Few sounds allude to a good time more accurately than that of small aircraft tires bouncing down a gravel strip. Luke Carrick and I had just dropped through a heavy layer of wildfire smoke obscuring Williston Lake in northern British Columbia. The plane rolled to a stop in front of Fort Graham Lodge. Nearly 18 months of planning and dreaming culminated as the pilot cut the twin turboprops. We’d booked an August mountain goat hunt with Finlay River Outfitters, and its owner, Jordy McAuley, stood outside to greet us.
After an early dinner, we discussed the upcoming 15-day hunt. We had tags for goats, black bear, wolf, and one elk tag in Luke’s name. Goats were priority. Jordy’s son, Hunter, would be our goat guide along with Will Maitland.
On day one, we piled into a 7.3 PowerStroke and chattered out the dusty lane. With a stroke of luck, the smoke had blown out overnight. After parking, we glassed a few white specs in a cavernous basin four miles away and 4,000 vertical feet above us. We picked our way through huckleberry-laden deadfall into dense spruce and finally into the basin proper. Camp would be a bench at the convergence of two massive avalanche chutes. Some 2,000 feet above the tents loomed a collection of high spires and knife-edge ridges. This was goat country in the truest sense. Careful shot selection was key around here.
A few goats appeared on the skyline just before we crawled into our tents. When dawn came, the grueling ascent began. As we approached tree line, we found ourselves about 70 yards below a bedded nanny. No sooner had we started moving again than Luke looked down at his feet to discover a feather on the ground. Plucking it from the moss and tucking it into his bino harness, he said, “A Native American friend told me long ago to pick these up. They’re good luck.”
Once we reached our glassing point, the area where we’d seen the goats was some 1,500 yards directly across the semicircular bowl, likely a mile of steep sidehilling. An hour went by before we spotted a billy crossing a saddle on the far side. Boots got tightened.
We picked our way around the basin as fast as the brutal pitch would allow. Halfway across, Will looked back the way we’d come and spotted two goats. They must have been hidden in a crag earlier. The jig was up as both goats just stared at us from 250 yards. However, they were resting on a ledge some 200 feet up a sheer face and apparently considered us no threat. One was a great billy, and the question became whether or not to take the shot. The flat rock band where the goats stood was about three feet wide, though it was wider at one spot. If the billy presented a shot while standing in that location, he could potentially be harvested without tipping off the cliff. The other consideration was whether or not we could reach the carcass. A quick look at the cliff showed a variety of intersecting rock bands that terminated in the face of the basin. Sketchy, but doable.
The billy entered the safe zone, and Luke fired. The animal lurched around, making an obvious attempt to clear the edge of the cliff. Luke’s rifle barked again, anchoring the animal before he could dive into oblivion. Retrieving the goat was hair-raising, but the cliff made for quintessential harvest photos. Luke took a few moments to sit on the ledge and absorb the success, one hand on the goat and one hand holding his feather.
We climbed high from camp again the?following day. There were some billies around?but no shooters. Given the hundreds of goat-laden?peaks in the vicinity, we dropped the 4,000 vertical feet to the truck.
Morning found us at the bottom of a new drainage. As we hiked in, there was a brief encounter with what must have been a grizzly, though it never emerged from the brush. Four hours later, we arrived in a flat, mossy area and pitched tents. Camp was a few miles short of the canyon we hoped to hunt. With plenty of daylight left, we intended to hike into the valley and spend the evening glassing. That was not to be.
Barely out of camp, I looked down at my feet and found a feather lying at the base of a spruce tree. I picked it up, and Luke smiled as though he knew something I didn’t.
We hiked another 10 minutes before Luke hissed, “Big billy!”
The timber ended some 100 yards to our right where the terrain broke immediately into cliffs. We scrambled into position. Immediately, the white ungulate bedded down. Only his neck and head were visible. One rangefinder read 240 yards. My Vortex Fury binos, set to compensate for angle, indicated 150 yards. The angle was steep.
“It’s a good billy,” whispered Hunter. “When he stands up, take the shot.”
This happened 20 minutes later. Two rounds through the pump house and the goat fell to the trees below. We hiked up and were surprised by its size. Scoring the goat was the furthest thing from my mind, at least until Luke said something about the Boone and Crockett books. However, measurements were saved for another day. We broke the goat down and realized that we were done goat hunting by day four. We slept well.
The next morning was spent glassing for elk. We turned up several moose paddles, and later, two bulls who likely carried them the year before. Then we hiked out. Back at the lodge, Luke and I rough scored both billies. Neither of us claim to be an official measurer, nor did we have a regulation steel tape. Luke’s came to 48", enough to put him in the B&C records. Mine hit 53.5", well over B&C all-time.
Wildfire smoke once again shrouded the valley. It limited us to hunting closer to the road, but we still had tags to fill. We found ourselves on a lakeshore one evening, hoping to see elk come down for water. Instead, a dark grizzly emerged from the brush. Half an hour went by as we watched the bruin make his way around the inlet.
The following day, I was granted an opportunity to take a wolf at 150 yards. The female was not huge, but a wolf is a wolf, especially when it’s your first Canis lupus.
Later in the week, we stopped to take photos where a wooden bridge crossed a turquoise river. Luke plucked another feather from the gravel road. By this time, we knew what that meant.
A few hours later, we were travelling down a skidder road when a black bear crossed ahead of us. Luke dropped prone as I read him a range, and he sent a little Hornady care package. Upon recovering the bear and taking photos, Luke said, “We only have color phase bears at home. My daughter was hoping I’d bring home a black rug for her room.” He pulled the feather from his bino harness and smiled.
Temps dropped overnight, and the cottonwoods showed their first hints of yellow. We had one day left to find a good bull. Our first predawn bugle was answered, faintly, and again 10 minutes later. We made for the nearest ridge through deadfall and dew-covered underbrush. That morning and the following afternoon were spent trying to locate the bull but no luck. We were scheduled to fly out just as the rut was beginning.
As we packed our hides and skulls, we took pause to think about how fortunate we’d been on our trip. Luke, the staff at Finlay River Outfitters, and I were uninjured. We’d harvested two record book mountain goats, a wolf, and a gorgeous black bear. We’d also made some new friends along the way. Had only the first and last been true, it would still have been a successful endeavor.
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