Another photo journal.....just kidding. I failed this year in the documentation portion of the hunt. The weather was garbage and I didn’t want to ruin the camera. MY BAD.
Weather was low visibility and spitting snow, wind was nonexistent.
We started up one side of the drainage headed towards the glacier hoping to bump into some goats low down feeding amongst the alders. Once halfway up the hill, we decide we should look back across the valley. Sure as chit, 11 goats. 2 good billies in the crew, 1 looking to be exceptional. We bomb back down the valley only to get to the knee/hip high river...after a little discussion I explain to my partner, Andy, in my past experience that any well deserved hunt, you are required to do something borderline stupid and then the goat Gods will repay you. Our idiotic task was simple, ford a river. In November. In freezing temps.....We finally found a reasonable spot to cross, made it through with minimal damages and kept onward in soggy boots. YOLO.
Our play here was extremely limited. The goats were up 500’ in the alders/cliffs. No way to get up to them or above them. At this point, like many successful hunts, they had to do something for us. So we make our way up through the thick trees and shrubbery that a choked out river bottom is in SE Alaska. We move up to slip into the boulder field that drops directly out of the alder patch these goats are in. Then it happened, boom out walks a kid. That little peckerhead had me dead to rights. It spooks back into the brush. Shit. I ruined it. At this point I’m concerned about our odds. We forded a river, got wet, and pushed through satans garden to get to this point.
-Why did we leave the warm cabin again?
We sit there for a minute monitoring the other nannies and kids spread about over this cliff side, hoping for a God send. When he answered our prayers. The kid that spooked went back into the alders, but the nanny did not see what the kid spooked at and had to come out to take a look. Well, lucky for us, at this point we’re hunkered down behind some Prius sized rocks and out of sight. The nanny stands there forever gazing down from her high horse as we duck our heads like spooked prairie dogs. She doesn’t see us. Score. She mills about and I go back to looking elsewhere for the other billy. I scan back to check on the nanny and kid, except that nanny isn’t a nanny. She’s a billy now. A big one. THE big one. No idea where he came from, really don’t care.
I ask Andy the range, he confirms twice it’s 305. “305?!” I ask, “Holy balls that’s way closer than I thought! You cool with me shooting?” He gives me the nod. I check my drop chart for my .338 win mag, 12” at 300. We’re all set. I settle in for the shot and the rest is history. I’ll spare you the long story about what an effed up recovery job it was. He rolled once and stopped, generally a good sign, right? No. Sheer bald cliff face, covered in moss and topped with 2” of snow. SUPER safe. After some help from 50’ of 1/2 mule tape (ask a lineman what is it) I had tied the beast off and we yarded him back into the alders. Had to of been a 600lbs goat! There we tied him off and broke him down. What a chit show. After 3 hours of the most frustrating tangled game of twister I’ve ever played, big boy was broken down headed down the hill for the last time. Super pumped to have him in his forever home now, and super grateful for amazing friends to share in the triumphs of getting absolutely blitzed after we got off the hill. Good. Times. Victory hot toddies for the win!
He’s 11 yrs old, 9.5” on the long horn. Not the longest, but I’m sure those annuli could tell some stories. What were you up too 11 years ago? Crazy to think about. Can’t wait for next fall.
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Weather was low visibility and spitting snow, wind was nonexistent.
We started up one side of the drainage headed towards the glacier hoping to bump into some goats low down feeding amongst the alders. Once halfway up the hill, we decide we should look back across the valley. Sure as chit, 11 goats. 2 good billies in the crew, 1 looking to be exceptional. We bomb back down the valley only to get to the knee/hip high river...after a little discussion I explain to my partner, Andy, in my past experience that any well deserved hunt, you are required to do something borderline stupid and then the goat Gods will repay you. Our idiotic task was simple, ford a river. In November. In freezing temps.....We finally found a reasonable spot to cross, made it through with minimal damages and kept onward in soggy boots. YOLO.
Our play here was extremely limited. The goats were up 500’ in the alders/cliffs. No way to get up to them or above them. At this point, like many successful hunts, they had to do something for us. So we make our way up through the thick trees and shrubbery that a choked out river bottom is in SE Alaska. We move up to slip into the boulder field that drops directly out of the alder patch these goats are in. Then it happened, boom out walks a kid. That little peckerhead had me dead to rights. It spooks back into the brush. Shit. I ruined it. At this point I’m concerned about our odds. We forded a river, got wet, and pushed through satans garden to get to this point.
-Why did we leave the warm cabin again?
We sit there for a minute monitoring the other nannies and kids spread about over this cliff side, hoping for a God send. When he answered our prayers. The kid that spooked went back into the alders, but the nanny did not see what the kid spooked at and had to come out to take a look. Well, lucky for us, at this point we’re hunkered down behind some Prius sized rocks and out of sight. The nanny stands there forever gazing down from her high horse as we duck our heads like spooked prairie dogs. She doesn’t see us. Score. She mills about and I go back to looking elsewhere for the other billy. I scan back to check on the nanny and kid, except that nanny isn’t a nanny. She’s a billy now. A big one. THE big one. No idea where he came from, really don’t care.
I ask Andy the range, he confirms twice it’s 305. “305?!” I ask, “Holy balls that’s way closer than I thought! You cool with me shooting?” He gives me the nod. I check my drop chart for my .338 win mag, 12” at 300. We’re all set. I settle in for the shot and the rest is history. I’ll spare you the long story about what an effed up recovery job it was. He rolled once and stopped, generally a good sign, right? No. Sheer bald cliff face, covered in moss and topped with 2” of snow. SUPER safe. After some help from 50’ of 1/2 mule tape (ask a lineman what is it) I had tied the beast off and we yarded him back into the alders. Had to of been a 600lbs goat! There we tied him off and broke him down. What a chit show. After 3 hours of the most frustrating tangled game of twister I’ve ever played, big boy was broken down headed down the hill for the last time. Super pumped to have him in his forever home now, and super grateful for amazing friends to share in the triumphs of getting absolutely blitzed after we got off the hill. Good. Times. Victory hot toddies for the win!
He’s 11 yrs old, 9.5” on the long horn. Not the longest, but I’m sure those annuli could tell some stories. What were you up too 11 years ago? Crazy to think about. Can’t wait for next fall.
Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
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don’t forget your leg kicks and the Smirnoff!
