Just enough light from the eastern morning sky to see the distant ridge through a bare branched tree the image of a sheep appeared in the binoculars. For just a moment it was there. Just long enough to see that it wasn’t a rock or a bush or anything but an animal. To ensure this to the mind was the fact that it moved.
The hunter sees many things in his optimistic anticipation. He sees the movement of birds and immediately sees his prey, a trick of the eye like a rock or bush that takes the shape of an elk or deer.
This morning was different because it moved correctly, not just a flash, but the positive movement of shape against horizon and outline of body mass contrast with the form of charred cedar branches it passed behind. Something was actually there but gone to quickly for sure identification.
Our trail led to the north up a steep incline, frozen, rocky, covered with four inches of snow. The rocks were exposed where the wind and bright winter sun had cleared it away. The bushes were nestled down in the crusted ice with their tops exposed to the breeze. The mountain peaks were concealed from us by the mass of the round rising hill before us. Charred and bare junipers still standing across the canyon and up the slope told the story of a long ago fire raging in this bitter cold and melancholy place.
The sheep had moved downward into the canyon the moment we saw her leading our attention toward her. The local ranchers run cattle across these grassy hills and mountain meadows but sheep herders are uncommon here so the sight of a Columbia ewe was unbelievable to our eyes in a rugged mountain with a healthy population of cougar, black bear, bobcat, and coyote. The shepherds main work is to protect their herds from predators, living with the sheep all summer as they raise their lambs.
Our curiosity of this phantom in the canyon led us from our planned trail onto a new path to discover the animal within. To the edge of the steep ravine standing in innocence turning its head toward us as we arrived, a domesticated long legged white woolly sheep, motionless, watching us intently, standing its ground as we moved on, upward, a new path, a new ridge, winter stillness, the clatter of steel horseshoes on frozen pebbles and large round stones. Four hundred yards up the rocky ridge I looked back, the ewe still watching us. I thought of the good medicine of the White Buffalo and I smiled not yet knowing the turn of events this medicine sheep had already set in motion.
The terrain became more rugged with the rising elevation. The charred junipers became thicker, the boulders became larger, the ridge narrower, and the horses were more tired with each step. The sky clear, deep, brilliantly transparent. The sun showing its shining rays on the tallest distant peaks from the south to the north along the far away western horizon. The air crispy, clean, calm and brisk nipping the nose and cheeks with freezing temperatures. The first rays above us and two thousand yards ahead reflecting tiny buff golden dots revealing four elk grazing the hillside near the summit. Their identity concealed from the naked eye but quite obviously bull elk through the prism of Zeiss manufacturer.
Fifteen minute rest for the horses tied to juniper. Fifteen minute observation of four bulls, insulated boots standing in eight inch snow, eyes watering from concentration and cold air to count antler points at great distance. The exchange of smiles and the celebration of gently hitting fists. The satellite bulls are found and riders mount again to forge forward across the hibernating meadows. Tall penstamon stems protrude the snow bank, their seed pods split and empty, tell a moment of summer splendor and its playmate the helianthella.
The path of the ridge brings us to the high meadows of grass and before us eating peacefully a magnificent sight that speaks to all the senses. The first thought of the hunter: this is the Herd Bull the Monarch of the mountain. The great Wapiti. Massive antlers. High head, proud, powerful, rugged, resilient. His companions are many, protected by their solitude, their whispering movements through the passes and the forests. One moment they are there a colony of breathing, grazing, browsing, earth churning hoofs then over the ridge beyond sight the mountain is silenced of their presence. The breeze sings their exit chant of quiet rustling and defining silence covers the icy snow. The faraway caw of an isolated raven breaks the hunters trance. He is alive as never before. The herd has stirred his soul.
At the hearth little ones will hear these deeds. The canyon will be called sheep ridge. The bulls will grow fat on plentiful grass. The herd will haunt the far north canyons where stream and meadow meet. Two hunters will see again the trees, the rocks, the frozen canyons and the blistered bark of fire torn forests. The sheep a phantom in the hills shall appear peacefully in future dreams, powerful thoughts to come. Memories will hold the sacred moment of the Medicine Sheep when she stepped forward leading the chase to the place of the victory. Watching valiantly as those she led from their path labored steepward toward the herd.
Thank you, lost sheep, for guiding me in a hostile land toward the bounty of the herd on a rocky ridge in the western mountains, isolated from the comforts of home and the embrace of civilization. Thank you for your good medicine.
