17 years ago I drew a goat tag for what was then the south end of Kodiak island. I was stoked. My wife. Was not. It was right during her due date with out first child. So. No goat hunt.
Fast forward, Hunter is how 17, birthday was last week and we have another goat tag. Seemed fitting that for his birthday present him and I take on the island for a go at the white mountain maggots, knows as goats.
We arrived with a good weather forcast looming and beautiful weather. Albeit almost to warm for hiking. Two hours into our uphill brush slog we emerge into the tundra and breath the air that’s so sweet and unfilter by the seeding alders that have sprinkled down our backs for the last hours. We are in the goats.
We take hike up and over the top just to get the lay of the land and survey the occupancy and available targets of opportunity. It’s steep here. Like spine tingling steep when you look down. Ya know, when your cake hole pinches shut and you step back after looking down? That kinda steep. Oh and there’s some goats. Nothing amazing but there’s goats.
Following morning we head up the same ridge, slowly peak over and survey the maggots that chew away at the terrain and cliffs like glued on cotton balls for a kindergarten project. Ooooohhhh whose this? Three billies lay on a slope that’s almost a decent spot. Well. Less vertical than other areas. As long as we get a good shot into him we may be able to retrieve him without repelling gear and a crash course on rope work by the local navy seals.
300 yards. Hunters shooting prowess leaves me thinking we need to be closer. He gets excited. Working thru some velcro like alders and numerous pipe cleaner branches shoved up our noses and eye lids we find a spot with a fantastic rest and a 170 yard shot.
I verbally counsel him thru the shot therapy and placement. Boom. (That was a gun sound in writing). The goat does a back peddle and slides outa sight. My chest tightened. Did he just fall? Did he stop? Can we get him without one of us seeing Jesus or needing an angel? Or the coast guard rescue chopper?
Minutes later we crest out above their location. I see the goat caught in one of the last alder patches before oblivion. I heard Jesus. “Your welcome”. Yes. Thank you. Thank you thank you!!
It was the best goat we seen outa the 30 or so we saw. As we butchered him up a eagle came and sat with us, eating scraps ten feet away. Enjoying the change of pace from his fishy diet I’d assume. Either way, he was cool. Voting trump I think he said.
We came off the mountian this morning just as four other hunters created the skyline up where the goats were. For once we weren’t a day late...
Hundred pound packs and some slipping falling scratching sweating stabbing cramping and a few actions that resembled walking we made it back to the road. Happy birthday Hunter. You earned this one.
Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
Fast forward, Hunter is how 17, birthday was last week and we have another goat tag. Seemed fitting that for his birthday present him and I take on the island for a go at the white mountain maggots, knows as goats.
We arrived with a good weather forcast looming and beautiful weather. Albeit almost to warm for hiking. Two hours into our uphill brush slog we emerge into the tundra and breath the air that’s so sweet and unfilter by the seeding alders that have sprinkled down our backs for the last hours. We are in the goats.
We take hike up and over the top just to get the lay of the land and survey the occupancy and available targets of opportunity. It’s steep here. Like spine tingling steep when you look down. Ya know, when your cake hole pinches shut and you step back after looking down? That kinda steep. Oh and there’s some goats. Nothing amazing but there’s goats.
Following morning we head up the same ridge, slowly peak over and survey the maggots that chew away at the terrain and cliffs like glued on cotton balls for a kindergarten project. Ooooohhhh whose this? Three billies lay on a slope that’s almost a decent spot. Well. Less vertical than other areas. As long as we get a good shot into him we may be able to retrieve him without repelling gear and a crash course on rope work by the local navy seals.
300 yards. Hunters shooting prowess leaves me thinking we need to be closer. He gets excited. Working thru some velcro like alders and numerous pipe cleaner branches shoved up our noses and eye lids we find a spot with a fantastic rest and a 170 yard shot.
I verbally counsel him thru the shot therapy and placement. Boom. (That was a gun sound in writing). The goat does a back peddle and slides outa sight. My chest tightened. Did he just fall? Did he stop? Can we get him without one of us seeing Jesus or needing an angel? Or the coast guard rescue chopper?
Minutes later we crest out above their location. I see the goat caught in one of the last alder patches before oblivion. I heard Jesus. “Your welcome”. Yes. Thank you. Thank you thank you!!
It was the best goat we seen outa the 30 or so we saw. As we butchered him up a eagle came and sat with us, eating scraps ten feet away. Enjoying the change of pace from his fishy diet I’d assume. Either way, he was cool. Voting trump I think he said.
We came off the mountian this morning just as four other hunters created the skyline up where the goats were. For once we weren’t a day late...
Hundred pound packs and some slipping falling scratching sweating stabbing cramping and a few actions that resembled walking we made it back to the road. Happy birthday Hunter. You earned this one.
Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
