Making the Shot on a Once-in-a-Lifetime Mountain Goat Hunt

Does a Midwestern deer hunter have what it takes to become an archery mountain goat hunter in just three months?

Chris Malbon

I’VE HAD FOUR goat shot opportunities in my life, and none of them have gone well.

First there was the aoudad in West Texas, where I missed a 450-yard shot before connecting on a closer follow-up. (Aoudad genetically resemble goats.) Then there was the bull tahr in New Zealand, where I made a good shot but watched the goat scamper across an unscalable crevasse. We had to retrieve him with a helicopter. The same happened with the mountain goat in Alaska, which I hit multiple times before it fell off a cliff. Lastly, there was the feral goat on Hawaii’s Mauna Kea. I took a bad rangefinder reading, shot below him, and spooked him and his tribe.

So when I found out I’d drawn a once-in-a-lifetime archery mountain goat tag in Utah, I felt dread instead of excitement. I’d been putting in for the tag almost as an afterthought, like buying a Powerball ticket at the gas station, not because I expect to win, but simply out of reflex and without considering the consequences.

But I soon realized the opportunity I’d been given. There was only one nonresident archery tag available. I drew the tag with just eight preference points when other hunters had three times as many. No matter how much those other hunters wanted it, they would not draw this year, but I did.

I also knew enough about mountain goat hunting to know that I wasn’t ready. My archery setup and skill set were tuned for whitetails, meaning shots from a treestand at 30 yards or closer. I was in great shape, at least for a Midwestern deer hunter. To make matters worse, I found out about my tag three months later than I should have. The season opened on September 10th. That’s not enough time, I thought as I lay awake that night, picturing wind-swept cliffs and poor shooting.

Tight and Low

Years ago, Rick Bass wrote an essay about mountain goat hunting for Field & Stream that resonated with me. Like me, Bass unexpectedly drew a mountain goat tag. But he was unsure if he actually wanted to kill a goat. He halfheartedly hunted the mountains of Montana but never fully committed or punched his tag, which was a bit of a relief to him.

“I think it’s wrong to kill something you don’t know,” wrote Bass. “It’s hard enough to kill something you do know. Would I learn more about goats, in another month or two? I didn’t know.”

That essay bothered me, not only because I didn’t really know goats either, but also because I believe it’s wrong to hunt an animal you don’t genuinely want to kill. Those goats, clinging to their rock cliffs at 11,000 feet, desperately want to survive and reproduce. If you’re going to try to kill one of them, you should do it with a pure heart, with no resignation or self-doubt. You should hunt them as determinedly and earnestly as they live. That’s what a hunter owes their prey. If you can’t offer that, you should stay home.

So I vowed to get my gear, body, and head right before the hunt—or forfeit the tag. And if I wounded a mountain goat on this hunt, I swore to give up goat hunting for good.

I first focused on my archery setup, then my shooting. I opted for heavier arrows and broadheads to maximize penetration. I tuned my bow and shot every day at increasing ranges. I practiced finding a spot on the target in low light, shot from elevated and steep angles, and studied mountain goat anatomy and shot placement. The best advice I received was to aim tight to the shoulder and a little lower than on a deer. Tight and low became my mantra as I prepared myself.

Throughout my practice, I rediscovered my love for archery. Feeling the shot break, watching the arrow arc 60 yards downrange and hit the target perfectly. Thinking, That was amazing, as three arrows formed a tight group in the bullseye.

My feeling of dread slowly transformed into confidence.

Three days a week, I loaded my backpack with weights and climbed a set of stairs in town. It was the highest elevation I could find, and I often encountered older women getting a little climb in before going to the local coffee shop.

One morning, a grandmotherly lady asked, “You must be going on a hiking trip! Where are you going?”

“The mountains,” I replied between heavy breaths. “I’m going into the mountains.”

Into Goat Country

But Christensen, 52, now has cerebral palsy, which has robbed him of his strength and balance—and his chance to hunt the mountains during his golden years. Despite his condition, he possesses an air of competence, never getting too high or too low. With over 20 mountain goat preference points to his name, he has yet to draw a tag.

I initially felt guilty when I asked him to help me with a hunt he had always dreamed of but would never experience. However, Christensen was thrilled that I’d drawn, and he offered to show me spots where we could spot goats and access the best trailheads.

Only a few weeks later, during the first week of the season, Christensen and I were spotting goats scattered across a wide, rocky ridgeline. By midday, I had a plan and by 3 p.m., I was hiking the trail towards the spot where I would camp. My backpack was filled with three days’ worth of gear and food.

With just a mile to go, I heard rocks clattering and saw a few mountain goats crossing a rock outcropping. They were about 600 yards away, including a few hundred feet of elevation, and dusk was approaching. After watching them for a few minutes, I hurried on to set up camp.

The next morning, I glassed the hillside above and spotted goats all around. Through my spotting scope, the billies stood out, but they all seemed similar to me: fluffy and stocky, akin to white bears relaxing on the rocks. There was no clear target to focus on, and even the lower tribes seemed impossibly high. The top quarter of the mountain transitioned from green slope to rock outcroppings, then to sheer cliffs at the peak. The goats were hanging out in the rocks.

With no other plan, I began ascending slowly. The terrain was wide open, so I wore a white jacket, hoping the goats would mistake me for one of their own as I clumsily approached. Each step took several minutes to traverse a few yards. Rocks would occasionally come loose. Sometimes the goats ignored the noise; other times they looked in my direction, causing me to freeze until they looked away.

At one point, I spotted two billies heading towards me. They would cross the outcropping above me. When they disappeared behind a large boulder, I left my pack and quickly climbed uphill, hoping to intercept them for a shot. However, when they reappeared, I was still 80 yards away. They watched me curiously from above and continued on their way. I decided to keep climbing since it seemed like the only option.

From a higher vantage point, I spotted another billy along the outcropping, only about 60 yards away now. I moved closer, sliding on my butt as he fed towards me. When I reached 50 yards, I nocked an arrow, but the billy was quartering towards me, so I didn’t have a shot. A gust of wind caught his attention, and he looked straight at me before trotting over to a small drainage about 75 yards away and disappearing.

I nocked an arrow, ranged him at 41 yards, and then, without hesitation, drew my bow. I can’t remember if I rose to a knee or stood up fully. All I recall is my green 40-yard pin hovering behind his white shoulder and feeling incredibly calm.

Just as the words tight and low appeared in my mind, I saw my green fletching emerge behind the green pin, and the arrow hit exactly where I had aimed.

The billy bucked and climbed out of the ditch. As he reached the top, I saw the arrow protruding from his off-side shoulder through my binoculars. I hurriedly crossed the ditch and spotted the billy on a green slope below the rocks, tumbling and then, thankfully, lying still.

After retrieving my pack, I approached the young billy and ran my hand down his white mane. I had enough cellphone service to send a quick photo to Christensen, hoping he could find some pride in my success since his knowledge of the mountain led me there.

Now, all that’s left is joy.

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