Sheep hunting is purely a visual pursuit, making high-powered optics essential. With a spotting scope, Clay can judge the age of a ram more than two miles away.

FOR NINE YEARS this moment had been building in my heart. You see, I first hunted Dall sheep in 1977, also with Clay Lancaster and Nahanni Butte Outfitters (see "A Thirst for Sheep," Feb/Mar 1998). Fogged in at base camp for four days, we'd ended up with only four days in the field, short time to search for a big ram. So I took the first mature ram that came my way, a beautiful 11 1/2-year-old, full-curl trophy. However, he was not large, maybe a 5 or 6 on a scale of 1 to 10, and rather than quenching my thirst for a big Dall ram, he only whetted it. Thus, haunted by dreams of a perfect 10, I returned to the Northwest Territories (NWT) in July 2006 for a second round with Nahanni Butte Outfitters.

Unfortunately, the 2006 trip started off even less favorably than the first. Michigan hunters Tony Zahn and Tom Basch, and I flew to Ft. Simpson, NWT, on July 21, where Clay's uncle Jim Lancaster met us at noon. Tom's and my bow cases, both of which fortunately contained the tackle we needed for hunting, had arrived. However, our backpacks, which held most of our clothes, along with boots and sleeping bags, had not.

The airline guy made some calls but could not locate our packs, and he had no idea when they would show up -- maybe a day, maybe a week. In desperation, we visited the local variety store -- in Ft. Simpson, population 1,500, we could not find a Cabela's or Wal-Mart -- where we bought some underwear, T-shirts, net bug jackets, and wide-brimmed hats. At 4 p.m., we checked one last time with the airline guy and got the same answer -- "Who knows?" -- so we gave up and began the long drive and boat ride to base camp at Nahanni Butte.

There we borrowed backpacks, sleeping bags, and some additional clothes from Clay and the other guides and deemed ourselves hunt-worthy. Sort of. Now all we needed was some decent weather so we could fly to our hunting area.

Bo Lancaster, left, and his dad, Clay, cook breakfast in camp on a beautiful July morning. The rock barriers serve as windbreaks for tent and kitchen.

THE NEXT MORNING, even that seemed in doubt. The sky was clear, but the wind was howling. Nahanni Butte Outfitters flies all hunters into the field via helicopter, and the chopper could not fly safely in heavy wind. So, for the morning, we remained grounded. I quadruple-checked my gear and settled in with a book. As Yogi Berra would say, it was déjà vu all over again.

Fortunately, by early afternoon the wind died down, and at 3 p.m., chopper pilot Barry Scott took Clay, Boden, and me on a beautiful flight into the Tlgacho Mountains. At least we were in sheep country.

Even then we got one final shot of anxiety. Peeking from the tent one morning, we peered blindly into a sheep hunter's worst nightmare -- fog. Sheep hunting is purely visual, meaning, if you can't see, you can't hunt.

In no hurry to go anywhere, we ate breakfast, and then Clay gave me some lessons on aging rams at a distance, strictly by body stature. As we were talking, the fog began to lift, and Clay suddenly pointed. "Look, there's a ram right there, on that far ridge. Let's decoy him in," Clay said.

Quickly, he ducked into the tent, pulled on a white jacket, and crawled out into the open, baaaaing like a sheep. The 2 1/2-year-old ram spotted Clay immediately, and over the next half hour he steadily came our way, curious, until he stood less than 20 yards from Clay, gawking as if he'd found his long lost mother. We just about had to chase him out of camp. Clay's impersonation of a ewe definitely earned a solid 10.

Continued -- click on page link below.