Story By: Nathan Kleffman
It started two years ago, working on my 10–15 year “hunt plan” and researching outfitter costs on Huntin’ Fool Adventures. Dreaming of Alaska, there was one mountain goat listing that stood out from the others for being significantly cheaper, so I reached out to an advisor to learn more. I heard this hunt wasn’t for everyone, that the price reflected a 1:1 hunt where I would be responsible for hauling everything up and down the mountain on my back. No pack animals, no airplanes, no additional guides, just pure boot leather and hard work. The promise was that if I could climb the most rugged country with a full pack, then I should have an opportunity at a billy. It sounded amazing, just what I wanted to truly earn my trophy, but in retrospect I had no idea what I was signing up for.
Fast forward to the first week of October, and we were traveling by boat to the launch point for a basin where scouting had shown over a dozen goats, including three or four potential billies at roughly 4,000 feet in elevation. Our bags were packed with five days’ worth of food. Heavy-duty but simple crampons were strapped to our mountain boots, and the ascent began. It was time to find out what my guide meant when he said this was the hardest hunt in the world.
We started hiking the creek line, but within twenty minutes we were in thick vegetation. There was no trail to follow, only a series of choices where some paths were slightly less congested or difficult than others. The loose soil, thick underbrush, and steep terrain meant the crampons were critical for every step, and my legs were constantly working to maintain balance under a heavy pack. As we fought our way through thicker vegetation, the trekking poles became a liability instead of an asset, so we began pulling ourselves up the mountain by grabbing onto devil’s club and willows.
Five hours in, it had already been the hardest day of my life. My body was exhausted, but I felt a surge of energy when we reached an overlook and saw the white specs of mountain goats in the distance. If we could see them, they could see us, so we had to sidehill across a sea of alder trees that grew more horizontally than vertically. Each step presented a challenge: do you push the alder branches over your head and go under, or push them down and step over? Often, you had to do both, digging your crampons into the wet earth to keep balance while lifting one leg over a branch and ducking under another. The worst moments came when the branches locked around the rifle barrel strapped to my pack, forcing me to use all my strength to free myself from the tangle without sliding down the slick hillside.
Sidehilling through alders with a full pack on wet, steep terrain for hours was the most brutal thing I had ever done. At that point, I wasn’t thinking about a billy; that was no longer the goal. My only goal was not to give up. I refused to be one of the clients who quit this hunt, which could be more than 50 percent in a year. With every step, I prayed to God to keep me safe and give me the strength to continue. Eventually, we made it to our first campsite for the evening at around 2,000 feet in elevation—only halfway up.
We began our ascent by 7 a.m. the next day, but by afternoon the rain had turned to thick fog, and we lost almost all visibility. We decided we risked spooking the goats if they heard us before we could see them, so we backtracked to find a camping spot, losing several hundred feet of elevation before finding ground that was somewhat flat and protected from the strong winds. We spent the rest of that evening and the entire third day there. Losing a day and a half of a five-day hunt to weather and low visibility had been a concern when I planned this trip, but in the moment my tired body welcomed the rest.
As day four began, the weather report proved accurate, and the fog had cleared. We needed all of day five to make our way back to the boat, so this was it—today was the day to get a billy. Peeking out of the tent, I immediately saw goats on the eastern and western walls of our basin. Hiding in cover to glass them, we confirmed both groups were nannies. We left camp, packed light, and began climbing the basin to find where the billies might be hiding.
As we moved higher, we found a few more goats within shooting range, but each turned out to be a nanny. By the time we reached the top, just shy of 4,000 feet, we concluded that the billies must have moved to another area during the past two days. Whether they had gone over the mountain into no man’s land or slipped into a nearby basin, we had no idea. The day was still young, so we packed our tents and began sidehilling toward the next basin, hoping to find a billy. It might have been a long shot, but we had to try.
By noon, while side-stepping across a steep, grassy slope at a 45-degree angle, I was beginning to accept that I wouldn’t be bringing home a goat. The hillside was precarious, and I focused on every step. My mind had room for only one thought: a constant prayer to God to get me safely down the mountain so I could return to my family. I was proud that I had pushed my body and mind through this challenge and hadn’t quit. Bringing home a billy would be a great way to memorialize this experience, but it wasn’t the measure of success. Getting home safely was.
Then, just like that, we reached the launch point for a mountain overlook into the next basin. We dropped our packs and crawled up a rocky path, a 200-foot cliff face to our left. Crouched behind a boulder, my guide set up his spotting scope to scan the basin ahead. I could hardly believe my ears—he thought there was a billy with a broken horn within shooting range. I crawled forward and ranged him at 385 yards.
We spent nearly thirty minutes studying the goat to confirm he was a billy and to plan the safest shooting position. I knelt against a boulder, using a stuff sack filled with clothes to elevate my rifle barrel above the rocks. It wasn’t entirely stable, but it was the best we could do. After I squeezed off the first round, I quickly followed up with a second. I was overjoyed to see the billy dragging his back legs down the basin—it was a spine hit. As he paused in a sitting position, I put a third round center mass and watched him tumble down a short ravine. I could hardly believe it.
But as they say, that’s when the real work begins. The overlook gave us a view into the next basin, but now we had to get there. By the time we descended the overlook, losing and regaining 800 feet of elevation, we reached the next basin by 5 p.m., and the weather was turning bad. We made camp, planning to look for the billy in the morning.
It rained and snowed all night, with fierce winds that kept me from sleeping more than ten minutes at a time. By morning, everything looked different under a new layer of snow. It took two hours to check the ravines that might hold the billy, and it wasn’t until the fog lifted briefly that we could orient ourselves to the overlook where I had made the shot. Looking down the waterfall, we finally saw him—his one good horn still intact.
After taking photos, caping him, and packing the meat, we broke camp and started down the mountain. My pack was heavier than ever, and while I would have loved to float back to civilization, this was when mistakes could happen. Every step down the mountain was deliberate and steady, even when the boat came into view. I wasn’t taking any chances with a twisted ankle now.
Overall, this was the hardest thing I have ever done, both physically and mentally. I had been at peace with the idea of coming home empty-handed, knowing I had given my best effort and couldn’t control the weather or the movement of the billies. It still feels almost too good to be true that I got a shot opportunity from that mountain overlook at the last possible moment and was able to make it count. It was truly an experience I will never forget.