The scramble down and the climb back up to the trophy took a while. We found that either bullet would have turned the trick, but we never regret extra shots fired the way we would rounds that we should have touched off and did not
It was a long carry down the mountain. We talked a lot going downhill, reliving the hunt and the shot the way big game hunters do. The horns went just ten inches, and that makes a mighty good goat.
My friend allowed that the head would make a nice mount. I agreed. He talked no more about spike-horned, barnyard animals, and I noticed that he moved a pretty fair Stone sheep aside to place his Billy in a prominent spot on his den wall.
The dessert for this story is that he and I went again for goats—more than once. That pal is dead now. Gone to a great reward, I hope.
I wonder if they will have good goat hunting up there.
17 - The Doc's Hunt
Back in the 1950s, the Old Guide got a yen to hunt goats, so we loaded the Bombardier tractor onto the Ford flatbed truck, hooked on the trailer with all our camping gear in it, and struck out for Ernestine Creek.
In those days, Mac MaGill had a cabin at mile 62 out of Valdez, and we stopped there overnight to renew acquaintance with Mac and to organize for the seven-mile crawl into our favorite camp a mile or two below Ernestine glacier.
Mac and his bunch were moose hunters who never hiked higher on a hill than they had to, and goat hunting left them unimpressed. There was, however, one wild-eyed young fellow with Mac's party who thought goat hunting might be worth trying. The next morning he threw his gear on the trailer with ours and expectantly mounted the back of the tractor. Art sort of rolled his eyes around, but made no objections, and seeing he didn't, we didn't. But, three guys bumping together back there was about as comfortable as the same three guys sharing a sleeping bag. Jerry and I didn't like it much. We were also a sort of closed company and did not prefer more bodies going along.
The new guy had remarkable equipment. His tent was exotic for the time with then rarely seen outside aluminum poles. He had two Weatherby rifles, one a .270 magnum, and the other the old .375 Weatherby Magnum. He also packed enough expensive camera equipment to man a small studio and his personal gear was by Eddie Bauer, which we all admired but could rarely afford.
It turned out that this fella was the doctor at Valdez and was on some kind of contract where everyone in town paid a certain fee and got their doctoring free thereafter. As Valdez placed her city limits some twenty-three miles from the center of town (big claim for a village of 2000 souls), Doc had a large parish going for him.
The hunt went as usual on Ernestine. Jerry and I climbed and looked at goats. We took one, and Art plunked another on a high shelf that Jerry and I had the privilege of climbing for and packing down.
While we were after Art's goat, the Doc did me the favor of removing my goat's skull from its skin. Actually, I had been saving the delicate job for an evening task around the fire. It stays light late in the early part of goat season, and I enjoy having something to keep my hands busy.
It was nice of the Doc to tackle the task for me, and I was not displeased until I discovered that the fathead had split the hide under the chin (the way you would a bear or something you lay out for a rug) instead of down the back of the neck, the way head mounts should be. Thereafter, I found it a little hard to warm up to the Doc, and as it turned out, it got even tougher.
That evening the Doc informed us that he was a diabetic. He heated up a little something in a spoon, and shot himself a big charge of it. He assured us there was nothing to worry about as long as he took his medicine. Looking at my savaged goat trophy, I was not too worried about him anyway.
Whatever was in the medicine he took, it did wonders for the Doc's creative instincts. He broke out a camera with multiple lenses and a shockingly bright strobe light and started shooting pictures all over the camp. Fond of candid close-ups, he must have then and there accumulated an unmatchable photographic collection of inner ears, flaring nostrils, and rolled eyeballs. Rolls of film fled through that camera without the Doc showing the slightest tendency toward slowing down. I feared to answer a call of nature lest I be forever recorded on film, and Jerry finally sacked out with a blanket over his head as the mighty strobe readily penetrated common eyelid protection.
In this more enlightened era, I would have suspected the Doc's medication as being imported from Columbia. It certainly provided ebullient spirits for an interminable period.
The Doc did not emerge from his glorious tent until about noon the next day, but one of Maw Rausch's meals then raised his spirits, and the Old Guide took him out to shoot a goat.
An hour or so later a horrendous firefight broke out up toward the glacier. Rifle fire echoed and reechoed from the cliffs in an unceasing roll that was unfathomably out of place within a company where good shooting resulted in little shooting. We in camp could only surmise that a brown bear had been wounded and that the hunters were firing desperately at it as the bear headed downhill toward our camp. Nothing less dangerous could seem to account for such a barrage.
Seizing our rifles, Jerry and I moved into position to intercept anything moving down canyon, but no slavering bruin appeared. Disturbed and intrigued, we moved with some caution upstream toward the high ground.
A short way along, we met the Doc and Art. The Doc looked pleased. Art was clearly discomfited. It seemed the Doc had spied a goat hanging on a cliff a couple of hundred feet above the stream. Art looked it over and declared the goat too small and in a bad spot He had just turned away when the Doc opened fire with his .270 Weatherby.
At two hundred yards the Doc was bringing down a lot of rock, and the little goat decided to move around some. Emptying his rifle, the Doc shook out a full box of cartridges and really got down to business.
Finally, he stung the small Billy. Leaving a wounded animal is, of course, out of the question, and Art knew they had to take the goat.
The Doc shot up all of his ammunition, mainly blasting where the wounded goat had just been, but sometimes turning the animal when a bullet struck ahead. When the Doc's ammo dump ran dry. Art handed over his trusty rifle and let him pound away with it. While flinging a magazine full of 150 grain Hornady 30/06's skyward, the goat was hit again and plunged off the cliff and into the stream far below. Art swore the Doc was still shooting after the goat had disappeared into the gorge. Anyway, they hustled down the mountain to where Ernestine comes swishing out of the canyon, hoping the goat would float out to them. Of course it did not
After silently listening to the tale, Jerry offered to accompany the Doc up the thigh deep creek and help get the trophy out. We found out then that the Doc had a bad knee that would not allow him to pack heavy loads. We gathered that the quarter mile scramble through icy water would not do the Doc's knee any good either, and we were right.
Resignedly, Jerry and I waded in, and bucking the too fast current, plowed and skidded up through Ernestine gorge. The rock walls tower forbiddingly in there with monstrous loose slabs hanging menacingly overhead. It is not a place for idle conversation, and we shared none.
We found the goat, a pathetic little thing with about six inch horns wedged into a rocky corner. To lighten the load and protect the meat we gutted the animal, and Jerry began to pack him out. Built like his Dad with short, powerful legs, Jerry had sensitive parts in the icy water most of the way, and if the treacherous overhangs had allowed it, his curses would have resounded far down the valley.
Between us we packed the Doc's goat to camp, and on the way got the head-jerk from Art that said, "Out!" The speed with which we folded camp would have startled the quickest. The Doc's magnificent equipment received insensitive treatment, but the Doc did not notice; it was medicine time.
Art had the tractor running when the final lashing was in place, and we gratefully accepted the Doc's decision to ride sitting in the cab of the tractor with Maw and Art. Art did not think too much of the Doc's riding choice, but we were transparent
ly unsympathetic.
The Old Guide took the Bombardier down Ernestine Creek in record time. We roared to a halt at Mac's cabin, tossed the Doc's gear into a pile, ran the tractor onto the truck, latched the trailer to the truck, and rumbled away while the Doc was still fumbling around trying to remember where Mac cached the cabin key. I never saw the Doc again.
It was a number of years before I got back to that particular spot on Ernestine Creek, and somehow all of the good hunts there get shaded in my memory by that crazy one with the Doc.
One year I found a great pile of empty cartridge cases overlooking the gorge, and even before I read the caliber on the tarnished case heads I knew it had to be the Doc's old shooting stand. I looked at the cliff face across the way and marveled how a rifleman could have repeatedly missed a goat at that range.
The goats are still there on Ernestine. Now and then I stop at Mac's old cabin. Someone else owns the place now. I pack in the tough seven miles to the old hunting camp. Nothing has changed. The hike is still murderously rough, but someone, perhaps a trapper, has kept a trace partly open, and that helps.
Everything is still the same at the creek head. The glacier is slowly drawing back, and it varies a little each year depending on the winter's severity. The creek still boils out of the dangerous canyon.
In 1974, the old Alaskan guide Slim Moore and I were reminiscing about Ernestine. He fondly remembered the goats there and good hunts for them with good companions. Slim noted that it was past for him. He had grown too old for those kind of hunts.
Now, it is my turn. I have reached my eightieth year, and I shall not go back up Ernestine again. It is all right. Many memories were made there, and at this late date I choose not to disturb them or unfeelingly pile on others. They are too precious.
In 1990, I had an adventure novel published in which most of the action took place at the Ernestine headwaters. The Book Cache, whose outlets determined much of what was read in Alaska, would only buy the novel six copies at a time, so my publisher did not bother to sell the book in the Great State. I was truly sorry about that. The title of the novel was Chugger's Hunt. It is out of print now, of course, but get the Kindle eBook version and enjoy a fine read—I guarantee it.
In 1993 I ended another novel titled Old Dog with the action near Mac's old cabins on Ernestine. I guess I love that place so much I cannot let it go.
This is a photo of Arthur Rausch and a buddy, whose name has escaped me, with a pair of good goats. Notice that there is no blood around the mouths. Blood is hell to remove from white fur. I could not say that we always avoid heavy bleeding, but we try hard. We like hump shots, not lung hits—which often cause copious bleeding.
18 - Goat Hunting Details
Mountain goats are not found all over Alaska. In fact, goats are hunted only in southeastern Alaska, including the panhandle and Kodiak Island. Most goats are taken on the southeast Mainland. The next hottest spot is the Kenai Peninsula, just a comfortable drive from Anchorage. I prefer to hunt goats in the Valdez area.
An unseemly number of goats are taken from cliffs by shooters that approach by boat. Goats on the cliffs can be seen from afar, motored to, the engine is shut down, a bit of rowing ensues, and the animals potted. There is no hunt, no fair chase, and no sport. The system stinks! It should be abolished.
However, a hunter who goes in and climbs to locate and take his goat can have a memorable hunt.
Checking my records of goat hunting in Alaska, it appears that I hunted an average of six hours per goat I spent a typical seven hours getting in, exclusive of the hunt, and a comparable time getting back out. I succeeded on all except two hunts.
Shots that took goats varied from 150 yards to 300 yards. Much of my recorded data on shooting distances refers to shooting done by other goat hunters, and there is a lot of it. Admittedly, most of those ranges are estimates that were impractical to step off. However, the people with whom I hunt are not deliberate range stretchers, and they mostly limit their ranges to three hundred yards. I can accept that our median goat was taken at 185 yards.
Hunter: Joe Rhyshek, Boone and Crocket listed, 30-378 Weatherby, Kodiak Island.
Goats are big animals. Judge the size of this monster—while realizing that he could run at full speed across rocks and slopes and along cliff faces that would wilt the heart of a mountain climber. Those odd-looking feet can grip anything they touch.
Even in black and white, you can see that a mountain goat is not the color of snow. A goat usually looks yellow against snow, and because they keep their heads tucked in, goats at a distance often look like yellow lumps on the mountain. They can be hard to see.
Many of my hunting companions were .270 Winchester and .30/06 fanciers. Belatedly, many moved into various magnums. Part of their delay in changing to bigger guns has been due to their ages. Some have now passed away. Most surviving are now crowding their Golden Years (Yeah!) and began hunting many years before the popularization of more powerful rifles. Most admit their current .300 or .338 Winchesters are just the ticket, but they gave up their old muskets reluctantly.
Few hunters have enough opportunities to see mountain goats taken to be able to objectively and knowledgeably compare the effectiveness of various cartridges. In earlier, less powerful cartridge years, I saw too many goats flounder and struggle mortally hit but not killed outright. That kind of thing was not necessary and patently undesirable.
A goat is not a small animal. His head is small, and he carries it low, but he is big bodied. A mature goat may weigh close to 300 pounds. A goat is, of course, steel muscled and can take a lot of punishment. A hunter should choose a powerful rifle. To plink at a mountain goat with a .25/06 is not sporting; it should be morally repugnant.
A goat can also be a deceptive target. His shaggy fur is four inches or so long, and careless aiming can merely wound and not anchor.
Because of the goat's proclivity for high lookouts, the goat hunter must be careful to make his first shot the only one needed. Unlike most wounded game that take the easiest way, a wounded goat will often seek safety by heading for the most inaccessible cliff he can find.
Goat horns are difficult to judge. This excellent goat's horns are probably about nine inches long—which is a fine goat, but can you appreciate how hard an inch longer (a great goat) or an inch shorter (a so-so goat) is to judge at two hundred yards?
Sometimes, a wounded mountain goat appears to commit suicide by stepping off into space. Whether such falls are deliberate or not I have been unable to determine. No one seems to know, but such acts are frequent. My own opinion is that wounded goats fall to their deaths by mistake and accident. Hurt, confused, balance lost, they err. To misstep in their country is to come down the too short, hard way.
A hunter should attempt to anchor his goat by killing or immobilizing it with his first shot. When practical, I have always aimed to hit the junction of spine and front shoulder. If made, the shot is a certain paralyzer. On a goat standing broadside, the aiming point is straight up the front leg to eye height. I refer to this shot as a "hump shot," as the aiming point is below the goat's prominent hump. On all game, the hump shot is a sure "right now" anchor.
Goats do not normally perch on the highest peak around. They prefer grassy, steep slanting meadows or small nooks on cliff sides that afford them safety, protection from wind, and escape routes both up and down. Therefore, it is often possible to get above goats.
Making a high approach and taking a goat from above is the ideal way. Goats generally face downhill and rely on ears and scent for warning from above.
A goat is believed to have natural vision about equal to a 2-1/2X scope. This may not be true. An animal living its life on familiar terrain becomes aware of anything out of the ordinary. Human shapes floundering about and smelling peculiar can be unusual.
Despite their arrogant appearance, goats tend toward the cautious and can walk away faster than a hunter can approach. Conversely, I have seen goats, apparently curious, come to
a hunter. They look with interest, then glide away over rocks that we have difficulty negotiating at all.
The Rocky Mountain goat is not really a goat. He is related to the European Chamois and our plains Antelope. His feet are soft in their centers so that they sort of wrap around rock. I do not think their feet actually create suction, although it is often written that they do. Suction or not, a goat's feet cling in improbable places.
Goats do not roam widely and generally remain within their three or four miles of territory. During hunting seasons the big Billies are often found alone. The nannies and kids hang together in bands up to thirty or more.
Obviously, the mountain goat has little fear of height, but he does respect it. Goats move with a careful precision. They rarely run wildly or scurry. They are not remarkably swift, but with their stopping, starting, and direction changes due to terrain they can be difficult to hit.
A common shooting error is to hold the shot until a goat stops. Usually, the bullet then strikes where the goat had been. As with a bounding deer or dodging coyote, the hunter should figure his lead and get at it.
Unless a goat is unsuspecting, a sitting position is more practical than a prone for most goat shooting. The sitting position raises the shooter a little higher with less chance of a jutting rock obscuring the target. More important, sitting is steady yet allows the shooter to follow and adjust on a moving target far better than does prone.
Offhand shooting is always a last choice, and despite popular calendar artistry, taking shots standing is rarely necessary while goat hunting.
A view of a goat hunting camp along a creek. From there we climbed for the goats wearing packboards with sleeping bags attached. This camp is high enough that there are no trees. A trio of sticks was cut to keep our rifles off the ground The rifles appear to be more or less flung at the tripod, but the important secret is to hang them muzzle down so that moisture will not leak into the actions. When viewing this photo, I am always reminded to note that the stripes on the canvas fly are not telephone pole shadows. What we are looking at are tape repairs. No poles in there.
The Hunter's Alaska Page 11