Driving east from Las Vegas you’ll pass through a small range of black mountains. Once past these, say good-bye. Other than a winding bumpy road, you have left civilization behind. The next gas station is 50 miles away.

As though not to be outdone by Vegas, Mother Nature puts on a show of her own. Well beyond the lights of the Strip, the world becomes red, yellow, white, black and orange. Smooth, sculpted red rock formations give way to jagged spires of black stone and white, erosion-tortured badlands. Demarcations are distinct, as if God added separate ingredients but forgot to stir.

The world seems alien, desolate, sterile, but this is an illusion. Look closer. You will see life. It comes in many forms, but for me, right now, bighorn sheep are the most important. They live here, or so I’ve been told. Looking at the country for the first time, I have my doubts.

Pulling onto a two-track road, I nose the old Dodge down into a large sandy wash, park and make camp far enough down the bank to be protected from the wind, but not so far as to be threatened by flash floods. Evidence of old floods is everywhere—small clumps of dried flotsam cling to crevasses high up the bank.

At dawn, I climb a little hill behind camp, raise my binocular and spot a sheep, a young ram. He’s not what I’m looking for, but he’s a ram none-the-less. Buoyed by the prospects, I walk and glass more. I see no other sheep that day. I return to camp deflated. This may be tougher than I thought.

The evening before opening day I’m joined by my brother Rusty, A legend at spotting game with binoculars, and my friend Rich Egly, an ex-military man who resembles Dick Butkus. Rich is the kind of guy you’d love to have around when packing elk—or fighting Bandidos.

Before the first hint of sunrise, we climb off the valley floor onto the hulking, multicolored rock mass of Pinto Ridge. While Rich and I glass the local neighborhood, Rusty has his ‘Big Eyes’ focused on Razorback Ridge–in anther zip code. “I’ve got sheep.” He says. We pull out the spotting scope and see a band of a dozen sheep, including three rams, located about a days walk to the south. A closer look is warranted, so we descend to the flats and plan a route around the far end of Pinto Ridge. Four hours later we’re still walking. The country looks flat, but turns out to be a web of erosion. It’s like walking across giant, loose, wrinkled corduroy.

We traverse the length of Pinto Valley, aiming for a saddle we hope will give us a clear view of the sheep. A high walled dirt arroyo leads up to the saddle. We scramble hand over hand, gaining the top as a bunch. I look over, and with one word freeze the group. “Ram”.

Some150 yards away, a pair of large horns crest a small ridge. We lock into our awkward positions. The ram’s head disappears again briefly. Rusty orders “Drop”–razor sharp rocks cut into our bones and muscles as we hit the ground. The horns reappear.

“What now.” Rich whispers.

“Wait” Rusty says. And so we huddle motionless, winter sun harsh, wind cold. Long minutes later Rusty slowly eases his binoculars into position using Rich’s shoulder as a rest. “He’s definitely a shooter” Rusty whispers. “He’ll go 160. Go shoot him”

“I’ll slip down and take a closer look.” I say, torn between the desire to get a nice sheep and the desire to make the hunt last. I slide back, pull off my boots, and sneak through the loose rock.

As I reach the crest of the finger canyon, the ram senses something amiss and trots out for a look around. I load an arrow, hook the release and will myself to pull but can’t, or, more accurately, won’t. At 40 yards he stops. We stare at each other across open space. His sense of self preservation overcomes his curiosity and the ram trots over the hill. Placing the arrow back into the quiver, I walk back. “Too small?” Rusty asks incredulously “Too early.” I reply sheepishly.

“An old sheep hunter once told me…” Rusty begins. I cringe. I hate Rusty’s old sheep hunter (or old elk hunter or old deer hunter) stories. They all have a moral aimed at one of my mistakes. “…never pass up a sheep that you’d take on the last day.” He finishes.

“Good advice” I say “You should have said something before I went after him.”

If only I had God’s perspective I could examine all my opportunities at the conclusion of the hunt and select the best one. Unfortunately, I have to take each chronologically and weigh its individual merits against the time left in the hunt. Little did I know that 20 days later I would be willing to trade my truck for that one chance.

Several days later, we drive to the airport. I exchange Rich and Rusty for my long time hunting buddy Jim Rufh. If you knew Jim, you’d envy me. Jim is the good-natured hunting buddy everyone wishes they had. In 20 years I’ve never seen him angry or down. Jim is my good luck charm. When he’s with me I bag game.

Early the next morning we climb through a city of huge rectangular boulders scattered down the mountainside. It’s like San Francisco after the big earthquake. Jim bends over and picks up a long-empty desert tortoise shell, hands it to me and says “smell this.” I put my nostrils to the hole and inhale deeply. Whoah! Jim belly laughs. “Putrefaction at 110 degrees in an anaerobic environment.” He flexes his knowledge. “Never goes away. They all smell like that.”

We sight no shooters that day or the next or the next.

Thus, eight days into the hunt and all my buddies with real jobs go back to work. I am alone. Not bad really, I tell myself. Time for meditation. Communion with nature–Feeding the soul.

I’m lying: Being alone may be good for the soul, but it’s lousy for sheep hunting with a bow–No one to help spot sheep, no one to give hand signals, no one to let you know where the ram is, two hours after you start your stalk, no one to relieve your loneliness.

The next morning I swing the heavily laden backpack onto my shoulders and settle under the old familiar weight. I feel the same emotions every time I head into the wilderness alone; anticipation, adventure, determination, a touch of loneliness and hint of dread. I strike into country least likely to have seen a boot track this year. At Rusty’s request I leave a note at camp. “Draw a map of your route to make recovering your corpse a little easier.” He’d said. He’s very thoughtful.

I keep to the arroyos, a labyrinth of tunnels under a sea of rock, tortuous canals braided through the sand. Arroyos are the vascular system of the desert.

After a half mile I drop the pack, climb the loose wall of the wash and glass. I descend, walk another half mile and glass again. This is how desert bighorns are hunted. Walk and glass and walk some more. Spot them first, you have a chance, let them spot you first, you don’t. It’s that simple

On the third day out, I’m as far away from a road as is possible to get in this country. I scan an isolated, ragged, behemoth of a mountain rising solitary from the plain—an island in a desert sea. I spot a ram near the top. His horns seem as big around as my legs. He’s feeding along the base of a towering orange cliff. In order to get above him and down-wind, I’ll have to do some serious hiking.

I drop my pack and feel like I might float away, instantly 70 lbs lighter. I circle the mountain, crawl laboriously up the crumbling, rotten rock to the cornice. Slowly, head canted, so as to expose just one eye, I peak over—no sheep. Inching, head up, I glass my surroundings, no sheep. I move my shoulders up a little further. Still no sheep. Then he is standing, where nothing stood before, his intent stare burning me. He disappears as quickly as he appeared, like a mirage in the desert.

Desert sheep have a hard time making a living. They must move all day to get a full belly. While their cousins to the north eat lush grass all spring, summer and fall, desert sheep eat bitterbrush, black brush, cat claw and barrel cactus. Because they’re always hungry, they never bed down for long.

My story develops a recurring theme: Hunter spots sheep. Hunter goes around the mountain. Sheep is no longer there when hunter peaks over the crest. Substitute in the name of the mountain, the day of the month and the ram. The hunter is always the same. It is me.

I go into town for supplies. I call my wife Tammy .God love her, she’s always supportive.“You’ll get one honey, just don’t give up,” She says. Oh if I only had her confidence.

I call Jim. “Have you got anything?” He asks. “Sore feet.” I whine. “Sheep are always gone by the time I move around the mountain. The drought has made food scarce. They’re so busy getting groceries they can’t stay still. Terrain’s so cut up, I could be 40 yards from them and not know they’re there.”

“Sounds like you could use another set of eyes.” He says, reading my plea for help between the lines. “Let me see what I can do. Call me back in five minutes.” I eat a sandwich and read the paper.

I finish my dinner and call Jim. “Pick me up at the Vegas airport tomorrow night.” He says.

First day out with Jim we spot our first non-sheep mammal of the trip as a bony old jackrabbit bounds away and crosses a dusty creosote flat. We see no good rams that day or the next.

It’s the last day of Jim’s stay and my season is nearly over. Sheep hunting with a bow seems to be a series of lotteries. I won the first lottery. My odds of getting drawn as a non-resident in Nevada were 1 in 467. The odds are beginning to seem steeper against me bagging a ram. This hunt has become a race against the clock. I arrived here 25 days ago and I’m getting tired. And though tired, I’m having trouble sleeping. My head is full of self doubt. I miss my family.

I feel a deep sense of urgency—desert sheep tags rarely come around twice in a lifetime. You’d better make the most of the one you get. I tell myself it is noble to have put my heart and soul into the effort and failed, although that makes the failure no less painful.

My buddies insist I pick up a rifle and ‘just shoot one’. And though the admission may reveal weakness, the thought has drifted through my mind. But each time, resolve overcomes common sense and the rifle notion, sacrilege to this wannabe purist, is shunned.

We hike to a vantage point before dawn, where, at a distance, we can see the mountain island that held the big ram. We see no sheep. We crawl through a cut in the bluffs leading to a saddle between ranges. With only our heads exposed, we scan new territory a mile away. Jim spots a ewe and a good-sized ram on top of the mountain.

My typical stalk has been to circle the mountain, climb the far side and come down on the sheep. My typical stalk has not been working.

“Jim” I say “it’s going to take me a day just to walk around that mountain, so I’m going to attempt a frontal assault” He looks at me, unable to hide his are you an idiot? look. I try to explain: “I’ll move when they’re feeding away. When I can’t see them any longer, I’ll look back for signals.”

I wait until both sheep are feeding, then dog-trot down the wash 100 yards, stop and glass. I repeat this process for a thousand yards. Once to the base of the mountain and out of sight of the sheep, I rely entirely on Jim’s signals.

Jim guides me up a narrow rock chute, laterally under a cliff face, then along the base of a small overhang. His signals indicate I’m very close. I ease one eye up, thinking to myself: Move like the hands of a clock.

My muscles tense spasmodically as I see the ram, his underbelly bracketed by his hind legs, straight above me at 15 yards. I slowly lower my head. Hands trembling, I prepare the shot.

It is a strange feeling to have a good ram so close, especially after so much time and effort. I feel like a boy who yearns for Christmas then wakes, happy his day has arrived, yet dreads its ending. Perhaps I’ve matured as a hunter, I enjoy the hunting more than the kill. The kill means an end to the hunting.

I release the arrow. The ram is down faster than the telling of it. I give Jim the hands above the head sign for victory. He doesn’t need a signal, he has the best seat in the house. I slide and hop down to the ram.

I sit beside him, admiring his old gray muzzle and face. I hold his horns in my hands, ten dark rings mark his years. As I wait for Jim, I look out at the mountains beyond, range after range, purple into infinity. Bittersweet this success–elation laced with regret.

Desert rams are 50 percent hooves, legs, hair and bone and 50 percent horns. With Jim’s help I manage the ram to my shoulders, head like a bowling ball on a rope. I fall and slide to a stop against a boulder, the ram summersaults over rock then slides down the scree.

That night in my sleeping bag I bask in the after-glow of 11th hour success– a game pulled out at the buzzer. It seems I‘ve been away from home for years. I experience a gnawing discomfort . Other than to be with my family, I have no desire to go back. Civilization I do not want. I feel no need to be anything other than a sheep hunter, no desire to go back to talk radio, telephones, freeway–and worry. Life has become simple; wake, hunt, eat, sleep, wake. Simple is good.

I fall asleep and dream of dark canyon walls and the petroglyphs I discovered there, timeless reminders of the continuity of mans existence–ancient, crude figures of sheep and man and bow.