MTCHIRO
FNG
Kings of the Mountain: A 2025 Montana Goat Hunt
On May 7th, I got the usual spring text from the group: “Draw results are out.” My buddy Jed quickly chimed in saying he didn’t draw and asked if I did—what I didn’t know was that he’d already checked and knew the answer before I even logged in.
I pulled up the Montana FWP website, heart pounding, and there it was: Successful. I had drawn a mountain goat tag in the Crazy Mountains. Out of 3,078 resident applicants for just 14 tags, I’d beaten the .45% odds. It felt like winning the lottery.
The timing couldn’t have been better. Jed and I had been training for a 100-mile ultramarathon, so our legs were ready for the punishment that comes with chasing goats. But no amount of trail running truly prepares you for the brutality of loose shale and thin air at 9,000 feet. There’s a reason they’re called the kings of the mountain.
After several fruitless days navigating sketchy, borderline impassable terrain, we finally spotted a mature billy. He fed out of the cliffs onto a grassy slope before bedding down in a small pocket—a rare, recoverable spot compared to the vertical walls we’d seen him on before. We knew this was our chance.
With 3,200 feet of climbing ahead, we started up the mountain again, this time determined to make it count. The previous attempt had ended with us being blown off the ridge and never seeing the goat. As we broke above treeline, movement caught our eye—two wolves working the ridgeline 500 yards away. Excitement turned to worry. If those wolves pushed the billy back into the cliffs, he might vanish for good.
We pressed on another 800 feet up and finally eased over the ridge. There he was—our goat—bedded just 100 yards above. With no shot from our position, I crawled toward a small rock pile for a better angle while Jed stayed back to film. The last 15 yards felt endless as I slid across snow and rocks, trying not to make a sound.
I finally reached the rocks and settled in. The billy was still bedded, 70 yards away, but now alert—one small rock slip had given me away. My barrel was too low to clear the ground, so I quietly stacked a few rocks for elevation, each movement feeling impossibly loud. Time slowed to nothing. Then, with the crosshairs steady on his vitals, I squeezed the trigger.
The shot broke clean. The billy collapsed instantly, never leaving his bed. A wave of emotion hit—relief, gratitude, awe, and respect all at once. Every doubt and ounce of exhaustion from the past weeks washed away in that single moment.
We sat there in silence for a while, letting it sink in. The wind was calm; it was 60 degrees and perfectly still on top of the Crazies—a rare gift. We took photos, soaked up the view, and replayed the entire journey in our heads.
Jed and I have endured plenty of suffering together over the years. We’ve chased animals in brutal conditions, failed more often than we’ve succeeded, and come home sore and tired more times than not. But as we sat with that mountain goat on October 24th, we both knew that success isn’t measured by tags punched—it’s found in the miles, the misery, and the moments in between.
Still, on that perfect day, with a true friend beside me and a beautiful Billy down, it sure felt good to punch one.
On May 7th, I got the usual spring text from the group: “Draw results are out.” My buddy Jed quickly chimed in saying he didn’t draw and asked if I did—what I didn’t know was that he’d already checked and knew the answer before I even logged in.
I pulled up the Montana FWP website, heart pounding, and there it was: Successful. I had drawn a mountain goat tag in the Crazy Mountains. Out of 3,078 resident applicants for just 14 tags, I’d beaten the .45% odds. It felt like winning the lottery.
The timing couldn’t have been better. Jed and I had been training for a 100-mile ultramarathon, so our legs were ready for the punishment that comes with chasing goats. But no amount of trail running truly prepares you for the brutality of loose shale and thin air at 9,000 feet. There’s a reason they’re called the kings of the mountain.
After several fruitless days navigating sketchy, borderline impassable terrain, we finally spotted a mature billy. He fed out of the cliffs onto a grassy slope before bedding down in a small pocket—a rare, recoverable spot compared to the vertical walls we’d seen him on before. We knew this was our chance.
With 3,200 feet of climbing ahead, we started up the mountain again, this time determined to make it count. The previous attempt had ended with us being blown off the ridge and never seeing the goat. As we broke above treeline, movement caught our eye—two wolves working the ridgeline 500 yards away. Excitement turned to worry. If those wolves pushed the billy back into the cliffs, he might vanish for good.
We pressed on another 800 feet up and finally eased over the ridge. There he was—our goat—bedded just 100 yards above. With no shot from our position, I crawled toward a small rock pile for a better angle while Jed stayed back to film. The last 15 yards felt endless as I slid across snow and rocks, trying not to make a sound.
I finally reached the rocks and settled in. The billy was still bedded, 70 yards away, but now alert—one small rock slip had given me away. My barrel was too low to clear the ground, so I quietly stacked a few rocks for elevation, each movement feeling impossibly loud. Time slowed to nothing. Then, with the crosshairs steady on his vitals, I squeezed the trigger.
The shot broke clean. The billy collapsed instantly, never leaving his bed. A wave of emotion hit—relief, gratitude, awe, and respect all at once. Every doubt and ounce of exhaustion from the past weeks washed away in that single moment.
We sat there in silence for a while, letting it sink in. The wind was calm; it was 60 degrees and perfectly still on top of the Crazies—a rare gift. We took photos, soaked up the view, and replayed the entire journey in our heads.
Jed and I have endured plenty of suffering together over the years. We’ve chased animals in brutal conditions, failed more often than we’ve succeeded, and come home sore and tired more times than not. But as we sat with that mountain goat on October 24th, we both knew that success isn’t measured by tags punched—it’s found in the miles, the misery, and the moments in between.
Still, on that perfect day, with a true friend beside me and a beautiful Billy down, it sure felt good to punch one.
