Mountain Goat. Just the mention of these two words stirs quite an image in the mind of the outdoorsman. Steep, rocky bluffs. Windswept ridges. Treacherous rock slides. The places these majestic monarchs of the high country call home are, indeed, some of the most beautiful on earth. And the most dangerous to those who challenge them. The rewards are
some of the most incredible memories that a sportsman will ever be blessed with.

 Mountain goats were introduced to Alaska's Kodiak Island in the early 1950's, with great difficulty. The animals were hard to capture, and the transplant project was accomplished
through the efforts of many people from around the state. Most of the original animals came from the Seward area. The island's new occupants thrived, and by 1968, the population
was large enough to open the first hunting season for them. Ten permits were issued,
and six hunters were successful in harvesting goats. Today, goat hunting is very popular on the island, and the population continues to grow.

  After years of dreaming about hunting mountain goats, I finally drew a tag for the west Terror
 Lake/Uganik unit here on Kodiak. I'd applied as a party with my good friend Russ Tschetter,
 and we were shocked to see our names on the list of winners. Russ had been trying to draw
 a tag for many years. I'd like to say that I trained very hard all summer long for the hunt, but
 I'll be honest. I really didn't work much at it. Oh, I did do a good amount of shooting, and
 was confident in my marksmanship and equipment, but I'm not 18 anymore and Russ is older than I am.

We were realistic in our expectations and abilities, and planned to hunt as hard as we could
 without killing ourselves. I'd be shooting my stainless T/C Contender in 309 JDJ with
 Simmons 2.5 - 7x in a 3 ring T'SOB mount. This setup is great and shoots MOA (or close to it)
 on a regular basis. My  "ol' reliable" load is the 165 gr. Nosler Ballistic Tip over 50 gr. of
 IMR 4350 and a Federal 215 primer. My buddy would be shooting Federal Premium factory
ammo with the 140 gr. Trophy Bonded Bearclaw in a Remington 700 in .270 with a 4x Leupold.
 I like him in spite of that! As it  turned out, he began to see the advantages of a pistol in
 mountain hunting. He banged up his rifle, saying at one point "I think you've got the right idea.
 My rifle is swinging all over the place." He's coming around.

  We flew to Terror Lake in a Cessna 206 on floats with Dean Andrew, owner of Andrew Airways.
 It was a beautiful afternoon, a few clouds and bright sun. We saw about a dozen goats on the
 way in, and decided to hunt the mountain just west of the dam. There were two billies about three
 miles away, and it was not suicidally steep.
 

  We landed on the lake, unloaded our gear, and bid farewell to Dean, who said he would try to fly
over our area every few days to check on us. We set up a base camp on the rocky beach. From
the air, we found a little cove that offered some protection from the wind and a small sandy area for the tent. It would be a little messier, but it was better than sleeping on rocks. We saw a few goats
on the surrounding hillsides, and were hopeful. The next day, we each packed about 50 pounds of gear from the lake, at 1300 feet, up to the 2400 foot level of the mountain and set up our spike camp. The terrain was gently rolling, and criss-crossed with steep, rocky gullies and bluffs. That evening, we hiked up about 500 feet of steep, rocky mountainside to an open, sandy area we
could see from camp. From this vantage point, we were able to observe several groups of goats on the opposite side of the valley. The view was tremendous, and we were thankful for the opportunity to match wits with this majestic animal. Our hopes were high as we settled in for the night, and we planned a 5:30 wake up. I set the alarm on my watch, and drifted off to sleep.
 
The next morning, I awoke at 7 o'clock. The battery in my watch had decided to go out at a most inopportune moment! We rolled out of our bags, and over some hot oatmeal, I said to Russ
"Today's the day, I can feel it", to which he replied "I hope you're right." The September sun was
already shining brightly as we climbed to the top of the mountain, a  wide, flat plateau at 3600 feet and glassed for goats. We spotted 2 billies about 3 miles away, but they were in impossibly
steep  terrain, and there were 10 nannies and kids 500 feet above them on the ridge line.

 The landscape up there is like the moon, with almost no grass, mostly moss  in the shadier areas, and rock everywhere. There were rock bluffs, shale slides, jagged peaks, and it was like being on top of the world. The perspective was an interesting one, being at the same level, or higher, than
the surrounding mountains. It was breathtakingly beautiful.  I crawled up to the edge of the cliff to look below, and immediately spotted a goat bedded about 500 yards away. A second goat
then appeared about 20 yards above the first. They must be the same ones we saw the previous day. I looked back at Russ, hissed "pssst", held up 2 fingers and pointed below. He crept up to join me, and, after a short discussion, we agreed that we would be happy with them and they were safely stalk able. The wind was in our faces, the sun at our backs, and even if the goats took a leap after
being hit, as they often do, the shale slide below would make recovery fairly easy.

  We had previously agreed that the one who first spotted the goats would shoot, so I was up.
 I suggested that we cross the narrow saddle ahead of us, then I would drop down and make
my way along a rock ledge to get into position to attempt a shot, while Russ would stay high on the bluff and possibly get a shot at the other goat if it spooked.   So, off we went. The saddle was about 2 feet wide and dropped off to a shale slide on either side at about a 40 degree angle and about 600 feet down. We slowly made our way, trying to keep from sending any loose rock onto the slide below. About 30 minutes later, we separated and I descended into the bowl below. The footing was very loose, and it was hard to stay quiet. Another 15 minutes or so, and I was climbing along another rock ledge towards the goat, when I decided that I really didn't need to be in that
particular spot at that time. It just wasn't worth it.   I backed away and tried another route, this time ending up with my back against a jagged rock wall, looking out at the shale slide 50 feet below.
The ledge was about 18" wide, solid, and I felt comfortable with it. It sounds worse than it really was. I finally got to the point of the bluff, looked ahead, and spotted the goat. He was bedded on a flat area of a bluff, facing away from me at 200 to 220 yards.

  After all of the effort that went into this stalk, seeing the goat got me very excited. I just kept saying to myself  "Slow down, you have plenty of time. He doesn't know you're here, take your time..." Yeah, right! If I could get a steady rest, I'd try a shot in the middle of his back, and anchor him right there. The rock in front of me was wide and flat, and I needed about 4 more inches of elevation in order to line up on the billy, as he was about 50 feet lower than me. I desperately searched in vain for a loose rock. "It figures," I thought, "first they're everywhere, now, when I want one, there are none to be found." I got nervous when the billy stood up to stretch, and I thought I'd missed my chance. I decided to make a fist with my left hand and rest the forend of the Contender between the first two knuckles. If it felt good, I'd shoot. If not, I'd have to come up with something else.

  The cross hairs were wobbling all over the place. If I was going to make this shot, I'd really have to get a hold of myself. I took a few deep breaths, calmed down, adjusted my fist and tried again. I discovered that I could get a steady enough rest by extending the little finger of my right hand and resting it on the rock. Now we're talking! The goat had turned around completely. It was now quartering toward me, its right shoulder would be the target. He stood there looking left and right several times, as if looking for a better spot to bed down. The sight picture looked good, so I
started the squeeze.  The gun recoiled, and even before it had peaked, the billy was down. I've
never seen an animal drop so fast. He simply collapsed where he stood, rolled onto his left side, and lay still. After all of the dreaming, wishing, hoping, planning and praying, I'd finally come to this place and realized a dream. I leaned back against the rock, my legs like rubber, and was overcome with emotion. I thanked God for this gift and cried like a baby for about 10 seconds and am not the least bit ashamed to admit it.   I looked back at the billy, and he was gone. I thought  "What the..." then
saw him tumbling down the slide. He must have instinctively kicked enough that he sent himself over the 20 foot bluff on which he'd been standing. Goats are just that tenacious.

  I wondered why Russ hadn't shot, and kept waiting for the report of his .270 to fill the air. The other goat must have run off in such a way that he was unseen by my partner, so after a couple of minutes I worked back along the ledge and down into the shale. I'd gone about 50 yards when I looked up and spotted the other goat standing on a bluff 10 yards above where mine had been. He was looking right at me, and I looked up at Russ, who was coming down the slide to check out my goat.   I gambled. I yelled  "He's standing right there, looking at me! 300 yards from you!" Russ high-tailed it back up to where he'd been, and the goat saw him as he neared the top. I thought if I could keep the billy's attention on me for just a moment, Russ might get a shot. I walked down slope another 50 yards, and the billy watched me. I looked up at Russ and he was sitting with his rifle up. I stood still, hoping for the best. The billy must have been confused by us, and by the sudden departure of his partner. I again looked up at Russ, and he was now prone. The billy walked uphill 10 yards and stopped, almost broadside to Russ.

  The .270 cracked, and a tuft of white fur flew from the billy's left shoulder as it dropped like a stone, rolling off the bluff. It rolled onto the bluff that my goat had been on, then dropped off the edge. It rolled down the shale 120 yards and piled up on top of my goat! I swear, I wouldn't
have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes! A heck of a shot. When Russ finally made it down to where I was standing, there were handshakes, hugs and, yes, a few tears.  Now, at last, his dream had come true, and I was very happy for him.

  My goat was a beauty, a 5 year old with 9" horns and 5 5/8" bases. The bridge of his nose was cut, and for a moment I was shocked to think that somehow I'd hit him in the face, but it was cut in the fall. As it turned out, he'd been looking left and right for a place to bed down, and as the trigger broke, he must have looked to the right. The bullet entered an inch below the right ear, traveled through the neck and into the upper chest, stopping under the left shoulder. No wonder he dropped so quick! If he hadn't turned his head, the bullet would've hit the point of the shoulder, possibly not dropping him, spooking Russ' goat and preventing a shot for my friend. I guess it all worked out for the best.

  Russ' billy was a beauty as well, a 6 year old with 8 ½" horns and 5 1/2" bases. Unfortunately, both horns were broken from a fight or a fall. The right horn tip was split for about three inches from the tumble down the shale, but it could be repaired by the taxidermist. We were both ecstatic. They weren't "world class" billies, but we were certainly not complaining. They were both mature adults with huge bodies and nice horns, and that's what we were after. They each weighed about 300 pounds, and that's a darn big goat. Sure, it would've been nice if they'd sported 10 ½" horns, but
they made "our" book! After the photos, the real work began. It took the rest of the afternoon to quarter and cape our trophies, then a steep 600 foot climb back up to the plateau where we'd first spotted the goats. Not quite a mile to spike camp, and down we went. We arrived just before dark,
and boy, were we beat! The sky that night was clear as a bell, and the stars were nothing short of spectacular. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day. The next day we huffed up and down that mountain hauling meat and capes again...twice. It was the most brutal, aching exertion of my life. It was to get worse.

  The next day began an ordeal I'll never forget. A severe storm was building fast. It took all day to haul two loads of meat down to base camp. The wind was unbelievable. By the time we returned to spike camp the second time it was blowing at least 50 MPH, gusting to heaven-only-knows how fast. It was raining sideways, just pouring like something I'd seen on TV during hurricane coverage. Our tent was battered, the only thing holding it down was the extra guy lines we'd put up earlier in the day. One pole was broken, and I could hardly stand up against the wind. We tried in vain to repair it. We were both exhausted, and I hated to admit it, but we had to head for base camp quickly if we were to make it through the night.

  We are both experienced outdoorsmen. Russ used to be an Army Ranger, and we had good survival skills, but the writing was on the wall. Darkness was coming as we looked at each other, and it was obvious. I said "Russ, we need to get the hell out of here right now, or we're dead. Forget the capes and camp, we gotta make some serious tracks if we want to get to base camp before dark. Grab your sleeping bag and let's go!" He looked at me and said "I hate to agree with you, but we don't have a choice." We needed to travel light and fast, this terrain was not something you could walk around in after dark!   We hurried down the mountain, making great time, and arrived at base camp with about an hour of daylight to spare. Adrenaline is an amazing thing. Base camp was in a more sheltered area of the beach, but neither of us got much sleep that night. The tent took a tremendous pounding, but held together. We'd tied it down with many extra lines, and that helped. Needless to say, it was a very long night.

  Morning found us very tired and not looking forward to the prospect of returning to spike camp. The weather was better, the rain had slowed to sporadic showers and fog, the wind had died down considerably, but we now had a new problem. It was getting warmer. We hiked up to spike camp and retrieved our capes and remains of our gear. The capes were still pretty dry, but would get soaked on the way to base camp in the rain.   By the time we made it back to base camp, it must have been close to 60 degrees. That wouldn't have been much of a problem but for one minor detail
- the ceiling was getting lower and lower, and we were stuck. The clouds and drizzle lingered on. At times, we couldn't even see the other side of the lake. We didn't see or hear a plane for three and a half days, the conditions were totally unsafe for flight and our meat and capes sat there spoiling.

  Finally, the weather lifted just enough so that our pilot could get in and get us out. My taxidermist said he'd seen capes in worse condition, and told us not to worry. My goat's horns green scored 47 B&C, which is the minimum for entry, but they shrank over an inch in the 60 day drying time. It
would've been nice to make it, but I don't really care. I couldn't be happier. The shoulder mount will be the centerpiece of my living room, and will bring back great memories every time I look up at it.

 Hunting in a remote area is exciting and rewarding, but not without its risks. Be prepared to stay a few extra days, and plan on having the supplies and equipment necessary to survive an emergency. Don't scrimp on cheap equipment, buy the best you can afford. It may save the hunt or your life.

Rick McKenzie