Like many men, I like a challenge, and in 2022, at the spry age of 33, I decided to go mountain hunting. After some research, I heard mountain goat hunting was as tough as they come. I contacted the good people at Huntin’ Fool Adventures, and on August 25, 2024, I embarked on an Alaskan mountain goat in Haines, Alaska. It was a full-send event, and I prepared like my life depended on it.
I met my guide, Larry, the day before the hunt. After introductions, we went to his house where he inspected my gear. Everything checked out except for my crampons. I had purchased a set for this hunt, but after he showed me his, I swapped mine for a set of his heavy-duty crampons. I made the right call. I needed every bit of steel those spikes provided. I packed my bag and attempted to sleep, but I was nervous; this was only my second mountain hunt.
The next day, we hopped in the car and headed for the mountain. Once our boots were strapped, we began busting through the unforgiving southeast Alaska rainforest. With every step, the ground crumbled away, and the crampons he required were lifesaving. After a few hours of busting wet brush, we broke into a drainage with a small stream and climbed a few hundred yards until we reached a marker Larry had left. We stopped to top off water because we would not see it again until we reached camp. Larry turned and said the hard part was about to start and I should let him go ahead before starting up the mountain.
The procedure was that Larry went first, and after 100 feet, I started up after him. After a few hundred feet, he waited. As I approached, he would start again and I would rest. The mountain fought us every step. The alders would snare my rifle barrel, and the devil’s club would dig at any exposed skin. Several times, I found myself with just enough room to stand. In front of me was a wall about chest high. With a 65 lb. pack, I would fight up onto the dirt wall before me. It was easier said than done, and I failed to scale the wall several times. After a few attempts, frustration and panic started. I had to remind myself to stay calm and solve the problem in front of me. Eventually, I persuaded myself up the wall and thought, “How will I get down with a goat on my back?”
After several hours of steep climbing, a hotspot formed on my foot. The mountain did not offer much refuge to sit, but I found a spot to slide my pack next to a tree to keep it from falling down the mountain and I removed my boot. I use tape for hotspots and cut it with a knife to avoid rolling the tape. Murphy’s Law was in full effect. The sharp knife slid right through the tape and into my foot. I started to bleed, and my frustration was palpable. I handled the situation, and as I laced up my boots, my hands cramped. My fingers curled so tight I could not force them back open. I used a tree to peel back my fingers, and I held them outstretched while my forearm hopped and danced, trying to cramp again. Finally, the cramp subsided and I could tie my boot.
The entire hike was steep, but we came to a particularly vertical section with only a strip of vegetation sandwiched between a cliff and an avalanche shoot. Everything was going well until I heard Larry’s frantic voice yelling, “Rock!” I looked up to see a massive bolder careening down the mountain at me. I had to think fast; I was in a tight spot. I leaped up and reached for the only alder tree nearby. With one hand, I gripped the tree, swung over the slide area, and watched the massive bolder pass by. I swung back to safety and thanked God. Now, I remember thinking, “My wife is going to kill me if I die on this mountain!”
After six or seven hours, we made it to the alpine. Being free of tangled alders and devil’s club was a relief. We had one last steep climb on moss-covered rocks and some sidehilling to our campsite. As we set up camp, I felt the cold in my bones. I began to shake uncontrollably. I got the main body of my tent up, but as I put my rainfly on, I could not remember how to install it. I’d set this tent up several times before. I knew how to do it, but I had this fog about me. I called Larry over and told him I needed help. Larry said I was hypothermic and needed to get warm immediately. Larry and I struggled but finally got the rainfly on. I quickly put on dry clothes and crawled into my sleeping bag.
The following day, I moved slower than usual, making us late for our climb to the goats. This perturbed my guide, but I’d never been hypothermic before and I was taking a little extra time. We hiked up a few hundred feet to glass. Luckily, the rain held off, but a rolling fog would envelop the mountain before clearing up. After a few hours of glassing, we decided to move higher. As we trekked across a saddle, I stopped to glass the mountainside for signs of life. To my great pleasure, I spotted the first goat of the hunt! It was a monster, and I quickly whispered to Larry, “I got one!” Larry agreed we needed to make a play on this animal.
As the fog rolled in, we ran as fast as we could toward the goat. We would hit the deck and
crawl to cover when the mist cleared. We did this fog run three or four times before we got close enough for a shot. I ranged the goat at 252 yards, threw down my pack, and unstrapped the rifle. I crawled to a good firing position, lowered my head to the scope, and a thick fog covered the mountainside. This time, fog hung in the air and the goat was gone when it cleared. We stared at the mountain for a while, hoping the goat would return, but he never did. Later that afternoon, we decided to descend to camp, pack up, and haul it to where we saw the goats. We hiked down 1,200 feet, gathered camp, and hiked back up.
On the third morning, we glassed for hours and heavily debated climbing to the far side where the steepest cliffs were. Larry said the goats liked to bed there, but getting the animal out would be challenging and dangerous if we shot a goat. We decided to stay put and pray for goats. Late that afternoon, my prayers were answered. My guide excitedly whispered, “Skyline!” I shot my eyes to the ridgeline, and there he was – a beautiful, mature billy. He stood 390 yards away.
He would go to the cliffs if the shot wasn’t perfect, making a dangerous retrieval. Fortunately, the billy fed towards us. He worked his way to 340 yards but at the wrong angle. I begged him to turn, and he obliged with a quartering away shot at 347 yards. I unleashed the .300 Win Mag and put one just above his right shoulder. The goat immediately stumbled as I racked another round. The goat fell as my second shot rang out.
At first light, we made our way off the mountain. The hike out was scarier than the hike in. Going down, you are staring into the steep abyss. Trust in your gear becomes critical. Descending from the alpine with the extra weight of a goat was nerve-wracking. I thanked God once we got into the thick jungle of alders and devil’s Club. Being from the flatlands of Illinois, such steep terrain is foreign to me, so I sat on my butt and scooted through some of the hairier spots. Scooting wasn’t always the wisest decision either. A few times, I got moving too fast
and had to dig my crampons into the earth, which brought all my weight slamming to a stop on my knee and ankle. Sometimes, I was turned around and descending like you would a ladder. That provided an easier handhold but blinded my foot placement. I would blindly kick into the mountain until I found a foothold to lower myself. For eight hours, we fought our way down the mountain.
The epic adventure was over. I worked for one and a half years towards this goal, pushing myself harder and further than ever. I often wanted to quit, but I knew I had three little girls and a son waiting for my story of triumph. Now, I am proud to say I am a Midwest mountain hunter.
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