I was lucky enough to hunt the Mountain Goat when I was 13 years old. I drew a tag (the first I ever put in for) to hunt the area to the northwest of Choteau, MT along the North Fork of the Teton River near Teton Peak in the buffer zone of the Bob Marshall Wilderness area. Almost 50 years later I still remember it like it was yesterday. Every one in my family put in for tags and when my tag arrived in the mail I don't know who was more excited; me or my Dad. After we clamed down Dad looked me right in the eye and said "Son, there is a dead Goat up on that mountain and he doesn't know it yet!"
The week before the Season opened we scouted the area near Lost Lake. We found Goat hairs stuck in the Roses Hips and the small shrubs near the lake. Glassing the mountains we saw three goats playing on the rock cliff face above the lake. I was a skinny little kid that didn't weigh 120 pounds. Looking at that cliff I knew this was going to be a hard hunt. We sat there watching those goats for nearly an hour.
The night before the season opened we loaded up the camper and drove to the end of the road. The next morning Dad and I woke up early and started the hiking up into the high country. The first weekend we saw nothing, not even a hair. This became a pattern; six more weekends ended the same.
With just a couple of weeks left of the season we loaded up and returned to the end of the road. When we arrived there we saw a Hunting guide there. He had just come out of the back country with a client that had taken a very nice Royal Elk. Dad and I talked with him about hunting the goat. We told him about seeing the three goats before the season. He looked at me and said "yep! that is where they were" then he pointed at the high ridge line of the mountains to the east and said there are "now they're up there."
The next morning with rifle in hand, pack frames on and new orders in hand Dad and I started out up the mountain. We broke out of the trees, stopped and stared at that ridge line. This wasn't going to be easy. Three hours of climbing and I saw something off in the distant. Looking through the Bino's I saw 5 Goats near the top of the ridgeline. They had to be five or six miles off. Dad and I discussed my approach. We decided that we would go pretty much go straight up the mountain to the top of the ridge. Then we would move across the ridge and get above them.
We were above the trees but not all of them. As we moved toward the last cluster of trees on the mountain a doe deer came out of the trees. She was 20 feet away from us. She looked at us, squatted and pissed right in front of us. Then she turned and walked down the mountain away from us. Figuring that deer had taken the easiest way down the mountain, we would take her path up the mountain.
Just as we entered the small cluster of trees a Mountain Goat stood up right in front of us. The Goat was so close that when I threw the rifle into my shoulder all I could see in the scope was white. I knew I was on that Goat somewhere. In-experience grab a hold of me and I pulled the trigger. I heard the report of the rifle and instantly heard the bullet hit. I took the rifle out of my shoulder, ran the bolt and the Goat was gone! I turned to my Dad and asked "where is he?" Dad said that he had climbed over the rock outcropping 30 feet in front of us. We climbed over the out cropping and the Goat was no where in sight.
Buck fever was hitting me pretty hard. Dad put his hands on my shoulders and with the most calming voice I ever heard, my Dad said "It's ok. We will get him."
I came out of the cluster of trees. I could look down the mountain for 2000 feet; nothing, no Goat. I could look up the mountain 2000 feet; nothing, no Goat. Dad was looking on the ground. He found one rock that had one drop of blood on it. He looked out across the mountain pointed his hand and said there he is. Sure enough the Goat was running across the rock cliff trying to get away. I again threw the rifle up to my shoulder and fired. I could see the hit behind him on the rocks. I ran the bolt and as he was rounding around the point I got on him and fired again. Dad said I hit him good. He rounded the point and was out of sight.
Moving out across the cliff we didn't see any more blood. As we rounded the point we were looking across another rock faced cliff. There was nothing, no Goat, no blood, nothing. It was like Dr. Spock beamed him up to the Enterprise.
Picking our way across the face I was sure we lost him. Then I saw him laying down 45 yards below us. I told Dad "there he is!" Dad said he didn't see him. Not waiting for Dad I dropped to my butt, took up a classic sitting position put the cross hairs right where the heart and lungs are and I squeezed the trigger. Once again I heard the bullet hit him. Then the Goat stood up and started to walk away. I chambered another round got on him and fired again. Another hit! And he just kept walking away. Then he stopped. He didn't wobble. He didn't lower his head. He just stood there staring at me. And I shot him again.
The Goat laid down. Dad and I approached Goat, he didn't move but he was still alive. Dad gave me his pistol I told me to end this. I shot the Goat though the heart. It just pissed him off. The Goat started moving trying to get to his feet and I was trying to get out of his way. As I scrambled away I point the pistol at him and fired. That round hit him behind the ear and the Goat fell dead.
Dad and I stood over my Goat. Eight weeks of hunting had come to the end. Dad bent over and started to pet the Goat. Dad spread blood over the white coat and I wondered what he was doing. He then pushed me to the ground and smeared his blood covered hand all over my face. I never saw Dad so excited.
I shot the Goat five times with my rifle and twice with the pistol. Never once did he fall. He never acted like he was ever hit. After Dad gutted him we discovered that his lungs were blown apart, he was hit twice in the heart; one rifle shot and one pistol shot. The rock face so was steep his gut pile beat us to the bottom off the mountain. They rolled down the mountain like a basketball.
Dad caped out the Goat and quartered him up. That was when we discovered that my first shot had broken the right thigh bone. The broke bone turned the right thigh into a bloody mess and it wasn't salvageable.
As Dad was tending to the Goat I looked around and took in the beauty of the mountains. Looking down the mountain I could see the roof of our camper 2500 feet below us. I felt sorry for my big brother who didn't tag along with us that day. Maybe this day was meant to be just for Dad and me.
We strapped down all the meat to our pack boards and hand carried the head. Going down the mountain was much harder than going up it. It took about six hours to get to the camper. It was just about dark when Dad and I broke out of the trees in front of the camper. The camper door was open and I could hear my brother inside with Mom. Then I heard Mom say "look he got one!", and they rolled out of the camper to see my Goat.
Like I said I was a skinny little kid. When I was preparing for this hunt I practiced shooting with Dad's 270 rifle. While I could deal with the recoil, I couldn't deal with the weight. Carrying that 8 1/2 pound rifle up in the mountain was too much for me. After the first weekend I went to a light weight 243. In hindsight the caliber was just to small for an young hunter. Even with the 110 grain handloads it wasn't enough. The bullets were expanding in the thick wool, punching dime size enter wounds. There wasn't enough left after expanding in the wool and going through the hide that was 1/2" thick. I did learn that I should always use enough gun.
