Charley Waterman's Tales of Fly-Fishing, Wingshooting, and the Great Outdoors by Charley Waterman

Author:Charley Waterman
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781586671334
Publisher: Derrydale Press

Chapter Eighteen

MASTERS OF THE HUNT

The mountain-sheep hunter is a watcher and MacDougall watched well. He would not show himself or his client on open ridge-tops, for the mountain sheep is a watcher too, a resident of high places with vast open spaces before him.

MacDougall handled the instruments of his profession with care—the well-protected spotting scope, its assortment of eyepieces, and its stubby tripod firmly lashed against his packboard along with lunch necessities and a piece of rope. But whether he was on foot or horseback, the scope was always quickly available. Now, lying flat on his belt buckle, he set the tripod feet firmly in some loose gravel beside a ridgetop boulder, moving a few small stones with his hand to be sure it was solid. I watched the procedure as I had watched it many times before and breathed deep at the thin air.

I studied my rifle, which was really heavier than need be. A good stockmaker, I thought, could get some weight from the fore-end, but the barrel was too heavy and any change there would be very expensive. I was getting old for this business. I sat slumped a little and considered lying down but knew getting up again would be an effort.

MacDougall was completely still except for an occasional tiny movement of the scope as he studied ridge after ridge in a distance that became blue to the west. There were snowy peaks, enormous valleys, and endless ridges that made up most of British Columbia toward the Pacific. I stared at MacDougall—big creased hat shielding his face and scope, checkered wool shirt and Indian moccasins, the utility kind that extended up the calf and are held by thongs around the leg. He wore modern moccasin rubbers over the soft leather, low rubbers that from the top look like the kind made to go over dress shoes but have rock-grabbing cleats on the soles. I had short mountain-hunting boots with Vibram soles and MacDougall had commented that they were a lot better than what he and his fellow guides wore. So I had asked him why he wore moccasins.

“I don’t know,” MacDougall said. He never talked much.

After twenty minutes or so, MacDougall slipped gently back from the spotting scope, broke off a blade of grass, chewed it a little, and looked at the ground. His mind was working on Stone sheep trophy mathematics. He sat up and blinked.

“There’s a fair ram couple of ridges over,” he said. “One horn’ll go about thirty-six inches and the other one is broomed off about an inch. He’s pretty and has a lot of white on him but I’m pretty sure we can do better.”

It was a typical spotting scope report, an almost supernatural estimate of horn dimensions, but I had learned it was an essential part of the game for a man who steered hunters after world records. MacDougall paused and then looked straight at me.

“There’s something else,” he said. “It’s to hell and gone off there in the mirage—miles. It’s a big, black ram and I can barely make him out, but he’s got a heavy head.

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