The Last Hunt
At 78 years old, with two heart valve replacements, a pacemaker, and a new hip, my Grandpa Don had debated hanging up his rifle for good. But a few months later, I received a call from him exclaiming he drew a tag he’d been putting in for since 1978 – 45 years later, his time had finally come. The phone call left me feeling excited, astonished, and a bit weary - but damn eager; we were going bighorn sheep hunting in a highly coveted Montana unit.
The day Grandpa Don drew the tag, he went to work. He spent countless hours marking up maps laid out all over his kitchen and living room, made day trips to the unit, spent time on Google Earth and OnX studying the ins and outs of the land, and made calls to biologists and friends who were familiar with the area and sheep behavior in it. Physically, he tried his hardest to train, but was met with the inability to build muscle, numbness in his feet, a decline in balance, and struggled to build power when he needed it due to his pacemaker capping his heart rate at 90 beats per minute. Thankfully, he is one tough SOB and had no intentions of stopping.
Fast forward to September - game time. With plans to hunt on opening day, Mike, my father, and I hopped in his Aviat Husky and set out to fly the unit a few days prior, as laws state you are unable to fly and hunt on the same day. The flight over was beautiful and we saw hundreds of elk along the way, however once we neared the unit the mountains got big - really, really big. Wind rolled off the ridges and giant gusts pushed us around, making it impossible to fly low and look for sheep. We turned around and headed home, my stomach uneasy from the rough air and eyes wide with disbelief on how vast and rugged the terrain is. This hunt was going to be a chore, one I was looking forward to, but equally intimidated by.
We set out gathering up our gear; saddles and tack, trucks and trailers, horses and mules. Last minute tasks also included reloading bullets, checking to make sure Grandpa Don’s rifle was on, and stocking up on more freeze dried meals and high calorie snacks. Mathew, my boyfriend, and I, hit the road with a trailer in tow. We received some unfortunate last minute beta along the way that sheep numbers in the unit were at an all time low due to pneumonia and wolves. We rolled into camp and the scent of fried chicken hit our noses. Grandpa Don had picked up a bucket full to share. My brother, Jack, and uncle, Pat, were setting up tents. Mathew and I tended to the livestock, watering them at a nearby creek, while my dad flew the unit again. Later, over our second helping of fried chicken, he shared that within the couple hours spent in the air, circling and crisscrossing the unit, he did not see a single sheep. No deer, or elk either. An unsettling sign indicating wolves have taken a toll on the wild game in the area. We climbed into our bedrolls with little hope of finding a ram inside the unit.
It felt like I had just shut my eyes when the wake up call came; we boiled water for coffee then caked and saddled horses by headlamp. Our hopes were low, but efforts high as we split off in different directions to get eyes on as much of the unit as possible. We rode, hiked, and glassed; scouring the mountainsides for sheep before eventually heading back to camp with no luck. Things took a turn when we were met by Pat, who had gotten eyes on six great rams. As dark settled a new sense of excitement filled us.
The second my eyes flitted open the next morning, adrenaline began pulsing through me. It was organized chaos as we got ready. My mule was the fastest in the group so he and I led the way with a packhorse in tow. At 7,040 feet, we hit a spring - our last chance for water. Another six hundred feet in elevation and we were at the treeline; unable to get the horses any further.
Taking off on foot, we crested the first ridge and the hike turned into a climb. We found ourselves teetering from one rock to another, oftentimes on hands and knees. I gaped at the infinite mountains surrounding us. It felt like a different planet, and the wind howled. It was the worst gusts we had ever felt, knocking not just me, but also 200 pound men to the ground.
We spotted the sheep before beginning the climb, but they had since grazed away and were now much further than originally anticipated. The occasional glimpse of them through glass kept us moving up, but our determination began to blend with worry and overwhelm. We were in deep; a long way from the horses, in what one would call ‘no man’s land.’ The winds would prevent any chance of a helicopter coming in case of an emergency meaning the only way down was back through the extremely steep and technical rocky mountainside. My grandpa was losing steam and we were all on high alert - ready to catch him when the wind or rocks knocked him down.
Hats and other loose objects soared high into the air. My cheeks hurt from my backpack straps smacking my face over and over. Our eyes and mouths were full of dust. It was horrible... But the rams were close, so we kept on. At 8,400 feet we caught up with them, some of which were bedded down. Grandpa Don dialed in the yardage and set up a rest - I held my breath and waited, my eyes glued to the herd. Eventually he lowered his gun. The wind was blowing so hard it was impossible to keep from moving, preventing a steady shot. He had to try a different location.
Moving into a new spot was a slow process and the odds of the sheep staying put felt slim. About twenty minutes later, Grandpa Don was hunkered below an outcropping with my dad. The wind was less violent, but it still took trying out two or three different rests until he could get steady. I remember saying a prayer, and soon after watched as he squeezed the trigger with confidence.
Within seconds of the gunshot, the ram hit the ground and cheer erupted behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see Jack, Mathew and Pat jumping into the air, shouting and high fiving each other. I booked it towards my Grandpa, tackling him in a hug. Tears rimmed our eyes as we embraced, words of disbelief passing among us all. It took a team to get to this moment - and having that team made of three generations of Lovelys made it all the more special. We stood, smiling, on the side of the mountain, still trying not to blow away, in utter awe – what Grandpa Don had just accomplished is truly indescribable (as much as I’ve tried with this piece.)
The ram was a beautiful broomed out bruiser, a once in a lifetime sheep. We snapped some photos and went to work caping him out. Despite the quarters weighing much less than the elk we are typically packing out, this was one of the most challenging pack-outs we have had. The wind gusts hit 100 miles per hour - our packs and gear blew in every direction. We chased down what we could, but other items skyrocketed hundreds of feet into the air before getting pushed miles away. We hoped to make it out by dark and continued to pray for my Grandpa’s safety. The steep and rocky terrain made the trip down just as long as the one up. We took turns leapfrogging ahead, dropping the heavy packs, then going back to walk with Grandpa Don. Oftentimes, hand in hand, using one another to balance. Mike states, the best part of the day was “Watching Grandpa’s butt hit the saddle.” With a lot of grit and determination, it did. We made it out with everybody in one piece, a hell of a story to tell, and sheep meat to feast on.
The opportunity to accompany my grandfather on his hunt is not something I take lightly. It was not only an experience I will forever cherish, but truly changed my perspective. Witnessing his ability to dissociate himself from his pain and ailments proved what a strong mind is capable of. Nothing holds you back more than yourself. On this hunt he had no excuses, no complaints - just willpower. I strive to have his strength and to still be doing what I love at his age. My grandpa was with me when I shot my first buck at twelve years old, so it feels extra special to have been by his side for this, what he has stated was his last hunt. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if I get a call in a few months telling me about this year’s tags…
