Jeff Cooper, Gunsite Ranch, October 1985

The mouflon (0vis musimon) is the native wild sheep of Europe. It was found in early historic times all the way around the Mediterranean, and up into the central mountains of Europe, also extending eastward through Asia Minor and farther into what are now Iran and Afghanistan. In recent times, however, it has been killed out, except for the islands of Sardinia and Corsica, which two spots were its only surviving habitat at the beginning of the twentieth century. It has now been re-stocked into some of the mountain ranges of Europe, and additionally into North America. After some sixty years, it has proliferated and may now be bunted on

private land in the Western United States. Mouflon is an attractive beast, about half the size of a North American Bighorn, and somewhat more colorful in aspect, usually sporting a chestnut back and an ivory belly. He is a true mountain sheep, with the legendary agility of that tribe, together with the telescopic eyesight that makes sheep hunting demanding.

In West Texas the massif that forces the Rio Grande south into the Big Bend extends northward, perhaps 150 miles, before petering out as it approaches the Panhandle. The northernmost block oi this chain is called the Davis Mountains, and these afford some of the handsomest scenery in the entire state, rising from flat low-country plains to heights of eight thousand feet or more. In these Davis Mountains a veteran cowman named Darrell York maintains a hunting revier on which one can pursue both the wild sheep and a variety of other exotic game.

Mr. York’s terms for hunting on his property are very attractive. There is a nominal accommodation fee for quartering in his cabin. There is a trophy fee for each taken, but if you get nothing you pay nothing. There is no charge for the services of a guide (one for two hunters), and non-hunting guests are free. The hunters furnish their own equipment, bedding, and food, but no license is required and no game tag. This all works out to a total which is gratifyingly low compared to that for out-of-state hunting in any other part of the U.S., and the hunting itself is good. No sheep hunting is ever easy, since the mountain sheep tribe are creatures of the crags, but the game is there, and if the hunter is willing to climb and knows how to shoot, his chances are good. When we asked around about hunting in the Davis Mountains, our responses were uniform in that we could expect beautiful country and long shots. This was true on both counts.

We hunted in the second week of October and the climate was perfect, with the days cool enough to be pleasant for hard walking, and the nights chilly without freezing. We arrived about the time that hurricane Walda was breaking up, and spent much time in the rain. But a Scotch mist is no hardship to a mountain hunter, and actual downpours were spotty.

On this occasion both hunters used 308 Scouts; one a fairly standard Remington 600, and the other the prototype Scout II, which is as close to the ’’state-of-the-art” as any weapon now in use. Ammunition was the new Nosier “Greenpoint” 150-grain boat-tail bullet, loaded with 43 grains of 3031. This combination has proved highly satisfactory for all light four footed game, shooting quite flat enough to avoid trajectory problems out to ranges where the difficulty is not drop, but group size. Both rifles are feather-light, and most comfortable to handle even under the most severe climbing conditions. We never actually had to hang on by our fingernails, but, if we had, the conspicuous handiness of the Scouts would have been most comforting.

Mouflon hunting, as all sheep hunting, is a spot-and-stalk proposition. One glasses the high grass just below the rocks until something is discovered, and then works out a method of approach which is both feasible to the hunter and acceptable to the rain. It must be acceptable to him because he will almost certainly see the hunter before the hunter spots him. One of the challenges about sheep hunting is the regularity with which the spotted animal is first seen looking directly at the hunter. Any attempt to approach from below will usually be frustrated by the quarry’s miraculous eyesight. The plan is thus to move away and out of sight, discovering some track by which the rifle can be placed above the target. Even when this is possible the results can be disappointing, since a ram spotting a hunter approaching from below will usually rise leisurely and move away to some other mountain, whereas if he glimpses something above him he will panic and be gone in a flash.

We had time for only a short hunt, so it is impossible to say whether the Davis Mountains teem with flocks of mouflon. In two days we saw two acceptable rams, each with a full curl, and nothing else. That is to say we saw no other sheep but the mountains abound with mule deer, and Catalina goats, which have also been imported. There is also a full measure of cougars, to the annoyance of the cattlemen.

The countryside was indeed beautiful, as the intermittent misty rain gave the rocks a well scrubbed look and avoided any sense of arridity or heat; and the shots were indeed long longer than a sensible hunter can enjoy.

It took us four spotting posts to locate our first target. He was about three-quarters of a mile away across an impassable canyon. Benito acquired him first, but dismissed him as a goat due to his uncharacteristic color. He was feeding, and when he turned sideways I was able to make out the full curl of the characteristic ram’s head. Naturally he knew we were watching him, and paused now and again to stare at us. No approach was possible from this direction.

We retreated off our own ridge, got aboard the hunting car, and proceeded in a large circle over extremely rough terrain, going around the mountain to the right. While we followed a two-rut field track, I was gratified that we were not moving in a car that I owned. Mountaineering in a four-wheel vehicle is hard on the machinery. The circle was directed by Benito, who knew the terrain, and in due course we found ourselves topping out over the far mountain, with the prospect of coming down on the ram from above,if he was still there. As it happened, he was, and had decided to bed-down for the morning. Our final approach led us straight down the ridge above him, and he presented a stationary target, lying down, and at about target angle 255. The shot was well beyond Townsend Whelen’s sporting maximum, but since the ram was stationary — and I was not blown – and there was no wind – and I had time to acquire a rock-solid sitting position with C.W. loop — and since I knew exactly where my zero was — and since Scout II is quite phenomenally accurate — I took the shot. I held well up into the top-third of the brisket, and the bullet entered the arm-pit. The “Greenpoint” fractured on a rib, expanded, passed into the body cavity, and took away half the heart. It did not exit. Such a hit is painlessly fatal, and the ram did not even know he was hurt. He stood up, suspecting that something was wrong when he heard the shot, and bled to death on his feet.

I paced the distances best I could, and it came to 334 steps. I am never unequivocally proud of a long shot, because I know how many things can go wrong, but I rendered due thanks to the gods of the hunt for the success of this one. All went well, and apart from the loss of half the heart tissue, no meat was spoiled. There may be those who hold that a short-barrel 308 may hardly be considered a sheep rifle, and yet I cannot see how a flatter-shooting or more powerful weapon could have done a better job.

Mr. York has a ground rule forbidding the use of the 6mm rifles on his ranch, on the grounds that he has seen too many sheep escape when hit -with a 243. I would have thought that the 243 should be an ideal cartridge for this junior-grade mountain sheep, but such does not appear to be the case.

There is also a ranch rule forbidding movement with a Loaded chamber. This may be a bit restrictive in some views, but remember that this is mountain hunting, and the chance of an unexpected snapshot is almost nil. When shooting from crag to crag there is always time to work the bolt as one goes into firing position.

Our second contact was different. We topped a small saddle and another solitary ram, somewhat bigger than the first, spotted us instantly. Again across a canyon, and again too far away.

Nonetheless we attempted a direct approach, but were forced to engage too soon – at a distance which is better left unstated. In the classic words of the mountain man, “We was shooting so blamed fur we had to use salt bullets to keep the meat from spoiling

afore we got thar.”  This time the greenpoint took the ram forward of the shoulder near the top of the brisket and passed diagonally through the upper portion of the boiler room without either expanding or exiting. Despite this, the ram was instantly killed, presumably due to shock transmitted through the skeletal system. The fact that the greenpoint did not expand at all, despite its reputation for fragility, suggests that the terminal velocity was so low that the rupturing effect of the ballistic tip was not initiated. Again no meat was spoiled, and this time the heart was untouched. And that was it. Two rams sighted, and two rams taken – with two hits. Ganz Waidgericht, as the Germans say. I repeat that I am a little embarrassed at attempts at unreasonable distances. The rule is: “If you can get closer, get closer. If you can get steadier, get steadier.” We might have got closer on the first shot by a laborious crawl through broken rock. On the other hand, we might have made such a fuss that the ram would have spooked and departed, especially since our approach was from above him. And at that the first shot was within feasible shooting distance, if just about at its far limit. In the second case I have no real excuse. The nullah between us prevented our pacing the distance, but I feel quite sure that it was great enough, for my own field-grouping ability to be greater than the shoulder of the target. In Thell Deed’s dictum, “There is no such thing as luck”. However, when your working group size is about two feet, and your shot takes the center of it, somebody is on your side. The renowned Major Maydon told us years ago that luck will be with you if you have been playing fair. That is an optimistic view which may not be supportable philosophically, but it is what I must fall back on in this case.

Everything seemed to work out on this day. I was experimenting with a new ripple-blade knife from Japan that floated through those two sheep as if they were butter. The saw on the Swiss Army knife neatly took care of the pelvic arch. We even had two string bags for viscera, and both were necessary. I have rarely seen matters click so neatly into place on a hunting trip.

The fact that we were all fairly soggy was nowise disheartening after a successful pursuit.

That night we feasted on fresh kidneys and fresh liver with onions. The following morning, we dressed up our scrambled eggs with sweetbreads. By early afternoon we had completed skinning and butchering, and had packed our coolers with venison for the return trip.

There are those who may feel that ’’ranch hunting” is unexciting, unsportsmanlike, and unchallenging. To each his own, of course, but sheep hunting is never easy. The climbing, spotting, stalking, and shooting are a true test wherever a mountain sheep is found. It is unwise to characterize the whole concept of mouflon hunting in the Davis Mountains on the basis of two experiences, but my own feeling is that it should not be undertaken by a casual marksman. The game is there, and it can be had, but do not expect success if you cannot shoot up to your rifle.