As I peered over the cliff edge, I saw it. A grizzled old mountain goat sprawled out and calmly lying in the sun. Just 60 yards. My pulse quickened as the reality of where I was standing and what I was doing hit me. This was it. The rugged, untouched wilderness of British Columbia was every bit as wild and unforgiving as I’d imagined.
The journey to get here had already been an adventure in itself. Delayed flights, missing luggage, and bumpy rides over endless mountain ranges didn’t exactly make for a smooth start, but none of that mattered now. My cameraman Jordan and I were after an old billy in an area that hadn’t seen a human in over a decade.
On August 25, we landed in Whitehorse, Yukon. What was supposed to be a quick stopover turned into an unplanned overnight stay. My rifle and some luggage didn’t arrive with us. Thankfully, WTA had arranged for transport guides Rose and Paul, who knew every nook of the town and took great care of us. They even offered cash when the gas station didn’t take our credit cards. They were incredibly supportive in guiding us through these minor hurdles, allowing us to concentrate on the hunt.
The following morning, we met our seasoned pilot, Gerb, who’d be flying us over BC’s wilderness in a Cessna outfitted with oversized wheels. Rougher weather conditions meant we’d be flying low, navigating visually. Each twist and turn dodging mountains and valleys reminded me just how remote this place really was. We finally landed on a gravel bar where our guide, John, was waiting, ready to start the hunt.
John mentioned that he’d “set us up in a tough area,” and with a grin, added that no one had hunted it in over a decade. Before the trip, I’d asked my WTA consultant for a challenging spot with a better opportunity at something big. There was no looking back now.
We loaded up in a small boat to travel upriver. John’s words stuck with me. This was a place few dared to hunt. The route began with the steep, loose rock and thorny devil’s club. About a mile in, I spotted tufts of mountain goat fur tangled on branches, fresh signs that we were in the right place.
By that evening, we’d set up camp about four miles in. The terrain seemed like the opposite of typical goat country, with sheer drops below us instead of towering cliffs above. We were looking down on goats. We spotted our first few nannies and kids that evening.
The next morning, we opted to hike in deeper, spotting more goats and finding well-worn trails. We soon located a promising billy across the river, but he was too far out. Retrieval would be impossible. This is a common hurdle that goat hunters face. You can see the billy but you can’t shoot it because he’s either too far away or he’ll roll down the mountain.
Moving closer to our destination, every quarter mile revealed more goats. It was unbelievable. Our progress was steady, but a lack of water made things tough. We soon glassed a nice goat about 800 yards away. It’d be a tough go to get to him and we were already dangerously low on water. As we debated what to do, Charlie, our packer, spotted something directly below us.
There, 60 yards straight down, was a massive billy, calmly bedded. He’d been there the whole time. In that moment, the decision was easy. This was our target.
The old billy gave us a tough shot. I didn’t want to shoot and then have him roll off the cliff. I also didn’t want to anchor him in place. He was a ways below us and pulling him out would involve rappelling down to him—not something I wanted to do.
Positioned on the cliff edge, I aimed for the billy’s opposite shoulder, hoping to guide him left if he bolted. I fired, hitting him in the heart, but the billy hardly reacted to my 300 PRC bullet. A second shot broke his spine, ensuring he wouldn’t roll down to the river below. On the third shot, he finally moved, rolling gently off the ledge to the left, the perfect position for retrieval. We spent the next two hours working our way down in what felt like a controlled fall. We finally reached him as dusk settled in.
Up close, he was more impressive than I could have imagined. He was an enormous animal. His weight, easily over 400 pounds, and his massive shoulders made him seem more like a bear than a goat. We spent a few quick moments taking it in, then began the hard work of field dressing.
The hike back was brutal. With over 100 pounds in my pack, each step tested my physical limits. At times, I used my crampons to claw my way up the vertical sections, every muscle screaming as I fought my way forward. After hours of climbing, we finally stashed the meat in a tree, draped it with our gear to deter any hungry bears, and hiked back to camp for the night.
The next morning, we trekked to a nearby lake to rehydrate before heading back to get the goat. We worked through the afternoon, finally reaching camp at nightfall. It was one of those perfect nights that will be remembered for the rest of my life. As we set up, a stone sheep strolled in to camp. Later, the northern lights lit up the sky as we enjoyed goat steaks. We were exhausted but elated.
The following day, with water replenished and a sense of accomplishment in the air, we packed up and began the long hike out. We saw more goats along the way and even encountered a grizzly. Back at base camp, we were greeted with a mix of awe and congratulations. I’d be bringing home more than just a trophy. This hunt was a wonderful challenge, a memory etched into my mind with every aching muscle and breathtaking view.
If you’re considering a mountain goat hunt, this is the way to go. WTA made the booking and travel straightforward, pairing me with an outfitter who had access to an incredible concession. It was the pinnacle of hunting experiences, the kind of adventure most hunters only dream about.
