A Bowhunter’s Dream and a One-Tooth Billy
I could hardly believe my eyes when the email arrived: I had finally drawn an Idaho mountain goat tag.
In Idaho, coveted once-in-a-lifetime tags are awarded through a lottery system, and the odds of drawing one are incredibly slim. I had been applying for 18 years: the very next morning, the 4 a.m. Peloton rides began. I was already in decent shape, but I knew that if I wanted to make the most of this opportunity, I needed to be at my absolute best by August.
Scouting opportunities were limited until the snow finally melted in July. Throughout the summer, we made several trips into goat country, including a few adventures with our 3- and 5-year-old kids in tow. Those trips became as much about making family memories in the mountains as they were about finding goats. We spotted plenty during our scouting efforts, but locating one in terrain that offered a realistic archery opportunity proved challenging. Although my tag was valid for any weapon, I had set a personal goal: I wanted to take a mountain goat with my bow.
A couple of weeks before opening day, my husband and I located three billies in a basin that looked accessible enough for a stalk and recovery. We studied the terrain, made a plan, and committed to hunting them on opening weekend.
When opening weekend finally arrived, we loaded the truck with backpacking gear and headed into the mountains. Our goal was to reach camp with enough daylight left to glass before dark. Shortly after pitching the tent, we spotted the mature billy we were after feeding near the top edge of a massive scree field in the back of the basin. He was only a few hundred yards from where we had seen him on our last scouting trip. We kept an eye on him while casting lines into a crystal-clear alpine lake. It was the kind of scene that stops you in your tracks and reminds you how wild and beautiful these places truly are.
Sleep didn't come easy that night. Years of anticipation and months of preparation had all led to this moment.
At first light, we found the billy exactly where we hoped he would be. After a quick breakfast, we loaded our packs with snacks and water and began climbing. Four and a half hours later, we found ourselves at nearly 10,000 feet, crouched on a barren ridgeline just 200 yards from the goat.
We watched him feed over the crest and disappear into the next drainage.
It was time to make a move.
The first stalk ended unsuccessfully, but on the second attempt everything came together. At 40 yards, I settled my pin and released the arrow.
The shot felt perfect.
I watched the arrow disappear behind the shoulder and pass through both lungs. The billy went down almost immediately, coming to rest on a narrow game trail just below the ridge. For a moment, everything stood still.
Then a final nerve twitch sent him tumbling.
He rolled nearly 450 feet into the canyon below.
The celebration was short-lived. The real work was just beginning.
Fortunately, there was cell service on top of the ridge. We quickly realized there was no practical way to pack the goat back over the route we had used to access him. My husband called his cousin George and asked if he would move our truck to the bottom of the canyon where the goat had come to rest.
Without hesitation, George agreed.
An hour later, we finally reached the billy. The fall had taken its toll. Both horn tips were broken, one of his last remaining teeth had been knocked out, his face was cut in several places, and portions of his hide were damaged.
But he still looked majestic. The fall had taken its toll, but it couldn't erase the story written across him. His heavily ringed horns and lone remaining bottom tooth spoke to a lifetime spent surviving in unforgiving mountain country.
There wasn't much time for photos. The August sun was beating down, and preserving the meat became our top priority. We worked quickly, removing the hide and processing the animal as efficiently as possible.
My pack was loaded with the head, hide, neck meat, tenderloins, and backstraps. My husband's pack carried the quarters. With enough water to reach the next lake nearly three miles away, we started the long journey off the mountain.
When we reached the lake, we dropped our packs, refilled water bottles, and grabbed a quick snack. We expected the trail leading to the canyon bottom to be relatively straightforward from there.
We were wrong.
Instead of a maintained trail, we found a tangled maze of beetle-killed timber, deadfall, and blowdowns. For miles, we climbed over, crawled under, and maneuvered around fallen trees every few yards. Every step required focus, and with heavy packs loaded for the mountain, our trekking poles proved invaluable. They became a third and fourth leg, helping us maintain balance and momentum through some of the nastiest timber we have ever crossed.
By then, exhaustion had set in completely—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Every ounce of determination we possessed was required to keep moving forward. More than once, we considered dropping our packs and returning for them the next day.
But we kept going.
It was after 10 p.m. when we finally reached the truck in the middle of nowhere, Idaho. Our bodies were running on fumes, and hunger had become almost unbearable.
The only gas station in town had already closed, so we drove to the ranch house hoping cousin Jeff might have something there to eat.
The contents of his kitchen were exactly what you'd expect in a deserted bachelor pad: expired milk, a refrigerator full of beer, and a couple of freezer-burned burritos in the bottom of the freezer.
Those burritos, along with a partially consumed jar of peanut butter, tasted like the finest meal we'd ever eaten.
And the hot shower that followed felt even better.
The next morning, we headed back into the mountains to retrieve camp. A hike that should have taken two hours one way stretched into nearly three. Every muscle in our bodies protested with each step. Even carrying empty packs, the effort was humbling.
By the end of the trip, we had covered nearly 25 miles in less than 48 hours through some of the most rugged country either of us had ever traveled.
Experiences like this are difficult to put into words.
Eighteen years of applying. Months of training. Countless scouting miles. Every early morning and every ounce of effort culminated into a successful opening weekend mountain goat hunt.
As an added bonus, the goat officially scored high enough to rank fifth all-time in Idaho among mountain goats taken with archery equipment in the Pope and Young record book.
The ranking is special, but that's not what I'll remember most.
What I'll remember are the memories made along the way—the summer scouting trips with my husband, the adventures shared with our kids, and the countless moments spent together in some of the most beautiful country Idaho has to offer.
Author:
Lindsay Christensen
Kryptek Legion