by Boone
I live in Craig, Alaska, which is a small town on Prince of Wales Island. To get to the Cleveland Peninsula, I would travel by boat across Clarence Strait, which is about 10 miles wide.
August 1, 1997, was the opening day of goat season. The weather was raining and windy, but by the 4th the weather was starting to clear. On the morning of the 5th, I pulled my boat 30 miles on a dirt road to Thorne Bay, on the east side of Prince of Wales Island. There I launched the boat and started across the strait to Cleveland Peninsula. It was a calm morning and the water in Clarence Strait was as smooth as glass, making for an easy trip. In less than two hours I was in a small protected bay. I anchored the boat out in the bay so the out-going tide would not leave the boat high and dry. After making sure the anchor would hold, I started up the mountain to where I thought some billies might be.
It wasn’t going to be an easy hike. The mountain has an elevation of 2,800 feet and I was starting from sea level. It was definitely going to be a tough test! As I left the boat, the sky was clear, but three hours later I could see a storm brewing in the distance. One thing about Alaska weather, it can change in a heartbeat! Within another hour it was pouring rain, but I wasn’t going to turn back. I learned a long time ago if the weather upsets you, Alaska wasn’t the state to live in, so I just kept plodding up the mountainside. After an hour, the rain stopped and fog moved in, limiting my visibility to 50 yards. I was thinking I would get to the top where I would set up my tent and hunker down to wait for the fog to lift. After eight hours of hiking, I knew I had to be close to the top. I could see the sun trying to break through the fog. I hiked up another 200 yards and the rays of the sun came shining through the fog, as if our Creator sent them from heaven, just for me. I could see the top only 100 yards above me.
Once on top, I sat down and dropped my pack. I was burned out from the long, steep hike through the rain, fog, brush, and broken-up terrain. But after a sandwich and candy bar I was ready to look for a trophy goat. The first impression I had when I looked around was this was not goat habitat. I hiked north and soon started getting into an area with cliffs and rocky ravines. This was more of what I had in mind. I put down my pack and starting hunting along the edge of a cliff. I slowly worked my way along the edge, glassing down the rock ravines and cliffs below me. I didn’t get too far before I spotted a bed in the grass a few yards from the edge of the cliff. It was too big for a deer and after a closer look I found tracks that were definitely made by a goat, and they were huge! They also looked to have been made that morning, so I carefully eased up to the edge and looked below. Instantly I saw a goat 200 yards away, feeding on a grassy bench at the end of a rocky ravine. I pulled up my 10x40 Zeiss binoculars and could tell by the yellow, off-white color it was a billy and his horns looked big!
The wind was blowing up the ravine right into my face so the billy didn’t have a clue I was watching him. I slowly started down a ridge to the right from the ravine in which the billy was feeding. I stalked to within 50 yards of him and laid my .300 Weatherby across a large rock. I took one more look through the binoculars even though I was so close I could hear him eating grass. He was definitely a trophy mountain goat. His horns were very long with heavy bases, and with the sun shining down on him, he was a beautiful sight. I maneuvered my shoulder behind my .300 Magnum, put the crosshairs on his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. After the recoil, I looked up and was shocked to see the billy running up the grassy slope to the base of the rock cliff!
I knew goats were tough, but I was shooting a .300 Weatherby with 180-grain Barnes X bullets. He should have at least acted like he was hit. I knew I couldn’t have missed at 50 yards! I quickly chambered another round and threw the rifle up to my shoulder, putting the crosshairs on his shoulders. Just as I was beginning to squeeze the trigger, through the scope I saw the goat’s hind legs bend and start to shake. It was now obvious that he was hit hard. The billy then fell over backwards and rolled down the grassy slope to his final resting place. I carefully made my way down to him and could not believe how big his body was and his horns looked very impressive. I knew I had a trophy goat and one that would qualify for the records book.
He was magnificent, and for a long time I just sat there beside him on that mountain thinking how lucky and thankful I was to get such a beautiful animal. There were more storm clouds coming, so I quickly took some pictures. In two hours I had the billy caped, the meat boned out and in my pack. I made it halfway down the mountain that night before it was too dark to go on. I stayed right there on the mountainside, and the next morning headed down the rest of the way to the boat. After an hour and half boat ride, I was back at Thorne Bay. I couldn’t wait to show the trophy to my wife, Rhonda, and my three kids, Ashley, Kyle, and Wyatt. I knew they would be excited too!
Once I got home, I green-scored my billy at 55-7/8 points. After the 60-day drying period, he was officially scored at 55 points. I knew some day I would hunt for a trophy mountain goat, but I never dreamed I would get a trophy billy that would rank that high in the records book. I have had the sheep-hunting bug for years. Is there such a thing as a goat-hunting bug? I know I’ve got one!
Image from B&C Archives
Original score chart for David K. Mueller’s Rocky Mountain goat, which scores 55 points.
Photo from B&C Archives
Rocky Mountain Goat, Scoring 55-6/8 Points, Taken by Gernot Wober in Bella Coola, British Columbia, in 1999 – Current World’s Record (tie).
Just Shoot It!
By Gernot Wober
24th Big Game Awards Program
IT ALL STARTED ON SEPTEMBER 4, 1999, WHEN LAWRENCE MICHALCHUK NEEDED TO FIND A NEW GOAT HUNTING PARTNER AFTER HIS WIFE ANNOUNCED SHE COULD NOT ACCOMPANY HIM ON HIS NEXT HUNT. LAWRENCE AND I HAVE KNOWN EACH OTHER FOR EIGHT YEARS AND HAVE SPENT MANY HOURS HUNTING AND FISHING TOGETHER. I WAS NOT SURPRISED TO HEAR HIS VOICE ON THE OTHER END OF THE PHONE. “CAN YOU LEAVE TOMORROW?” HE ASKED.
Work was not a problem — I had been unable to find work as a mining exploration geologist for almost six months. But how was my relatively new girlfriend going to take the news that I was leaving that afternoon to go goat hunting? I put on my most loving attitude, drove to her shop at the ski resort, and mentioned my plans. Within the hour I phoned Lawrence to tell him I would arrive on Sunday at noon.
I drove nearly 500 miles from my home near Kamloops to reach Lawrence’s home in Bella Coola, British Columbia. Not entirely prepared on such short notice, I borrowed longjohns, a backpack, Thermarest, rain gear, and fleece pants to round out my skinny supplies. We packed homemade granola bars, trail mix, and Mr. Noodles packages for food, as well as a tent, small stove, and our bowhunting gear. Dividing the load between us, we each had approximately 60 pounds of gear to haul up the trail for a planned seven-day hunt.
From the trailhead, we slogged our way uphill for eight wet hours, climbing approximately 5,000 feet over five miles of trail. In retrospect, the only pleasant fact about the hike was that it was overcast and cool, and the view as we climbed out of the Bella Coola valley was spectacular. Low clouds draped themselves along the steep walls of the green valley and fog moved up and down the slopes as the wind changed.
The main Bella Coola valley, which is tucked into the Coast Mountains about 250 miles west of Williams Lake, boasts some of the most magnificent views in British Columbia. Lush green valley bottoms host great salmon rivers such as the Atnarko and Talchako, where grizzly bears roam freely. Rows of large mountainpeaks line the main valley, rising from sea level to over 8,000 snow-capped feet. Blacktail deer and mule deer follow trails along valleys and steep mountain slopes. Recently, the cougar population has been increasing and wolves seem to be thriving as well.
Canadian heritage abounds as one hikes along the nearby Alexander Mackenzie Trail. Native petroglyphs can be visited along Thorsen Creek, and the rock where Alexander Mackenzie carved his name in granite in 1793 can be reached by boat on the Bentick Arm from Bella Coola harbor.
We pitch
ed our tent in what seemed to be the only dry 10 square feet for miles around. Fall rains had saturated the ground, and small lakes and ponds were everywhere. We were centrally located in an area that held Rocky Mountain goats, with only a few miles between the locations Lawrence wanted to check out. Lawrence had been up in this area hunting for goats numerous times and knew the terrain very well.
We had a few hours before dark, so we pushed our weary legs a little farther, walked to the closest spot overlooking the Bella Coola valley, and started glassing for goats. Along the edge of this east-west trending valley, it is very precipitous, well-vegetated, and perfect habitat for goats. We eventually spotted what looked to be a lone goat and probably a billie. We walked a small ridge parallel to the one the goat was on until we were 150 yards away from him. Lawrence put the spotting scope on the goat and said that it looked fairly large and was probably worth pursuing.
We both backed away slowly, walked around to the top of the ridge and started down to get closer. As we crept down small ledges without much cover, the goat spotted us and was staring directly at us from approximately 60 yards. Lawrence motioned that he was going to climb back up the ledges with the hope the goat would watch him and allow me to get within bow range. The ruse seemed to work as I got to within 40 yards. I was directly above him with a steep downhill shot. As I made the shot, I saw the arrow sail directly for the goat and then deflect off a small tree just in front of him. I missed! The goat bounded down the rock walls into the steep gully.
Tuesday morning we debated whether we should go back after the same goat we had seen or try somewhere else. We decided to head north to a cirque in which Lawrence had seen lots of goat activity before. Two hours of fast walking found us along the edge of a very steep walled cirque from which we could glass a large valley. We spotted eight goats in pairs and singles on a number of different ridges and ledges well over a mile away. Several seemed quite large, although we were still too far away to be certain they were billies.
Unless we could get a lot closer, determining whether these animals were billies would be impossible. Both sexes have black, well-polished horns; the nanny’s horns are generally longer with narrow bases and a wide spread, while the billy’s have larger bases and heavier overall circumference measurements. On average, body size is not a reliable indicator. Later that day, Lawrence made a stalk on a goat that appeared to be a billy until the very last instant. I watched him creep toward the goat carefully trying to see over rises and rocks until he was within 10 yards of the animal. He took an arrow from his quiver, readied for the shot, and suddenly froze. I took a step forward and realized, as Lawrence had, that this was a very large nanny.
By afternoon, we were quite a distance from camp so we thought it best to head back the way we came. We stopped to see if some of the goats we had spotted earlier had moved into a more favorable position. Looking over the steep edge on our side of the valley, Lawrence noticed a goat standing in thick brush approximately 50 feet up from the base of a cliff. As he looked through the scope, Lawrence said, “the bases of those horns are the biggest I’ve ever seen. Too bad we can’t get to him from here.” We watched the big goat for a while and then headed back toward camp. At the time, neither of us knew we had spotted a potential World’s Record.
For the next two days we spotted and stalked numerous animals. I managed to deflect my arrows off more twigs and miss two shots on decent billies. At night as we cooked our meager dinners, all we could talk about was the large goat we had seen and the problems of accessing the area he was in. Lawrence was convinced that the goat was the largest he had ever seen in 16 years of hunting and I realized that thoughts of stalking it were consuming him. We discussed moving camp closer to the valley the goat was in but knew we couldn’t climb down the cliffs at the headwall.
Friday morning brought a thick frost, but also the promise of sun for the first time in four days. After we had dried out and were comfortable again, we started hiking back to the truck. Lawrence and I had discussed things the evening before and reached a consensus that we should go after the big goat. The only way to get to him was to head home, get rid of most of our gear to lighten our loads, and start the grueling hike up the valley from the bottom. We headed to Lawrence’s place looking forward to a change of socks, a hot shower, and to eating something other than sweet granola bars and Mr. Noodles.
The next day, we thrashed up a sidehill full of slide alder and devil’s club for five hours to get up the new valley. Slide alder is nasty business. It grows sideways and upward 10 to 15 feet, and there is never a clearing through it—you simply climb on it or under it, often at the same time. Devil’s club is aptly named for its toxic barbed needles that work their way into your skin until sufficient festering pops them out. As we had passed through a mature timber stand in the lower part of the valley, we noticed grizzly bear claw marks high up on the trees and clumps of hair stuck in the sap. It made us a little nervous, and we hoped the bear was in the lower valley looking for fish.
We almost turned back twice when the terrain and vegetation had us asking each other just what the heck we were doing here (whose brilliant idea was this anyway?). I pushed on, encouraging Lawrence to follow, but I was soon at wit’s end and very frustrated with the thick brush. Next, it was Lawrence’s turn to encourage me, pushing me to reach the next ridge. Finally, it appeared that the vegetation was giving way to rocky slide chutes, and we knew we were closer to our goal.
By noon, we were across the valley about a mile from the spot we had seen Mr. Big. At first we didn’t see any activity, but as we were eating our lunch, Lawrence whispered, “He’s there!” We watched him in the spotting scope and were amazed once again at how obviously big the billy seemed. Another billy was about 500 yards up the valley from him and we noticed that both goats had been watching our progress up the south slope for quite some time. The large billy was in exactly the same spot where we had seen him days before.
Lawrence had his bow and I carried his .270; I had given up on bowhunting. We agreed that Lawrence would get the first shot with his bow and if he couldn’t get a shot, I could try with his bow one more time or just shoot with the rifle. We dropped down to the valley creek where we cached our large packs next to some huge boulders, which served as a good landmark. After crossing the creek, we climbed up the slide, staying hidden in the slide alder, then proceeded on our hands and knees for about an hour through tall wet grass and stinging nettles. About 100 yards from where we last saw the goat, we noticed numerous trails and tunnels through the grass where he had been feeding. The billy had a veritable grocery store to feed from with very little competition. As luck would have it, he had come down off his perch and was feeding at the base of a cliff.
Lawrence took the lead with his bow, and we continued forward even slower, keeping a willow bush between the goat and us. We arrived at the base of the cliff and there was no sign of the billie! We stared at each other for a second, not wanting to admit that we had spooked him, then continued our stalk. Lawrence climbed up the cliff a little ways and then moved right, following some small ledges. I moved sideways and to the right, staying in the grassy talus so I could keep a larger area of the cliff in view.
Lawrence crossed above me to the right and started gesturing emphatically that the goat was right there in the thick bushes on the cliff. I couldn’t see the billy yet so I scrambled up to where Lawrence was frantically pointing. I put the scope of the .270 up and sure enough I could make out the goat’s vague outline at 70 yards. I told Lawrence I had a shot, though it was chancy through a bush. Lawrence told me to keep the scope on the billy, and he was going to try and sneak around the other side and get a bow shot at him. I watched Lawrence stalk around to the other side and then he went out of sight. Both the goat and I heard the muffled scrapes and rockfall that Lawrence couldn’t help but make on the steep terrain.
After about 25 minutes of trying not to pull the trigger, I heard Lawrence yell, “Just shoot him.” Microseconds late
r the echo of the rifle shot was ringing through the valley, and the goat dropped out of sight. All was silent.
“Did you get him?” Lawrence shouted.
“I think so,” I replied, as I waited a minute longer to see if the goat was going to reappear for another shot.
As Lawrence climbed down from his perch, I crawled up on all fours to where I last saw the goat. The bed created by the goat was huge. We could have pitched a tent on the platform created in the bushes. The billy had obviously made this home for quite some time. He had an unrestricted view of most of the valley. I glanced over the edge of the bed and spotted the white fur of the goat in the bushes 10 feet below. I carefully scrambled down to him and poked him with the rifle to make sure he was dead.
I had not expected the body to be so large; the billy appeared to weigh between 350 and 400 pounds. The horns were bigger than anything I had seen in my short goat hunting career.
“Is it a small one?” Lawrence yelled from the base of the cliff. I knew he was being facetious—he knew it was a large billy, but just how big was the question.
All I could reply was, “Nope!”
Lawrence yelled back that he had just fallen 30 feet and didn’t really feel like climbing up to where I was. “We’ve got to take the cape off up here so come on up,” I shouted. By the time Lawrence scrambled his way up the cliff to where I was, I had tied a rope from a stunted spruce to the goat’s head just to make sure we didn’t lose it over the edge.
“Holy goat,” was all that Lawrence could say over and over again. “You don’t know what you just shot!” was all the variation to the first theme that he could muster.