“Dad, I think I’m ready,” Victor said one morning after shooting his recurve.

“Is that a fact?” I asked with a tinge of incredulity. Lately, he had been neglecting his archery practice, preferring to play Clash of Clans with his buddies. “Show me.”

We strolled out to the range behind the house, and my fourteen-year-old son proceeded to group his arrows like an old pro at 30 yards. “Excellent,” I said. “How are your broadheads flying?”

“Dead-on,” he replied.

“Then let’s go hunting, little man!”

That was easier said than done. I knew that I must choose the right species and location to make his first bowhunt (for something bigger than rabbits) a fun and successful experience. The challenge offered by mule deer and elk would have to wait. After some consideration, I concluded that Texas was the place to go.

This was Vic’s hunt, so he was in charge. I told him that he could set the rules, as long as they were reasonable, and that I would abide by them. His smile was a mile wide. He went to his room and soon emerged with a sheet of paper in his hand. “Here you go, Dad,” he said, passing me his list of rules. After scratching out a few of them (mostly related to a liberal allowance of candy and chips), I agreed to his mandates.

Texas is a target-rich environment, and the ranch we were going to hunt is inhabited by a variety of species. Naturally, this being March, we would not be able to hunt certain animals such as whitetails, but there were plenty of other critters to chase. Victor said that he would love to hunt hogs, so that was what we had in mind as we set off for the Lone Star State.

According to his edict, I was subject to his every whim. He would be in charge of planning our stalks. I could offer suggestions, but he would have veto power. He would select the exact animals we were to pursue, no ifs, ands, or buts. It was obvious that he was relishing being the man in charge, and I gave him a little wink. “It’s your hunt,” I said. “I’m just along for the ride.”

It was a long drive from Colorado to the Texas Hill Country, so we decided to spend one night in a hotel before arriving at the ranch. The hot tub felt like heaven after I had logged all those hours behind the wheel. My son frolicked in the swimming pool while I happily boiled in the Jacuzzi. We ate out at a Mexican restaurant, appreciating fully that we wouldn’t be eating that well again for a while. We would be living in a tent and eating Ramen noodles and peanut butter sandwiches instead.

We delayed checking out of the hotel until management was ready to evict us. Then we undertook the two-hour drive to the ranch we would be hunting. Upon our arrival, we set up camp, checked in with the owners, and began scouting. We found some rooting areas, spotted a few hogs running in the distance, and set up a blind over a well-used waterhole. Pig tracks were everywhere. Our optimism was soaring as we fell asleep that night.

Flooding obliged them to make a change of plans. They were forced to cross water even in the relatively accessible areas they hunted for sheep.

No more than two hours later, the downpour started. The noise was so loud that my son and I woke up at the same instant and uttered the exact same words: “What the heck?” This was not good.

When the rain finally eased up the following morning, we emerged from our tent to find our campsite flooded. The worst was yet to come, for we found the main ranch road impassable. There was no way to reach our hunting area, including our waterhole blind. It turned out that six inches of rain fell overnight, half the region’s expected annual precipitation. We were in for some tough going.

After chowing down a couple of granola bars and a few quick gulps of milk, Victor and I walked up to the ranch house to get an update from the landowners. Bonnie and Robbie are old friends, and they apprised us of the gloomy situation. They anticipated more rain over the next two days, and we would be severely hampered in our ability to traverse the enormous property. A significant portion of their spread lay underwater. We hiked for a couple of hours near camp and discovered that previously dry gullies were now rivers.

My son and I headed for the highest ground I knew of and sat on a rock to assess our predicament. “Well,” I began, “we can’t get to the hogs. They’re clear on the other end of the ranch, and we can’t drive anywhere. We’ll be able to hunt this area, but that’s about it.”

“All right,” Vic replied.

Our options were limited. I knew that this section of the property supported several exotic species that had migrated from a neighboring ranch after a fire burned down its fence decades ago. Axis deer, blackbuck antelope, and Corsican sheep of various color phases were sometimes present, but they were not plentiful.

“We might be able to hunt exotics,” I offered. “Are you interested?”

“Heck, yeah,” he shot back. “I just want to get something with my bow!”

“Well, it’s either we give up and head home, or we hunt what’s available to us.”

There was some hilly terrain west of our camp, which would be accessible by foot. We would need to cross several flooded gullies, but they would not be nearly as deep as the chest-high ones undoubtedly dotting our hog areas. During the next few days, we learned to live with squishy, waterlogged boots. Our footwear never seemed to dry out. I had seen feral sheep in the vicinity over the years and reckoned they would be fun for my boy to stalk. They also make fine eating.

Regardless of what you think of hunting exotics, whether you’re for or against it, I’m here to tell you that on this particular low-fenced ranch, none of the available species are pushovers. While rifle hunters paying big bucks to shoot game on high-fenced properties are virtually guaranteed a harvest, bowhunters who spot and stalk exotics on low-fenced properties must possess a certain degree of skill. The various sheep species, in my estimation, are tougher to stalk than hogs. They will definitely give you a run for your money. And in the end, the sheep we targeted wore us out.

It took us a day to locate the critters, which were deep in thermal cover due to the ongoing rain and wind, but once we did, the game was on. Victor was primed to get after these animals. It was a terrific opportunity for him to learn how to sneak up on his quarry. After countless busted stalks, he was exhausted and complaining of sore feet.

On the fourth morning, Victor refused to crawl out of his sleeping bag. “Too tired, Dad,” was all I could make out.

“That’s fine, buddy,” I assured him. “Rest up for this afternoon.” And I set off on my own with my longbow.

Having dedicated all my efforts to helping my son stalk sheep, I was ready now for a little time to focus on my own hunting. I headed into a long strip of cedars surrounded by rocky terrain, a perfect stretch for sheep. Planting my butt on a rock, I started glassing. Several minutes passed before I spotted patches of dull white hide drifting slowly through some far-off trees. I waited for the animals to stop moving and initiated my stalk.

When Victor refused to get out of his sleeping bag one morning, Jeff hunted solo and shot this beautiful ram.

From approximately 70 yards, the sheep saw me, vacating the area instantly. Dejected, I sat down again on a boulder and tried to regroup. Then I heard feet clattering over shale and talus, heading my way. Eventually, a group of ewes stepped out from behind a clump of cedars. I remained perfectly motionless, even though I was almost completely obscured by brush. A fine ram was trailing the females. He was less than 15 yards away as I came to full draw, focused on his lungs, and unleashed the arrow. I could see the shaft penetrate the beast completely as a splash of red materialized on his broadside. As he ran 20 yards and collapsed, adrenaline raced through my body like a runaway Lamborghini.

I field-dressed the ram and returned to camp for my son, figuring he would enjoy taking part in the recovery. He helped me haul the animal back to the ranch house, where I skinned out the cape and cut up the meat for the freezer. When the chores were done, we headed afield for Victor’s chance to practice some more stalking.

Almost immediately, we spotted sheep, but they were able to give us the slip rather easily. We nearly crashed a few times while pursuing them over jagged rocks. At first, Victor insisted that I accompany him on every stalk, but finally I suggested he try going it alone. After we located a small group of ewes at a couple hundred yards I said, “You might improve your chances if I’m not there to slow you down. I’ll wait for you right here.” I plunked down on a big rock and wished my boy good luck. Reluctantly, he agreed.

He vanished into some distant trees, and I watched the sheep moving away from him. I assumed it would be another busted stalk, but only three or four minutes transpired before I heard him shouting “Dad, I got one!”

“Did it go down?” I hollered back.

“It’s down! It’s down!”

We located one another by plenty of heartfelt whooping, finally colliding in a bear hug. We took turns trying to squeeze each other’s guts out. Vic relayed every detail of his stalk, which involved several sprints. Oh, to be young again! Tears of joy were coursing down his cheeks, and I can honestly say that I have never seen my son so overwhelmed with emotion.

Victor’s ewe made him the happiest bowhunter on the planet.

“Check it out, Dad,” Victor exclaimed, pulling me by the arm so hard I thought it might dislodge from its socket.

It was a gorgeous adult ewe. My boy had executed a perfect shot following a perfect stalk, and he had done it all on his own. My one regret was that I had not been a witness to the shot itself. But after a moment’s reflection, I concluded that this was a more fitting end to his inaugural big game bow hunt. As archers, we spend much time alone in the woods, and we must learn how to appreciate that solitude.

Sadly, our Texas trip was winding down. We had to hit the road early the next morning. Sure, this hunt had not gone according to plan. Weather interfered, as it often does. What began as a hog hunt turned into a hunt for exotic sheep. Did I have any regrets? No. Did my son? No. He had the time of his life. The memories will last forever. Furthermore, it was great training for stalking other big game in the future. There will be many hunts to come.

Was my son ready now to pursue mule deer and elk in Colorado? I looked at him kneeling there beside his first bowhunting trophy, and his smile gave me the answer. I could hardly wait for September.

Frequent contributor Jeff Stonehouse is the author of Stickbow Trails and Traditional Archery Adventures in the Modern World. He lives in Simla, Colorado with his children Victor and Adele.