacherous sections I remember thinking more than a few times I don't make this step or a rock ain't as stuck as I thought it was, and I'm gonna get pile driven 15 feet down the mountain. So, you take that step with confidence knowing doubt leads to uncertainty and hesitation leads to mistakes. It takes keen concentration knowing the most amazing day could turn to complete disaster in one misstep with the steep angle and top-heavy packs and gravity looming to punish you. You go down or topple over and the crash is going to be ugly. Sumthins gonna break.

We had started with plenty of daylight left but over three hours later we both were spent and thirsty. We made it to our base camp just before dark.

We had planned on replenishing our dwindling water in the rock basins up on sheep mountain but never made it that far and we were almost completely out. There is a moose swamp just down from camp we had seen a big bull in. Fighting the urge to collapse to the ground we really needed water. We still had to get out of here. Soaking our boots we were laughing and clawing our way through willows and the darkening swamp only finding moose piss, slime and dead mosquitos in rancid puddles. No water. We had half a water bottle left when we could chug a gallon each and would have to make it last. Tired, sore, and thirsty a small price to pay for what had happened

What a day. But tradition waited and a crackling pine fire roasted the classic Sheep ribs over an open flame. The fire danced a golden glow on the surrounding rocks. Our gear and ram head in the warm shadows. The fat sizzled and popped the rich aroma filled the chilly air. Twisting ribs from the small rack ripping fresh meat off the bones with our teeth and grubby fingers. The perfect meal to end a heavenly day. The stars twinkled on. So much had happened since we stood in the same spot the night before wondering with nervous anticipation. I remember thinking again what I had thought all day. “You answered my prayer”

I haven’t stopped dreaming about hunting Rams again and don’t think I ever will. Because miracles do happen, and prayers are answered and I’m not stopping believing now.