The next afternoon, while doing some glassing, Tim spotted a ram about a mile up the drainage on a pretty nice hillside. One look through the spotter was all it took to deem him a shooter: a heavy, deep curling, double-broomed ram that we desperately needed to kill. We ran back to camp and got our gear together, but while we were making our way back upstream, the fog rolled in again. We finally spotted the ram again once we were directly below him, and although the river was raging, we decided to give it a try. I made it across by the skin of my teeth, almost getting swept off my feet. We found a better spot where Tim was able to cross, and we then took off up the hill. By the time we made it to a good shooting position below the ram, the snow was falling hard and everything was quickly turning white. I spotted the ram against some black rocks, but because of the snow I couldn't get an accurate range. I figured him at 250 yards, and he quickly spotted us. Tim couldn't see him through his fogged glasses, so I adjusted the elevation on my scope, laid down, and squeezed off a round. At the shot the ram dropped in his tracks and then rolled down the hillside and into a gully. My heart sank when we made it up there 15 minutes later and there was no ram. We looked until dark, then had to head back to the tent.