Northern Lights in the Chugach: My Improbable Hunt for an Alaska Dall Ram

By Jerry Edgington

My hunt for a Dall ram in the Chugach Mountains of Alaska became an epic adventure and stretched me beyond my limits, or so I thought. High on the rocky face of a steep mountainside, I found myself both physically and mentally spent. Exhaustion and confusion are a dangerous combination in a spot like that. Sweat stung my eyes and ran off my nose. My heartbeat pulsed in my ears and my arms and legs were limp with fatigue. I reached deep for a little more grit and climbed on. At the top of the next pitch I found a flat section of grass about the length of my body, an oasis and a reprieve from the misery. Life altering epiphanies come at a price. Amid the northern nights in the Chugach Mountains I found a bigger world than I'd ever known.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publication Consultants
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781594339813

Jerry Edgington

I'm a pretty average guy who appreciates nature and wildlife and is amazed by the design of the world and all the connecting pieces. I'm also drawn to adventure, to seeing the world, safely of course (sometimes I miss a bit on that part). ese things seem fairly innocuous, but in combination can be a formula for creating extraordi- nary experiences in nature. With my sons, I've hunted around the world, embracing opportunities that come out of nowhere. From Alaska to Africa to New Zealand and points in between. We've hunted and shed and explored the world we nd beautiful and fascinating. Alaska Brown Bear is one adventure I had to do without the boys. A er sharing this one with them, I'm certain they'll look for, and nd one of their own just like it, or even better. It created a hunger for more adventures and each has become its own story and has built unforgettable memories. My publisher calls me the Accidental Adventure Opportunist.

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HERE

MOMENT OF TRUTH

From a half-mile away, I watch two Dall rams though my binoculars. They sit motionless as they last sun of the evening ebbs away. The shadow from the western ridge inches down the slope towards us. The minutes tick away and everything around me is a sun dial, casting shadows and marking time. The shadow of my rifle barrel creeps across the rocks at my feet, like a snail oozing over the ground—even when time moves this slowly, it never stops.

Time seems relative to whatever is going on in my mind—it can speed along without notice, or it can move sloth-like when I’m watching it closely. It’s just perception.

As the shadow from the ridge covers us, the air cools. When it reaches the rams, they stand and stretch—like the sun’s departure is their notice to get up and move.

Here we go, whispers Tate. Looks like they’re headed out.

Stepping away from the grass they move down the draw, slowly picking their way through the rocks.

Good, good, Tate coaxes. Keep coming. Get ready Jerry.

I quietly slide a bullet into the chamber of my rifle and press back the safety button, covering the red dot. Next has become Now, and all that remains is for Tate to judge if the ram is a full curl and give me the distance, then it’ll be up to me to put the crosshairs on him and make the shot. The white-noise from an hour ago is gone and the air is still.

The rams begin angling towards the sunshine that washes the canyon wall across from us.

They’re a half-mile off, but if they just keep their line and stay on that rock face, you still might have a shot. whispers Tate, adjusting the focus knobs on his spotting scope.

Their white coats brighten as they move into the sunlight. This is a good set-up; they’ve stopped, and I have a solid rock to steady my rifle, but they’re too far off. The shadow climbs the slope until it reaches their feet. When it covers them, they’ll be moving on. It’s decision time—the moment of truth.

To my naked eye, they are no larger than ants. The lead ram appears to be the bigger of the two, though it’s impossible to know from this far. I steady my gun and watch him jiggle in the lens of my scope.

Big enough? I whisper.

Hard to say yet, mumbles Tate. The lead ram looks like a shooter, maybe a full curl, but I need a better angle.

How far you thinkin? I whisper.

That, I can tell you, as he switches from the spotting scope to the rangefinder. Five-twenty-eight.

Really? That’s a long shot.

Yeah it is. How far will your .270 reach?

Can’t say. I’ve never shot farther than about 300 yards, but I doubt my gun will be the problem.

Through the lens of my scope, the ram looks the size of a dime from across a room. Reaching into my subconscious I look for a calm that will stop my scope from shaking, and with the next exhale my muscles relax, and the scope steadies.

What do you think? I ask, feeling my heart pulsing in my throat.

"I think it’s too far. Let’s give ‘em a minute and see if they’ll move a little closer.

Just as the shadow covers the ram, he tilt’s his head towards us. Tate clears his throat and whispers, Yup, he’s a shooter. In fact, he’s a big shooter, but it’s your call.

The rams are vivid in the shadow, and the scene becomes more than the sum of its parts. Everything slows down.

So, what do you think Tate? I ask again, recognizing it is decision time.

Your call. This is what you came for. You can just watch ‘em or you can take your shot. Can you make the shot?

I think so, I whisper. It’s hardly the confidence I need in this moment. We’re well hidden and I have a solid shooting position. My pack sits on a big flat rock, giving me a firm base for my gun, and my left-hand rests on top of the barrel, the best situation for a shot. Settle the crosshairs just behind the ram’s front shoulder. My right-hand rests on the rock with my finger touching the side of the trigger.

So, Tate, you got any idea how much a 140-grain bullet drops over 528 yards at this elevation?

Huh, never shot that far myself, but I’d guess three, maybe four feet.

There is no science behind Tate’s guess, but it’s all I have so I raise the crosshairs to what I guess is three feet above the ram’s shoulder.

In the instant just before I squeeze the trigger, I always feel this brief pause, when my decision is made and there’s no turning back, and a blanket of control washes over me, like I own the moment.

I slide the safety forward and from the corner of my eye I see Tate cover his ears. I draw in one more deep breath and exhale slowly.

SIX WEEKS EARLIER

Spring Creek is a slow-moving fishing stream on the Idaho side of the Grand Teton. There’s no better place on earth to spend a summer morning, tossing sticks into an eddy by the bank. They swirl counter-clockwise for a moment, then float to the middle and disappear in the current. Tree roots under the water give the brook trout good cover. It’s a haven for the fish, and a good spot for catching when the mayflies hover on the surface and the feeding frenzy begins.

For the past century and five generations, my family has caught thousands of trout in this very spot. They fished for food back then, and there were times when a frying pan full of Brookies was the entire meal.

Catch-and-release is the way we fish these days. Lyla, my tenderhearted granddaughter, hates to see the fish