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November 2022
Story by Jeff Wucherer
State: Alaska
Species: Mtn Goat

When I was nine, a small house across the street came up for sale and 19-year-old Rick Baeseman moved in. This neighbor impacted my life as he took me under his wing and became my hunting mentor. To this day, 38 years later, we keep in touch. We enjoy sharing stories about our fishing and hunting successes and reminiscing over the old hunting group. It was when Rick and I got together to honor the passing of his father, Ardie, that he said, “If you ever need someone to join you on one of your hunting adventures, don’t call me, just book it.”
 
As if orchestrated by a higher power, Clay Roberts of Big Wild Outfitters called me days later with an opening for a two-on-one guided mountain goat hunt that overlapped with a couple of his bear hunters. Deposits were sent, and dates were given. Rick and I would be headed to Kodiak.
 
The trip to Kodiak went smooth and without a hitch. We had clear skies and wonderful flying weather. Once our feet touched the shore, we met our guide, Blake, shot our guns, and loaded the Zodiac for our trip to spike camp. I was blown away by the dramatic elevation changes and breathtaking views we encountered along the way. Once at camp, we spotted half a dozen goats on the top of the mountains most rugged cliffs. As we stared up at them, Rick began to question if his ankle with 13 pins and a bad knee were up for the task ahead. Knowing his toughness and shooting ability, I was confident it was an achievable goal.
 
As the sun began to rise over the bay, we loaded our packs and climbed around the rock faces, looking for goats. Before cresting each ridge, Blake would glass and look over the situation. With excitement in his voice, he told me to get up by him and kill this goat. As I peered over the ridge, I could see my lifelong dream bedded at 250 yards. Looking back at my hunting mentor picking his way up the extreme terrain on a bad knee and ankle, I easily made the decision that my hunting journey had come full circle. The man who once hung my tree stands for me to get my first bow kill only had a little further to climb for a shot at his first mountain goat.
 
Upon Rick reaching our location, you can imagine it didn’t go over that easy and he wanted me to shoot the goat. As it began to stand up and with no weapon in my hand, Rick was forced to the trigger. Catching his breath the best he could, he shot slightly over the billy’s back. The goat disappeared over the ridge only to reappear heading straight up the mountain. At 480 yards, the big billy stopped and looked back. A perfectly-placed shot sent him rolling back down the hill. With 10" horns and 5 1/2" bases, this goat was the king of the mountain!
 
At the crack of dawn the next day, Blake notified us he already had eyes on a target billy. We were once again heading up the mountain, crossing multiple rockslides, trying to intercept the goat as he paralleled the rugged ridges surrounding us. Blake’s ability to maneuver the terrain was like chasing a billy goat, and the marathon abruptly ended with him hunkering down and pointing straight up the mountain, saying, “Kill that goat!”
 
Trying to catch my breath, Blake whispered the yardage at 284 and pointed straight up the mountain. Settling the crosshairs on the animal, I took a deep breath and lightly pulled the trigger. The bullet quickly smacked a jagged rock that was blurred out between me and intercepting the goat. The sheer angle of the shot had my head in close to the gun. At the recoil of the shot, blood began pouring into my eye from a deep cut. Chambering another round, the billy stopped at 320 yards and I missed him forward, causing another deep gash in my forehead, creating a “Y.” At 400 yards, the billy stopped and glanced back at us. My vision blurred from a stream of blood running down my face, I could only watch in disappointment as the goat climbed to the safety of the highest peak surrounding the bowl we had spiked out in.
 
Glancing over at Blake, he laughed and said, “Guess you wanted to do it the hard way!” Dejected, I grabbed my pack and headed down the mountain to tell Rick what had transpired. Watching through his binos, he had a pretty good idea of what happened but didn’t expect my face to look like I had just wrestled the grizzly we encountered the night before. Sensing my frustration, he added, “Well, I guess that wasn’t your goat. Grab your gear and go over that mountain and find it!” With that, Blake and I were off and climbing.
 
As we crested the summit, we stepped into a completely different world of snow and ice. There were frozen lakes below us, and the sky was so clear that I felt I could see the end of the universe. We slowly paralleled the high mountain peaks searching for small ravines that were protected from the strong winds. Cresting a cliff, Blake stopped and waved me closer. I spotted the two bedded billies, one snow-white and the other yellowish in color. The goats were slightly tucked behind the razor of a spine of the highest peak on our mountain face. Knowing we would be fully exposed for the next quarter of a mile, we slipped into our whites and quickly zigzagged to the safety of another steep rock face that would conceal our final stalk.
 
The goats were bedded and staring off into the distance as we dropped out of sight and hustled to get into position. A huge sense of relief came as I laid eyes on the two goats who were completely unaware of our presence. My target was easy to pick with the white billy bedded slightly quartering away from us at 110 yards. I was able to rest my gun on my pack as I caught my breath and waited for him to stand. Blake felt our best play was to slightly expose him in his whites. Reluctantly standing and looking back, the distinctive sound of my 180 grain Weatherby bullet had found its mark. Both animals disappeared upon impact, and neither of us knew what lay behind their bedded bench. Moving quickly, we covered the distance and couldn’t believe our eyes when both goats were only 40 yards from us standing broadside, facing each other. I quickly put another shot into my goat in hopes of anchoring him where he stood. With the yellowish goat turning to run, my goat turned and jumped off the cliff before he took his last breath.
 
I have never experienced such a full circle of emotions in less that 12 hours, only to have my 37-year quest disappear into the most pristine blue sky I had ever seen. As we neared the edge of the cliff, anticipation built as no goat was in plain view. Seeing a small bench protruding off the ridge, I dropped 15 yards for a better view of the backside of the mountain. With the new angle, I could see where some snow had moved and slid. Edging my way to the furthest point, I spotted my goat buried to his back in fresh powdery snow! We cautiously made our way to the billy and celebrated. Standing over the goat and seeing the Pacific Ocean in the distance, I knew I had accomplished a childhood dream.

The next morning, we loaded our packs full in hopes of making it off the mountain in two trips and beating the beginning of a massive storm coming our way. We made our way back to base camp, and for the next few days, it rained steady. Days were spent in the small main dining area playing cards and retelling past hunting and fishing stories. A small break in the weather was a welcome sight, and Blake, Rick, and I headed up the mountain directly behind camp to look for blacktails. Everything was mud from the enormous amount of rain, the streams rushed like a river, and waterfalls fell from the mountaintops to full capacity. With fog so thick we couldn’t see our hands in front of your faces, we ended our hunt and turned back to camp.
 
Day nine greeted us with beautiful weather, and we headed out to glass a spot called Buck Valley. Anticipation was high from camp stories the grizzly hunters had shared of seeing a few nice bucks. With noon upon us, Rick said he had spotted another deer at the end of the valley and thought this buck was worth going after. Blake confirmed it was a shooter and instructed us to grab our packs and get ready to go. As Rick has done so unselfishly throughout the years, he looked at us and said, “I am leaving this up to my one percenters!”
 
With that, Blake and I dumped off the ridge and entered a world that resembled the landscape of a “Jurassic Park” movie. Cresting the last ridge, Blake froze as one of the does was feeding 40 yards in the bottom of the small bowl. With the wind in our favor, we glassed but to no avail of finding the other two deer. Disappointed, we decided to turn around and hunt our way back to our original glassing spot. We crested the highest point on our hike home, and I asked Blake if he wanted a snack. This tip of lugging around plenty of snacks came from a Huntin’ Fool podcast, and it would pay off nicely. While he looked over my inventory, Blake looked over my shoulder and said, “Big buck! Kill that deer!”
 
Turning around, I spotted the buck moving naturally from our right to left. As he stopped to look around, I rolled to the prone position. With a light pull of the trigger, I heard the impact and the deer was gone. With the quickness of the encounter, I was relieved when Blake gave me a hug and said, “You smoked him!”
 
A special thanks to my guide, Blake, my hunting mentor, Rick Baeseman, who shared his love of the outdoors with me, and all the Huntin’ Fools who make up Big Wild Outfitters! I am truly thankful for you and all the blessings in my life.