When Jordan called me in February 2025 to tell me I’d drawn a mountain goat tag, I actually laughed. “Figure out something for next year,” I told him, knowing the odds of a three-peat were one in a million. But first, it was time to prepare for my goat hunt.
I flew into Homer at the end of August, expecting to start hunting on Tuesday. By Monday evening, my outfitter, Paul, was warning me about the incoming weather. “We might not get you in until Friday,” he said. He wasn’t kidding. We sat through three days of howling wind, driving rain, and zero visibility before finally getting our chance.
Paul operates from a landing craft that serves as a mobile base camp. But getting from sea level to where the goats live? That was the hardest climb I’ve ever done, and I’ve completed five sheep hunts.
It was only 1,500 vertical feet, but every step came wrapped in devil’s club thorns, soaking brush, deadfall, and rain-slicked cliff bands. We hiked for what seemed like an eternity before stopping for the night to set up camp.
The next morning changed everything. Once above that coastal jungle, the alpine opened up to reveal why we’d suffered through that brutal climb. There were mountain goats everywhere. Good billies. The kind that makes you forget about devil’s club and exhaustion.
I took my billy on August 30, the first day of actual hunting after being sidelined due to weather. While packing him out, we witnessed something I’d never seen: ravens harassing a billy goat. They would swoop within inches of his head, and he’d swing his horns, trying to knock them away. Paul had told me about this strange relationship between ravens and goats, but seeing it firsthand was incredible.
The trip down gave us one more show. A black bear, fat from gorging on berries, army-crawled through the blueberry patches, entertained us from 400 yards away. I had a bear tag, but watching him was worth more than any trophy. Crossing salmon-choked streams on the way out completed the full Alaskan experience.
