The position in which we found ourselves, tucked in among the rocks on a peak in the Chugach Mountains at 7 p.m. on that August evening, was not exactly impossible, but it was looking more that way with every passing minute. A hundred yards below, sprinkled across a high saddle, were a dozen Dall rams. The leader, a big old boy with horns pushing 40 inches, was facing us, his body shielded by his horns. We had no shot. He’d been like that since we crawled into position, an hour before. Time was critical. We had long since run out of water, and if we didn’t get off this mountain by dark we faced a night at high altitude in only our light clothes. Plus, our last meal was a long-long-ago yesterday. “I could toss a rock,” Dale whispered, “But we don’t want him running.” No, indeed. Dale—my guide, counselor…