This is the strange story of Martin Bovey’s big horn sheep. It had its beginnings in 1917, when, for a spellbound moment, I gazed at three golden rams perched high on a cliff in the Canadian Rockies. It had its rousing climax thirty-five years later, in 1952. It’s the story of a hunt for what I choose to call the Three Musketeers of Gould Dome.

     Bovey caught up with the big ram in 1924. But another twenty-eight years were to pass before the significance of the long, curious hunt was fully understood and appreciated.

     I've hunted bighorns since 1906, and taken out more sportsmen than I could readily add up. Up to 1916 the best of our Rocky Mountain hunting grounds was along the crest of the continental divide in an area south of Crowsnest Pass, Alberta. But then the area was set aside in national parks-Glacier Park in Montana and Waterton Lakes Park just over the border in Canada.

     Now, years earlier I'd spent some time surveying coal claims in the wild region north of Crowsnest Pass and had been much impressed by the rugged High Rock Range, which separates Alberta from British Columbia. It looked like great sheep country, so I arranged with two old friends-Russell H. Bennett and Franklin M. Crosby, of Minneapolis-to hunt with me there in the fall of 1917. Since this involved a trek of perhaps 100 miles from my ranch at Pincher Creek, Alberta, not far from the Montana border, I put together a train of twenty packhorses and allowed three days for us to reach the southern end of our proposed hunting area. All went well and we made our first base camp late in September close to North Fork Pass.

     It soon became evident that we were still too far south, so next day we moved on to the foot of a great rock fall near the head of Dutch Creek Valley, only a mile or so from the base of Tornado Peak, which looms 10,170 feet above sea level. There we put in two weeks of hunting and exploring. Bennett and Crosby each got a good sheep and a goat, and we saw many others.

     Before we left, I had an experience with far-reaching consequences. I rode out of camp late one afternoon to search for two missing packhorses. I had a good notion where they had gone-into a side draw formed by the cliffs of Gould Dome. With my mind full of packhorse, I was nearing the end of the draw when I was startled by a sudden fall of rocks from a cliff.

     Riding to a knoll, I turned my glasses onto the cliffs above. And there, in the bottom of a deep notch that looked like the V of a rifle sight were three giant rams. The setting sun bathed them with its ruddy glow and they stood like statues of pure gold. All were giants, but the one in the middle was the largest ram I'd ever seen.

     That sight alone was worth a thousand miles of travel. We'd filled our licenses, though, so there was nothing to do but file away the memory of the Three Musketeers for some future year.

     I did not get back to the High Rock Range until 1920, when I took out two young men, already experienced hunters. They were Martin Bovey and Meridan Bennett, also of Minneapolis. Both were about to enter college, Bovey had gone out on his first big-game hunt with his father and me in 1916, at the age of 14, and had killed a goat. Now, after serving in the first World War, he wanted a bighorn ram. We established our base camp ten miles north of my 1917 camp.

     We had just two weeks for the boys to start for college on September 15, I'd filled them in on my encounter with the Three Musketeers three years earlier, and they were determined to get at least one of the rams or die in the attempt. (That's no mere figure of speck. It's mighty easy to die if you miss your footing on the cliffs of the high rocks!)

     The first day out of camp we saw thirty-seven sheep, seven of them rams. But none was up to our exalted standards, so we were careful not to molest or frighten them. Every day for a week we saw other sheep, many of them excellent by most standards, but none of the stature of the Gould Dome rams. We'd sure set our sights high!

     It was almost monotonous, this passing up of good heads, but our reward came at last on September 8. The sun was just rising when we poked our heads over the rimrock at the head of Oyster Creek. Earlier in the week we'd built a low stone wall there, behind which we could lie and examine the country beyond through chinks in the wall. I'd no sooner put my eyes to one when I spotted twelve rams on the opposite hillside. Three or four were big ones with fine heads.

     There was no way we could move toward them without being seen, however. So I glassed the country beyond them and made an even more important discovery-three really huge rams lying on the ledges of an ancient moraine. I got out my 35X spotting scope, and one glance through it convinced me that these were my old friends, the Three Musketeers.

     We were all thrilled to the core, but we were worried, too, for the rams on the opposite hillside stood between us and the promised land. We considered the situation from every angle, and the answer always came out the same: Stay put until the twelve rams fed into a more favorable position. That went sorely against the grain, but there was nothing else we could do.

     At 8 a.m., half an hour after we'd arrived at the rimrock, we cautiously withdrew downhill a bit. Every fifteen minutes or so one of us would crawl up to a spy hole in the rocks and check on the sheep. At 10 a.m. all the rams-including the Three Musketeers-were lying down and the situation was as bad as ever. So there we stayed, feeling like so many fired oysters as the sun glared down on us, until 3:30 p.m. in the afternoon. Then the twelve rams began moving north to get out of the sun, and in a few minutes were out of sight. We were now free to move in on our trio.

     The big three had fed down into some scattered bushes at the timberline, then dropped below into terrain that was more favorable for stalking. The wind was all right too, and hopes began to rise.

     In coming down off our hill we had to pass a bull elk that was bedded down in some scrub brush. We were not interested in him, since elk season wouldn't open for a month, but we certainly didn't want to spook him. So we slunk past like three well-kicked curs, our rifles ready in case he wanted to make an issue of things. Fortunately he was warm and comfortable, and only opened one eye sleepily as we passed.

     We now headed for a little knoll, from whose top we hope to locate the big fellows. To get to it we had to cross fifty yards of open mountainside, so I used a trick I've often employed in similar circumstances. Each member of the party simply cut a balsam branch and holds it in front of him as he crawls slowly toward his objective.

     We made it safely to the top of the knoll. Still shielded by the branches, we spotted our rams among some scrubby bushes 300 or so yards away. They were feeding steadily downward in our direction, so the boys got their rifles ready for action. Med Bennett was a carrying a .30/06 with a Lyman 48 peep sight and gold-bead front sight. His 180-grain bullets traveled at 2,700 foot seconds' muzzle velocity. He got into his sling and adjusted as tightly as he could. Martin had a .250/3000 Model 99-K Savage, Lyman peep and gold front sight, 100-grain Western open-point bullets and no sling.

     Med had won the toss for the first shot, so he prepared to take a crack at the biggest ram as soon as it got within 200 yards. The three sheep advanced slowly and it looked as though they were indeed our meat. But you never know. They'd been feeding quietly for twenty minutes or so when one of them abruptly drew back and butted another tremendous blow. Then both came together with a crack of horns that sounded like a rifle shot.

     Like playful puppies, all three started to frolic, rushing downstairs past us at forty miles an hour, and darting in and out of bushes. We were all so flabbergasted we couldn't get off a shot. Then, at the foot of the hill, they stopped dead about 200 yards away, facing uphill toward us-perfect targets.

     Unfortunately, Med had prepared himself for an uphill shot, and now, with the tight sling, he had to aim down a 45-degree slant. His bullet went low, and gravel flew up into the sheep's belly, stinging it like fifty bees. The ram reared and made for the timber, disappearing into it in a flash, followed by his pals. The belt of woods was about 100 yards wide, and the sheep got through it in an instant and then started across slide rock straight away from us and at 300 yards' range.

     Med managed to get off another ineffective shot at the biggest ram before it disappeared around a curve in the cliff. Then he fired twice at the No. 2 sheep but failed to connect. His fifth and last bullet was directed at ram No. 3 just as it too was about to round the cliff. It crashed down among the boulders with a broken neck.

     "Med!" I shouted. "You've got the little one!"

     Well, it look little in comparison with the others, but when we went up to examine it we were astounded at its head, of a size that few sheep hunters see in a lifetime and certainly in the record class. And we realized, with awe, that he was smaller than the two others!

     Night fell when we were still miles from camp, and we spent hours skirting cliffs and feeling our way up and down hillsides. To complicate things, we were carrying a head that weighed about eighty pounds and we had only one flashlight, the size of a cigarette case. (In those days they didn't make the powerful flashlights we use now.) But we got to our horses around midnight and were back in camp at 1 a.m.

     The next act of the drama occurred two years later. I was out with a party consisting of Sumner McKnight, Ted White, and R.B. ("Bunny") Rathbun, of Minneapolis. (I've got a lot of friends in Minneapolis!) I took them to the same basin where Med Bennett had got his trophy. And on the first day's scout I located eight rams. They were about a mile away, and through the binoculars one of them seemed a buster-fully as large as Med's had been.

     Next morning we got up before dawn and soon spotted the rams again. They were in a side gully and, with a little care, we managed to get within 350 yards of them. But we didn't dare attempt to move any closer until they fed down the gully and out of sight. When they did that, about noon, we moved in quickly and got in good position on the crest of a low butte at about 150 yards' range. None of my companions had done much file shooting previously, although they were crack bird shots. Anyway, in shooting from the prone they missed the rams by a wide margin. But when the sheep got into high and started to move away, the hunters jumped to their feet and knocked down within five seconds! That's what wing-shooting does for you.

     Sumner got the biggest ram, Ted and Bunny two smaller ones. When we measured the big fellow's horns they ran 43 ˝ inches around the outside curve and had a girth at base of 16 5/8 inches. This bettered Med's trophy by 1 ˝ and ˝ inches respectively.

     Obviously this was the second of the Three Musketeers. That left just one-the largest of them all.

     I didn't get back to the Gould Dome area until 1924. This time I again took out Martin Bovey, and with him his brother Charlie. We were on sheep ground on opening day of the season and soon saw rams, but they were all small to medium, so we passed them up. Nothing less than the biggest of the Musketeers would satisfy us on this trip.

     We carefully covered the areas north and south of what I'd come to call Med's Basin. But for a week the weather remained very hot, and we saw no sign of our quarry. Evidently the big rams were staying up near the snowy peaks. That was disheartening, for the Boveys had set a deadline for their departure. Martin, who'd transferred from Yale to the University of Minnesota after a winter of subarctic life as a trader in northern Manitoba, was about to start his senior year at college.

     Our pessimism mounted as the days slipped by, for it seemed that the biggest Musketeer was likely to die a natural death, perhaps during the coming winter. Already he was of ripe old age, for the wild sheep seldom lives longer than from thirteen to fifteen years. Along about than they lose their incisor teeth and cannot graze properly, even in good pasture. Weakened, they fall prey to the wolves or coyotes.

     We kept going. A change in the weather brought snowfall on the peaks, and like magic the sheep began to show up here and there. We had two days left, but there was still no sign of the big ram. I figured he wouldn't be far from Med's Basin, and probably was high up.

     On September 12 we headed over the rimrock via High Notch and glassed the country thoroughly. At about 2 p.m., thanks to my 8X wide-angle Zeiss binoculars, I spotted something that might be the curve of a ram's horn against the sky at the peak of Mount O'Rourke, many hundreds' of feet above our position. There was nothing to do but watch the "horn" closely.

     With our backs settled firmly against rock we trained our glasses on it. Thirty minutes later we were rewarded by seeing a monster ram get to his feet and stretch. He looked huge, outlined against the clouds, and there was no doubt in my mind that here was the last of the Three Musketeers. He was about 9,000 feet above sea level.

     After a good stretch and a long look around, he started briskly down the slope, evidently headed for good feeding ground.

     We froze as still as mice when the cat's around, and he moved down to within 500 yards of us, then disappeared behind a wall of limestone. We scrambled to our feet and climbed the wall at top speed, with mea few yards in the lead. Near the top I slowed down and cautiously peeped over the rim. There was our ram, feeding, about 200 yards away, and with him about a dozen others.

     There at last, after long years of hunting, was the noblest Musketeer of them all. Even now a puff of wind from the wrong direction could ruin our chances. And Martin Bovey, having once put his eyes on that breath-taking ram, could easily develop a severe case of buck fever. Apparently, though, the fates had tested us enough. Martin calmly lined up the sights of his Savage .250/3000 on the ram's neck, just forward of the shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. The little 87-grain bullet sped on its way, staggering the ram. As it started to run, Bovey got off another shot, and the bighorn slumped to the ground, then rolled twenty feet down the slope and lay perfectly still. The first bullet, through the jugular, would have been fatal in a short time.

     After that it was all anticlimax, as it always is after a long-drawn-out but successful hunt. I won't describe our yells of triumph save to say that they probably spooked every animal within fifty miles.

     Out came the steel tape measure. In awe we read the figures for the outer curl of the horn-forty-six inches! And the girth-nearly seventeen!

     A head to be proud of in any company. Jack O'Connor recently told me, "That was probably the best trophy ever taken on the North American continent-in the eyes of a lot of people anyway. After all, experienced hunters generally rate the bighorn ram as the finest of our trophies. And Bovey's-well, that was the best of the rams."

     At the time, though, I only knew that this was the biggest ram I had ever seen.

     Our week was cut out for us. We started to struggle down to camp, carrying the big head and cape. But night was coming on apace and I knew we'd have all we could do to reach camp. And after a few slips, in which we cheated death by only a whisker, we cached the head on top of a steep cliff and went on, reaching our base about midnight. I was up again at dawn and out after the trophy, which I retrieved and lugged back.

     Well, often during the long stretch of years since 1924 I've reflected that that September day was the high point of my career as a hunter and outfitter. It was, too-for twenty-eight years after the hunt.

     Then came a bigger thrill. One day early this year I got word that the Boone and Crockett Club had awarded first place among all the American bighorn sheep to Martin Bovey's golden ram. It jumped from fourth place to first place under the club's improved rating system, displacing the former world record trophy taken by James Simpson in 1920. The explanation: the new system of scoring takes into consideration not just the length of horn alone, but massiveness and symmetry as well.

     When the club's committee on revision was at work a year or so ago, Grancel Fitz, one of its members, got in touch with Bovey, now a wildlife photographer, lecturer, and producer of industrial motion pictures. Mr. Fitz asked Bovey to bring the head from his home in Concord, Mass., to New York City for remeasurement. Since it's really Bovey's story, let him tell what happened in New York.

     "My wife and I dined that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Fitz and Samuel B. Webb, the committee chairman. During dinner, either Mr. Fitz or Mr. Webb said he thought my ram might become the new No. 2 head.

     "After dinner we drove to Mr. Fitz's home, with the head sill in the trunk of my car. When we were going up in the elevator both men got their first close look at it, and both whistled. 'Well,' I thought, 'a fellow should whistle at even the No. 2 head.' But I wasn't prepared for what was coming.

     "After the head had been measured and Mr. Fitz totted up the rating he said to his wife, 'Check my addition carefully, because if it's correct this in not the No. 2 head-but the head.'

     "Have you ever held your breath while figures are being added? I have, when checking my bank account. But I never held it with quite the feeling of suspense I experienced now.

     "When Mrs. Fitz said the addition was correct my first thought was to get an airmail letter off to Bert Riggal."

     And that's the story of the last of the Three Musketeers.

     Transcribed from OUTDOOR LIFE November 1952, pp.33-35 ff.