Alaska Mountain Goat Hunt
Mike and I crawled to the rock outcropping, peeked over, and were practically blinded by the white flank of a bedded mountain goat. Then two more. All billies.
“What’dya think?” I asked. Mike, a tall, lean mountain guide who I’d teamed up with for this hunt, confirmed my thoughts.
“Just what we’ve been looking for,” he replied. He continued studying the goats through his binocular. “Could probably get a double. But shoot them where they are and they’ll fall off that cliff.”
Our two hunters, Chad and Frank, stood just below us, panting from the long hike and climb, but watching eagerly for any sign that we’d hit pay dirt.
As Chad’s guide, I shouldered the responsibility of field judging a mature animal and assisting him in hunting it safely. Mike’s job was to do the same for his client, Frank. We’d all joined forces to stalk these billies together.
“Guys, we’ve got billies. Three of them. Bedded,” I explained after we’d crawled back.
“Problem is,” Mike continued, “shoot them where they lay and they might jump or roll into the abyss. Busted horns. Ripped hides and pummeled meat. Be a lot of work and probably dangerous pulling them out of there, too.”
Mountain goats are skilled at clinging to cliffs, but shoot one there and it’s likely to plummet to disaster.
Mountain goats are hardy creatures with a thirst for life that would make most other game animals jealous. With their heavy skeletal and muscular structure, they soak up bullet energy like the desert soaks up rain. Given these facts, the prudent thing to do was hunker down and let the billies get up and feed in the evening. Hopefully they’d move away from the cliffs and further onto the bench allowing our hunters a more comfortable shot opportunity.
We’d discovered these goats in the late morning, leaving us a several-hour wait to see what would transpire. “Guys, how about we hunker down behind this little face of rocks and have a cup of coffee?” I proposed. “We can be warm and ready for a shot if we get one.” Our little group didn’t need much convincing to duck out of the wind and rain. We fired up the Jetboil and waited. “If you guys get chilled, do some lunges or pushups. Stay limber and warm in case we have to shoot or move in a hurry,” I said.
As afternoon dragged toward evening the billies finally rose and began foraging. “They’re coming, guys!” Mike hissed. The hunters bellied toward their shooting positions. I peered through the spotting scope and identified one of the more mature goats, his long horse-like face and dirty rear-end telltale signs of a true Alaskan trophy. “Take a look and let me know what you think,” I whispered and rolled away from the spotter. “He’s the one,” Mike grunted.
Goat or no goat, the scenery alone is worth the price of admission. Photo by Jordan Voigt
A previous coin flip had determined which hunter had first shot. Frank. Shifting shale clicked and clacked as he snuggled into his rifle. I peered at the billies through my binocular as he took up pressure on the trigger. The rifle boomed and I watched a rock explode over the biggest one’s shoulder. “High!”
The goats launched themselves into the scree. “Don’t shoot!” Mike hissed to his hunter. With a clear miss and the billies clambering for safety, I rested my hand on Chad to caution him. “Let’s hold off, these guys will work back down to us eventually. Or we’ll find some others.”
Begrudgingly, we grabbed our gear and started the several-hour hike back to camp. “I’ll lead. You guys keep up,” Mike said as he turned into the biting wind blowing down canyon. We rolled into camp with just enough light lingering on the snowfields to get dinner cooked and sleeping bags warmed. The water boiled as weary feet plunged into Crocs. “You guys ready for dinner?” I needlessly asked as I poked my head into the hunters’ tent. Warm, watery noodles tasted amazing after a day spent climbing in rain and wind. Sleep came easy.
Our spartan camp in glacier country. All the comforts of home. Sort of. Photo by Jordan Voigt
The new day came with an angry glacier wind driving big, wet snowflakes into the side of our tents. “Well, we’re not going to get one from camp,” I noted. Mike agreed. More importantly, our hunters agreed. “Let’s see what we can make happen.” With visibility seriously hampered, we shrugged into our packs and headed back down-valley to see if a break in the storm would allow any opportunities for hunting-- or at least getting eyes on a goat or two.
We paused between snow squalls to pick apart the mountain topography. After our fourth stop in late afternoon, we got lucky. “There! There’s two, no all three of our billies,” I said. Hugging the edge of a cliff a thousand vertical feet above us, the trio happily fed in and out of the rocks. I imagined them staring down at us smugly while we watched from far below, unable to navigate the treacherous country they were ensconced in. With light fading and another two-hour hike back to the relative shelter of our tents, it was time to leave. But we couldn’t resist one more pass with our binoculars. Bam! Right there. A lone billy picking his way along the top end of a bench to feed. Even in the flat light the long face and blocky body of that traveling goat leapt out at us. “If this weather gives us a break and he holds tight, we’re going to have some fun tomorrow,” Mike smiled. We shared a fist bump as he slid the spotting scope into his pack.
Daylight again found us rejuvenated and retooled, heading down our now well-established trail through the snowfields. The several-day storm had finally broken and sunlight warmed our shoulders as we climbed. By mid-morning we were picking apart the boulder-laden flat for the billy we’d put to bed the night before. As we worked our way painstakingly across the mountain, the lone goat stood from his bed where he’d been sunning himself slightly above us.
Hiking back to camp was just as long as the hike out each day. photo by Jordan Voigt
“That’s him! Chad get your pack off!” Chad threw his pack down, laid his rifle across it, and took a breath just as the goat obligingly stopped above us, broadside. Mike measured the range and relayed the number to Chad. It was well within his capabilities.
“Take your time, make the first one count,” I whispered. Chad’s rifle barked and the billy crumpled, tucked safely on a rocky bench. After congratulations were passed around in heavy moderation, we began to pick our way up, adrenaline fueling tired and sore muscles. Mike and I hung back as Chad climbed the final yards to his goat alone, sat, and ran his fingers through the thick, coarse hair.
Forcing down a knot in my throat, I replaced it with a smile, “Congratulations buddy, what an animal!” I could literally feel the weight of a guide’s responsibility float off my shoulders. We’d done it. I enjoyed the moment and watched my friend admire his billy. “Mind?” I asked, anxious to put my hands on the monarch.
“By all means!” Chad beamed. I grabbed onto the coal black horns.
The ancient mountain dweller had taken his last breath on a sunny Alaskan mountainside, overlooking the confluence of two glaciers. Teeth worn nearly to the gums suggested the goat would have suffered a hard winter had a bullet not ended his days.
Stacks of annuli showed proof of his willingness to carve out a living in the unforgiving glacier fields for better than eleven years.
Chad and Jordan with the old billy. Note the broken horn tip on the right. More evidence that this was an old warrior past his prime. photo by Jordan Voigt.
We admired his unique characteristics as we skinned and deboned in the sun — a chip out of a horn here, a thicker-than-average growth ring there. Our packs were heavy by early afternoon with meat, horns, and a life-size cape that will remind Chad of his accomplishment. Mountain hunting is no easy task and waiting for the right opportunity with a good attitude, then capitalizing on it, are feats in their own right.
I was pulled off of the hunt when Chad was done, but Mike and Frank kept at it, eventually harvesting a nice goat they were both happy with. The bunch of billies stayed cliffed up for the remainder of their hunt, subsisting on minuscule amounts of feed but preferring that to taking their chances on their previous feeding pasture.
Only a week after Chad’s meat was processed and cape salted, I boarded a commercial plane for home. I watched out the window and studied the skyline of the Chugach mountains as we gained altitude out of Anchorage. I imagined a small bunch of billies working their way back down to a large bench filled with good feed, stacking on the pounds before winter. I silently wished them luck as the plane banked and obscured my view for the final time that fall. My thoughts turned towards home. Wife, sons and my own bed. I had lots of chores and catching up to do, but if I played my cards right I’d be back for another round with the goats, each of us a year older and wiser.
Chugach Mountain view from jet window.
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