I’ve spent a lot of time bowhunting mountain goats but my most memorable hunt was in 2018 when I flew into a remote lake using a friend’s floatplane service. I’ve done many solo fly-in hunts and I find that the stresses of the world melt away when the floats lift off the water, leaving me alone in the wilderness. That year was different, however. As we flew across the vast Alaskan landscape I told my friend, the pilot, that he was among the first to know that my wife, with whom I’d just finished a sheep hunt, was pregnant and we were expecting a baby the following spring. In over 20 years of wilderness hunting, skiing, and whitewater kayak trips, I accepted that the risks were mine alone, but things were a little different now with a pregnant wife at home.

The plane lifted off and the world grew quiet. I found a tall tree and hung some extra food and gear well above the reach of curious bears. I shouldered my pack and worked up through an awful tangle of thick alder and Devil’s club. I cut a few limbs here and there but mostly just muscled my way up the steep slope. I can usually ascend 1,000 vertical feet in 40 minutes but three hours later I was still sweating and battling my way up to the alpine. One last brushy cliff band and I finally had relatively good walking. I was still a few miles from where I expected to find goats but reaching alpine is always a delightful experience and the views and smells wiped away any doubts I had about why I do this kind of stuff every year.

Finding water is almost always an issue on mountain hunts but when I left the lake that day I had no idea how difficult it would be this time. Out of water and very thirsty, I found a small tarn and filled up my five-liter water bladder to capacity. Still far from my destination, I didn’t want to risk not having water farther up. As I approached steeper and rockier terrain, I saw a group of five billies descending out from the rocks onto a grassy slope 400 yards away. It was nearly dark, so I decided to retreat for the night to a small ledge big enough for my shelter.

The next afternoon, following a day of sneaking around in fog and rain, I decided to work my way back toward the ridge where I had seen the group of billies the first night. As I gained the last few hundred vertical feet before the summit, I suddenly felt I was being watched and noticed a set of black eyes and black horns in the fog 30 yards away. By the time I identified the goat as a mature billy he disappeared into the mist. I mentally scolded my carelessness and decided to camp right where I was to prevent spooking additional goats. At this point I was basically on top of the peak and the wind was blowing across the summit. I found a small ledge under some rocks just big enough for my body to lie almost flat. I swept away some goat poop, rearranged a few rocks to flatten my spot, and stretched my nylon tarp across the rocks as a barrier against wind and rain. The wind blew all night, and it rained quite a bit, but I still managed a decent night’s sleep on the ledge.

I awoke to flapping nylon and a stunning view of the landscape bathed in morning sun. I ate and packed quickly. From my vantage point, I could see a group of 15 nannies and kids feeding on a sunny slope three-quarters of a mile away but there were no mature billies in the group. The wind was blowing 20-30 mph on the peak, so I hoped to find a billy napping on a sun-warmed slope on the lee side of the wind. After a few hours of sneaking carefully down the ridge, avoiding self-silhouetting, I worked into a small side drainage where the wind lessened. The terrain forced me to crawl and sit often to avoid sky lining myself but gave me time to slowly pick apart the surrounding cliffs with my binoculars. Soon, I was delighted to find the top of a white head with respectable horns a few hundred yards away on the edge of a leeward cliff.

I cautiously retreated, gained elevation, and analyzed my approach. From above, I’d be able to descend a single narrow spine of rock to get within bow range of the billy. But as is often the case in goat country, the terrain was steeper and more complex than it first appeared. I soon discovered there was a secondary ridge separating me from the goat and getting close to him would require some tricky rock-climbing techniques. I slung my recurve over my shoulder and started carefully easing down and made my way across the cliff, staying as quiet as possible.

Fifteen minutes later, I was at the edge of where I thought the goat was bedded. I nocked an arrow and slowly peered up and over but was disappointed to see nothing below me. As I retracted my upper body I noticed movement above and saw heavy horn bases and black eyes staring at me from less than 10 yards away. The billy immediately rose and trotted along the cliff above me. At 20 yards he paused, quartering away, and looked down at me. I picked a spot low on the chest, behind the shoulder, and watched my pink-fletched arrow smash into his body. It appeared that 24” of my 32” shaft had penetrated his chest. I tried for a second shot, but he quickly disappeared across the same rocky terrain I had just crossed. I listened for further movement and then climbed up to the site of the hit and immediately found a small pool of bright red, frothy blood. The blood trail was ample, and I found my arrow 20 yards away. It was intact with the head and two-thirds of the shaft covered in good blood. I felt fairly confident in a lung hit but I needed to move slowly to safely navigate the cliff and took my time getting across to safer terrain.

As I cleared the cliffs the blood trail continued, as did my optimism that I’d soon recover the goat. I scrambled up to a small perch for a better vantage point and saw the goat moving slowly through some rolling terrain at my same elevation 250 yards away. He looked back in my direction a few times and then bedded down on a sunny ledge. I snuck back to retrieve my pack and then returned to my lookout spot to keep watch on the goat.

After an hour, he picked his head up and walked over the ridge and out of sight. Weighing my concern about spooking a wounded animal versus my need to keep track of him in the complex mountain terrain, I decided to carefully follow him. When I reached his bed I found only a trace of blood and saw the goat slowly working up the next ridge. I watched as he moved out of sight and shadowed him back up the mountain. This time when I reached where I’d last seen him there was no sign of the goat anywhere—and not a trace of blood. Unsure of how to proceed, I found the least exposed route possible and ascended the mountain for a better vantage point. I soon found myself back at the same ledge where I’d spent the previous night with no sign of the goat. I surveyed every direction of the summit and decided to descend as low as possible to get a good view back up the mountain, hoping to locate the goat before dark. This was a strategy that had helped me recover a goat once before. An hour later, I had the best possible vantage point but was unable to locate any sign of a goat on the entire face.

I found a small, flat area and pitched my shelter. I had just one liter of water left and still hadn’t found any water on the mountain other than a small patch of snow near where I’d slept on the summit. I went to bed thirsty after dinner. I slept poorly and was awake before sunup. I quickly rehydrated some breakfast, drank the last of my water, and shoved everything into my pack. I desperately wanted to get back after the goat, but I needed water soon. Alaska was once again having record high temperatures, and with the lack of clouds or wind I knew the day was going to be hot. Instead of returning to the lake I decided to work up to where I’d last seen the goat and then go straight to that little patch of snow. Later, unable to locate the goat, my thirst finally got to me. I hustled up to the snow patch and quickly filled my water bladders. (I always carry six liters of water capacity on mountain hunts.) Then I grabbed a few of the light dry bags I use to store my gear and food and filled those with snow as well. I left the dry bags and the larger bladder out in the sun on some dark colored rocks to help melt the snow and then tucked away the smaller bladder in my pack as close to my back as possible.

I spent the rest of the day scouring every corner of the ridge. I encountered a few other billies and spent part of the time watching a large nursery herd of nannies, kids, and young billies. But as evening approached I hadn’t seen any sign of my goat. With increasing despair and constant second guessing about arrow placement, I retreated to the top of the highest peak where a small plateau made a nice campsite on a warm, windless night. I made dinner, set up my shelter, and did a quick survey of the area. Then I crawled down into several chutes near the summit that might serve as good bedding terrain. I spotted a billy with his head down lying on a small perch partway down the chute. With some repositioning, I was able to confirm that he had blood on one side. My goat! He was clearly still alive, appeared alert, and occasionally lifted his head. Based on my hit and the blood I had found after the shot, I assumed he was weak and might not move a lot more.

With two hours of remaining daylight, I had to decide whether or not to chance a follow up shot. On one hand, I knew where he was and didn’t want to bump him again. On the other hand, he was in an approachable spot that would allow a good stalk. After some deliberation I decided that, based on his position, a stalk would be in my favor. The decision made; I cautiously descended an adjacent steep, rocky chute until I thought I was at the right elevation. As I’d hoped, the fin of rock behind him had provided good cover. Reasoning that I was within 25 yards, I nocked an arrow and crept toward the edge. I noticed a horn tip 15 yards away and figured that I needed two more steps for a shot. With only one step to go he was clearly aware of my presence. He stood up and gave me a view of just his head. But from his view, I was half exposed. I expected the goat to bolt so I started to draw my bow. Then, to my disbelief, two more mature billies suddenly stood up and moved to his side. The three of them walked away but then stopped at 25 yards and exposed only the side of their bodies that were opposite of where I’d hit my goat. I couldn’t confirm which one was mine! I had not seen the other goats from above. Then two more billies stood up in the next chute over and the whole group of five moved out across the slope.

Given the conical shape of the mountain and my knowledge of the trails, I decided to run up the slope and arrive at the ridge trail before they did. I raced upward, past my tent, and then slowed as I worked down the ridge. There was no sign of them yet. I carefully descended and spotted a small patch of white fur behind some rocks and snuck toward the goat, hoping it might be mine. At 10 yards, he heard me and stood up. I immediately realized it wasn’t my goat. As he dropped off the ridge, I followed, and watched the group of five, now moving 50 yards away, including the one I’d hit. Defeated, I climbed back up to camp, and in the waning light, watched the group bed down 500 yards away on the plateau below me.

I awoke at first light and immediately dropped down to glass the area where the goats had bedded the night before. I was disappointed to see that they were gone and thus began a pattern that repeated itself for the next five days. Each day I’d get up early to unseasonably hot, sunny, calm weather and spend the entire day scouring every corner of the mountain system looking for my goat. I relocated him several times. Once I saw him walking across a boulder field 1,000 vertical feet below the ridge. After a fairly technical descent I was surprised to see a goat appear above me in a full run up the steep rocky hillside with a large patch of blood on his side. Through binoculars, the wound looked lower than where I’d hit my goat, but I assumed that was my goat until I almost tripped on my goat 15 yards away in a rock garden but only had view of his head. I realized later that there was a second wounded billy in the group and based on careful examination through the spotting scope, it was likely the result of a horn puncture to the chest from another goat.

Later that day I located my goat again, bedded down in an utterly unapproachable spot 100 yards away. I watched him until darkness forced me to retreat from the ledge and set up camp. He was gone the next morning. Over the next several days I had a few other close encounters with him, and I had several shot opportunities at other goats in his small herd but was committed to finishing the story with the original goat I’d hit or not taking one at all. I considered the hit and suspected that with the upslope angle of the shot, coupled with too high of an entry point, and the unique anatomy of a mature goat (the upper third of the chest is vertebrae and “hump”) possibly resulted in my arrow just  nicking the top of one lung.

I spent the entire final morning of the hunt hiking around and picking apart every nook and cranny of the mountainside for my billy. As the day warmed, I was again out of water and located the last tiny patch of snow left on the ridge. As I approached, I saw a large group of goats with a similar plan, all clustered up around the snow. I didn’t want to disturb them, so I sat back and watched the goats eat and lick snow until they gradually started moving away. When I moved in behind them, a few of the nannies lifted their heads to look at me but none seemed too alarmed by my presence. I’d been hiking around this group for a week, always careful not to disturb them. I began to wonder if they had decided that I wasn’t much of a threat. I filled my drybags and water bladders with snow and decided to test my theory. I very slowly tracked the herd and moved at an oblique angle that would take me close to them while only occasionally being visible.

After 10 minutes of moving slowly and pausing to make little sounds that I’d heard the kids make, I found myself at 50 yards, then 40, and then 30 from the nearest goat in the herd. As they stopped to feed I made similar motions and movements. After an hour, most of the goats stopped looking in my direction and just went about their business. Eventually I was immersed in the herd with goats feeding on all sides of me, at times less than 10 yards away. At one point a young billy, perhaps three or four years old, posed broadside to me at 20 yards. I still had my bow but by this time I was completely overwhelmed by the experience and the thought of taking a shot seemed completely absurd. As I sat in the sun surrounded by the goats, tears streamed down my face. I’m not usually much of crier but I found myself overwhelmed. The past week had left me physically and emotionally exhausted and I found solace among those amazing animals.

The next morning, I hiked down to the lake and continued to reflect on the hunt. Unlike many of my goat adventures, I didn’t return with a pack full of meat, but this hunt felt uniquely fulfilling and uniquely sad. I’ve never left a wounded goat in the mountains, and I hope I never do again. Of all the solo mountain hunts I’ve done over the years for goats and sheep, this hunt remains as one of the most intense experiences I’ve ever had. The combination of a great stalk, highly unusual weather, the gravity of impending fatherhood, and that final encounter with the herd culminated in a hunt that I’ll never forget.

When Good Hits Aren’t
Years ago, a friend shot and killed a mature bull elk near our Montana home. As he field-dressed the animal, he noticed old scar tissue in the chest cavity. Further exploration led to a broadhead that had obviously been inside the animal for a long time. It’s location? Inside the pericardium, the tissue layer surrounding the heart.
A few years later, I shot a nice nyala bull in South Africa. We too found old scar tissue when we butchered the animal. I then spotted an old broadhead embedded in a vertebral body. Although we couldn’t identify it by make, it had a vented design and had been in the animal so long that bone had regrown through the slots, encasing the head completely.
Both animals appeared entirely healthy at the time they were shot. Both arrows missed causing fatal injuries by just an inch or two. I’m certain that in both cases the hunter who fired the initial arrow felt confident of an easy recovery. Sometimes, life just doesn’t seem fair.
This note isn’t about non-fatal hits in general. They happen, for a variety of reasons, and we usually recognize them as such soon after the arrow leaves the string. Sometimes, however, all looks well until a long, unsuccessful recovery effort proves otherwise, as in the case of Paul’s goat. Sometimes, as with the elk described earlier, sub-optimal penetration is the culprit. Sometimes, as in the case of the nyala, a good-looking shot is simply off by an inch. And sometimes we just never know.
Confusing anatomy is perhaps the most common cause of this frustrating problem, especially in certain species. Bears’ “bean bag” outline can make precise identification of anatomic landmarks difficult. Hogs, javelina, and a number of African plains game species have vital areas lower and farther forward than many bowhunters realize. Mountain goats can be tough because of the exaggerated vertical distance between the top of the high shoulder hump and the bottom of the long hair hanging from the brisket. A lot of the inviting target area between those two boundaries doesn’t contain anything the animal can’t live without.
Then there is the dreaded “dead zone,” which turns out to be anything but. On a broadside animal, a potential dead space lies between the top of the pleura (the tissue overlying the lung) and the spinal canal. Shoot beneath it and you’ll likely enjoy an easy recovery after a double-lung pass-through. Hit just above it and you’ll likely watch the animal fall in its tracks. However, thread a shaft right through that narrow space and you will likely wind up with nothing to show for what looked like an excellent shot (and the animal will probably make a complete recovery).
We usually use the term “shot angle” to define the horizontal orientation of the animal’s body to the hunter, but there is a vertical component as well, most often apparent in shots from tree stands or in steep terrain. Simply stated, the greater the angle between the arrow’s flight path and the plane of the animal’s chest cavity, the smaller the double-lung target becomes. The result is often a single lung hit, from which the animal often recovers even when the shaft appears to enter in an ideal location.
So, what happened with Paul’s goat? Since I wasn’t there I can only guess, but here’s what we know. Penetration was adequate. Frothy blood indicates penetration of at least some lung tissue. He was shooting uphill. Most likely, the arrow passed through the near (downhill) lung and beneath the far one. (An explanation of why a double-lung hit is so much more effective than a shot that only hits one lung is important but involves a complex lecture in anatomy and physiology. Perhaps we’ll revisit that topic down the line.)
From that point on, I can only commend Paul Forward for doing a lot of things better than anyone could ask. His recovery effort was relentless and demanding, and his decision to pass up shot opportunities at other goats represents the best of hunting ethics.
Sometimes after a shot that looks good but isn’t, your best is all you can do.
Don Thomas