The Philosophy of Life Stages

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.