Mountain sheep and plastic forks

Our recent January virtually void of snow got me to reminiscing.

We had a similar few snowless weeks about this time of year back when I was growing up in Central Montana.

I was in high school, and during our Christmas break, some of us decided that the weather was going to cooperate enough that we could hike a local mountain, stay overnight and track some mountain sheep.

That was about the extent of the planning.

We made a hasty shopping trip and loaded up a truck and headed out. The four of us bounded down the highway, eager for the hike to the top of Square Butte, a local landmark in the area.

We had to open a couple gates on the way to access the base, where we'd leave the pickup and don our backpacks for the ascent.

It was less than an hour hike, and we arrived with plenty of daylight left to set up camp. The tent got put up, and we gathered some firewood and tried to settle in around the fire, ready to condense a long winter's night.

Around dinnertime, we came to realize that our hasty packing left something to be desired - mainly food of any substance.

Someone had managed to bring a case of soda, and we had about a half a loaf of bread. Not exactly four-star dining. But at least the sky was clear and the sounds of the wild were entertaining.

With a little more digging, we came up with some beef jerky, and the protein gave us a little reassurance that we might survive after all.

As the fire died down, the thought of a warm sleeping bag was much more attractive than another round of wood gathering, so we called it an evening and turned in.

Morning came soon enough, and none of us froze anything important, and soon the fire was roaring again.

Ah, nothing quite like breakfast in the wild.

One of us had procured some bacon and eggs, but there would be no toast since the bread was raided the night before.

Soon the cast iron skillet was crackling with life. Suddenly, the call went out for silverware.

Once again, in our haste to get going, we'd somehow overlooked some necessities. Finally one of us came up with some plastic forks.

Now there was a show - trying to pull sizzling bacon out of a skillet with a plastic fork. After one swipe, you'd lost half of the tines. After another swipe, you had a stub.

Finally, someone had whittled a fork off a nearby branch, and soon we had enough wooden-ware for us to eat our breakfast, wash it down with a soda and head off for a day of tracking the untrackable.

If you've ever tried to sneak up on a mountain sheep, you'll know that you're "sneaking" amounts to anything between a half mile and two - depending on how sneaky you are.

After about 30 minutes of canvassing the perimeter, we finally saw a few in the distance. They were on the northeast side, and we had camped all the way on the east end of the butte.

The tracking consisted of trying to get down at least as low on the butte as the sheep were, and hopefully they'd move upward if anything.

For a while, it seemed like every ridge we'd peek over, they'd get farther away.

We gained a good respect for the ability of our prey, as we were now traversing their vertical playground. The hiking had ended - we were now climbing, without a net.

Soon we were trying to get footholds and handholds just to move down a few feet. This went on for more than an hour as we did everything we could to close the gap, without making (too much) noise.

By the time we arrived at where we had first saw the herd, they were now on the move, going around the mountain in a clockwise direction. They had taken the opportunity to move east then south as we were changing altitude.

It was becoming apparent that we were traveling more miles vertically than horizontally, and what took us 15 minutes to climb, the sheep were doing in less than 30 seconds.

Finally, we managed to get into a nice ridge that hid us from their view. We slowly closed the gap and all of a sudden we were side by side on our bellies, trading binoculars. It was a nice herd of seven, and even though they were listening intently, we weren't making it easy for them to locate us.

Anxious to get even closer, a rock gave way underneath one of us, and within seconds, the herd had made it to the top and now was scrambling to the other side, away from us.

Content with our tracking, we headed back to camp and tore it down in record time. Suddenly, some home cooking sounded better than stumbling on top of a butte, even though the view in every direction was incredible.

The note on the truck said we were trespassing. Oops, No. 2.

As we attempted to retreat back to civilization, we have to navigate a couple of gates and cross some pasture land.

Closing the second gate, I heard a vehicle approach, and we had to do some sweet talking and endure some tongue-lashing from the landowner - with the promise to not return without permission - before we were allowed to leave.

Overall, it was a successful mission, all made possible by a break in the weather. Never again did we have the chance to enjoy some good hiking and tracking during a mild winter.

But if we did, I'm sure we would have put a little more effort into our packing.

I can still taste that bacon with a tinge of plastic - Yuck!

Jerry Hitchcock's idea or roughing it these days is when the power goes out at the RV park. He can be reached at 664-8176, Ext. 2017, or via email at [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter at HitchTheWriter.