Three
months ago, I would have been confused when asked to imagine a bighorn sheep.
I’d always heard of the creatures, of course, and seen photos from calendars of
mountain scenery. But I’d never actually imagined myself seeing one of these
animals perched on the cliffs of the wilderness. However, only a couple of
weeks after my arrival at Taylor Ranch, I came face-to-face with my first
bighorn sheep encounter: a skull and a huge horn resting on a bench near Goat
Creek. I was astounded by the sheer size of the skull, and I picked it up,
smudging my fingertips with the calciferous bone. I tried to imagine skin and
fur and muscle stretched around it, giving the bone emotion and spirit and
life, but all I could think about was Georgia O’Keefe’s skull paintings. When I
returned to Taylor Ranch and told some of my peers about my discovery, they
expressed interest in collecting the skull to send to relatives. I swallowed
down sadness, upset that these people who supposedly respected the wilderness
were unable to see the value and beauty in leaving the skull where it was,
resting high above Big Creek.
Several
weeks ago, during campsite inventories in Wilderness Management, we spotted an
ewe and lamb up on the cliffs above Big Creek. They seemed to follow us as we
wandered back to Taylor Ranch, occasionally peering out at us, the lamb
scampering after its mother to keep up with her long strides.
The
most powerful image of bighorn sheep that I’ve had to date came right before we
left for a two night camping trip with Gary. Some sheep hunters had set up camp
across Big Creek from Taylor Ranch, and at the news that they had filled their
tag, several students headed over to see the sheep. As we descended the hill
into their camp, I saw the sheep’s head, and drew my breath in sharply. He
seemed to be almost floating on the ground, wise eyes staring up at me and
everyone else in a style similar to the Mona Lisa painting. Although dead, the sheep
seemed to be noticing and taking in everything, including my reaction to him.
The hunters had wrapped some of his neck and skin in white cloth—“for the
taxidermist to work with,” they stated.
As
we departed on our slow ascent of the benches with our backpacks, I mulled over
what I had seen: life stages of the bighorn sheep. Images of the skull, the
lamb, and that majestic head, floating in space, surfaced to my mind, and I
searched for the meaning behind these life stages. Seeing the skull and the
live sheep seemed to be part of the natural life cycle, but that floating head
continues to haunt me, and I’m not exactly sure why. I haven’t had much
experience with hunters, but the men that shot the sheep seemed humble,
thankful, and respectful of the beautiful animal they harvested. Yet I still
felt anger at them—they were from Boise, they said—city boys out for a good
time in the wilderness. Did they really need
the sheep’s meat for nourishment, or could they afford to run to the local
grocery store to buy food? I realize that one of the main motivations of
hunting is for the experience, an entertainment of a primal instinct:
harvesting one’s own food. But, in this day and age, when humans have already
done so much to interfere with creatures and processes that we did not create,
do we need to involve ourselves in the sport of killing majestic, wise animals
that contribute to the beauty of this world?
I’m
not sure why, but the sheep’s head, disconnected from its body and still so large
and muscular, continues to haunt me, its empathetic eyes begging me not to
apologize, but to think and consider its killing, and how it felt when it was
shot, tumbling down steep talus slopes until its spirit could no longer
withstand the pain.
Somehow, a skull or sheep’s head looks less majestic and less compassionate when displayed in a cluttered home, a trophy and proof of a hunter’s ability. I feel sorrow in my heart for humanity’s need to store these frames of life indoors—an environment in which such a stately creature can look measly and meek.
