It starts like this: the crisp bite of early morning, long before dawn, when the world is still asleep. Set your alarm for three, but wake at two, thoughts running like ticker tape. I used to count the steps down from my room, careful not to wake anyone. The buckle of my belt muted in the palm of my hand, jeans slung over my shoulder as I made my way outside. A silent prayer for the day, for the family still tucked under quilts—just me and the night, the air thick with dew and the soft hum of nature waking with me.
That’s how I learned to think. Not in rushed minutes, but in slow, deliberate motions—taking the time to let the land and its creatures speak. Just like my father and grandfather before me, two men who understood that time on the land is measured not in hours, but in seasons. They taught me the art of patience. Hunting wasn’t a sport to them; it was survival, a ritual, an exchange between the hunter and the earth. As my father often said, “You don’t rush a good thing, James. The best shot is the one you don’t take until you know you’re ready.”
The sniper’s triad—pressure, velocity, accuracy—wasn’t something I learned in the Army reserves. No, it was in those quiet mornings, rifle slung over my shoulder, stepping out onto the lush green pasture of our sprawling homestead in Bilpin. Hundreds of acres of apple trees, their scent sweet in the autumn air, and Hereford cattle grazing on soil so rich and brown it almost glowed underfoot. My father and my maternal grandfather, men of the land, passed down more than just their rifles. They passed down the philosophy of a marksman—patience, precision, and knowing when to pull the trigger.
While the world outside counts its bullets—your average soldier firing 250,000 rounds for a single casualty—a sniper waits. He knows that all it takes is 1.3 bullets to change everything. One shot, maybe two, to make a lasting impact. That’s the kind of precision that runs deep in me, not just in hunting, but in life. “The earth does not hurry,” my grandfather would say, quoting Teddy Roosevelt as he surveyed the land. “Yet everything is accomplished.”
That revelation resonated deeply, shaping my worldview. Every action had to matter, every decision weighed with significance. Pressure builds, velocity propels, accuracy determines victory. This ethos has accompanied me, guiding my endeavors, whether navigating the market or pouring thoughts onto the page.
This is the philosophy behind the Bear Mountain Rancher analogy. Life, markets, writing—it’s all a battlefield where strategy reigns supreme. And in that battlefield, the sniper principle holds: choose your targets carefully, wait for the right moment, and when you strike, make it count. Every word, every move, must be deliberate, sharp, and aimed with purpose. Because out there, in the chaos of life, there are no second chances.
Jim Harrison said, “The days are stacked against what we think we are.” He wasn’t wrong. But in those early hours, rifle in hand, walking through the pasture toward a world that’s still dark and full of potential, I like to think there’s more to it than that. That maybe the key isn’t in fighting against time, but in learning to move with it—to think like a sniper, like a rancher, like the man my father raised me to be. Slow, deliberate, and always ready for the moment that matters most.
Bear J. Sleeman
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