Hammock Ram - Bowhunting Sheep in Hawaii

“Aww what’s wrong? With all this disease going around, it looks you evaded coronavirus but caught a serious case of Resting Bitch Face.” Hazel prods at me while we have coffee on the porch of our Hawaiian bungalow.

The only thing consistent so far on this trip has been the constant rain and me getting winded by every animal I’ve attempted to approach.

My complaining about the latter of the two obviously has not gone unnoticed. It has spilled out of my internal thoughts and apparently has been vomiting out of my mouth unknowingly. Note to self, work on keeping your inner dialogue where it’s meant to be.

“Just a little run of bad luck. Hell, today I could be laying in the hammock taking a midday rest and shoot a ram. You never know how these things work.” I explain, trying to redeem myself with a positive attitude.

I had brought this damn hammock all the way out to this rock in the middle of the ocean and had yet to use it. Today I’d remedy that situation, fixing yet another case of “you brought the damn thing, now use it”.

We load up the car with kids and enough hunting gear for an African expedition. The plan is that the family would head to town to get boredom survival gear for the inevitable lockdown that COVID19 was causing and I’d be responsible for the protein. With any luck, I’d get a set of horns to boil while bunkered up.

The car peels down the highway, leaving me standing on the edge of it with a loaded backpack and my bow hung over my shoulders. With a sizable dent already put into the flesh of the last sheep I’d shot, I was feeling a little pressure to show the family they had a provider on their hands.

I stumble my way deep into sheep country, my ankles screaming from the abuse that only lava rock can inflict. I was getting used to constantly being off-balance as what appeared to be formidable sized rocks crumble underfoot, spilling you out in whatever angle is most inconvenient.

Hunting here didn’t have the leg-burning effect of the West, but unstable ground assured you to go home with reflexes to rival any alley cat on the planet.

While debating this predicament, I see a flocked up herd of sheep staring at me at what could only be called pronghorn distance.

Damn these things have a set of eyes on them.

They move off with little concern. There are no rams in the group so they show little care about a wobbly two-legged creature tripping and falling his way through the lava fields. They know I don’t want anything to do with them through previous human encounters. Being a ram-only area has the ladies showing little concern about human interaction.

The sun boils overhead as the day begins to heat up and I know my time is growing short to get any movement out of these wool laden animals. If I think it’s hot in a flimsy long sleeve shirt, I can’t imagine what an animal whose coat is harvested for its warmth could be going through.

I pick my way through the minefield of lava rock for a high point and potential glassing area. More importantly, I look for two trees the perfect distance apart…

I spot an outcrop that fits the bill about a half-mile away.

What normally should be about a 10-minute hike turns into a solid 45 minutes of picking my way through the maze of rock and gullies. My reward is a vantage point shaded by two trees that were put on this earth for the sole purpose of hanging my “glassing” hammock.

Shade, a high point and the chance to glass from a horizontal position. Define the success of a hunt how you want, that last sentence just defined the new standard for mine.

Hammock set, feet up and as my head just comes to rest on my hands and I hear the “bahahaing” of a couple of ewes.

“At least I know there’s sheep around”, I think to myself.

I stare off in the direction of the noise and wait for a few ewes to come marching by, leading their youngins’ to the shade and safety of a nearby outcropping.

Marching they came, but not leading little ones, rather running terrified as two testosterone-laden rams come tearing in to mount them or anything else they deemed mountable.

Holy shit. The trash you were rambling on about this morning about shooting one out of a hammock may actually come true.

I hold as still as possible, which is actually quite comical to think about as I swing in the hammock. They look over towards me but for the life of them, they can’t figure out what to make of this giant cocoon.

Lust distracts the rams and they get to the matter at hand. They push the ewes along a ridge not 80 yards from me, looking for a more romantic and secluded spot.

I wonder if an animal has ever been shot out of a hammock and debate if I will be the first. Then the glowering face of my wife pops into my head as I tell her why I missed the ram by a county mile as I unfold the story of my would-be entry into the Guinness Book of World Records. 

Protein over pride.

I let them sneak off as I keep a close watch through the slit of my cocoon.

They clear the ridge and I explode into action, taking the necessities and leaving the rest to be packed up later.

Following the trail of freshly disturbed rocks, I pick my way through the moonscape toward their general direction. With the bad often comes the good. The terrain might be a pain in the ass to walk through, but it would be a paintballer’s wet dream with all the cover it provides.

I close the distance and make my way behind a sizable boulder. Running out of real estate, I know I either have to make this work or admit defeat.

The biggest of the two rams’ sixth sense kicks in and he looks behind him. The rangefinder comes to my eye and I get his yardage. Now all I need to do is wait until he turns broadside. That and not screw up.

His patience rivals the Dalia Lama himself, not moving an inch during his scanning gaze. My feet burn from holding the same position for the better part of the ten-minute stand-off. I adjust to my knees, knowing this is going to be my shooting position anyway.

My movement causes him to shift while contemplating whether he should run or not. I don’t give him time to make that decision.

The arrow cuts loose and I hear the music that is only sung to bowhunters. I know the shot is good.

Despite my confidence in the shot, he stands perfectly still, looking back at me.

What the hell was that sound then? Did I miss?

Unwavering, his thousand-yard stare is more telling than the blood I see pouring out of him as my binoculars come up to my eyes.

He’s dead, but has no idea. 

He falters, stumbles around like a drunk college kid with no governor on his alcohol intake and finally falls.

Sticking with tradition, I pick up my phone and call the family.

“I’m selling the company and buying a crystal ball. Time for a career change”, I say into the phone as my wife picks up. “Fortune telling.”

// Fred Bohm