Goat Hunting: A Brutal Lesson in Mountain Hunting

Out here in the wilds of North Central British Columbia, nothing gets my blood pumping like a good goat hunt. It’s one of my all-time favorites—not just for the success potential, but because it’s straight-up extreme, a challenge for the mind and body. Mountain goats love hanging out on sheer cliffs and impossible slopes. Getting to them means clawing your way through terrain that’d make will clearly leave a mark. But that’s the thrill, it tests you, and you come out tougher. Let me tell you about one hunt that nearly broke me—and the lesson I’ll never forget.

The Approach: Drive, Boat, and Big Country

This trip started with a solid 7-hour drive, followed by a 2-hour boat ride to spike camp. We were in a small Zodiac and an aluminum boat, bouncing across the lake while the wind funneled down like it had a personal grudge. Rough doesn’t even cover it—the waves had us white-knuckling the rails. But we made it, set up camp, and got our bearings in this massive chunk of country. We’re talking towering mountains rising right from the shoreline, thick with old-growth and devil’s club just waiting to wack you if you take a wrong step.

The next day, we glassed up a solid billy high on the ridge. It was prime goat habitat—steep, remote, and full of promise. We decided two guys would head up for the stalk while my hunting partner (Dustin) and I hung back, keeping eyes on the glass. This was big-boy terrain: a good 2,000-foot climb from the lake. Our goal was a one-day hunt, but we all packed lightweight spike-out gear just in case. The other two guys buggered off up the mountain and vanished into the thick growth. The rest of the day? Us glassing ewes and nannies, hunting for that telltale billy swagger. They didn’t return that night—no big surprise. We figured they were deep in the hunt.

Day Two: Spotting the Dandy and Heading Up

Come morning, we glassed up a couple billies. One was yellowish—looked like an absolute dandy. Some book goats have come out of this area, and this one screamed old and mature. We packed our day packs and committed: time to go for it. Hopped the Zodiac across the lake, hauled it ashore, shouldered our loads, and started to head up.

This spot was brutal—the mountain started steep the second your boots hit dirt. We plunged into the “devil’s club” portion immediately, that thorny hell that penetrates your clothes and skin. An hour in, we paused for a breather, overlooking the lake about a third of the way up. We couldn’t see the goats anymore, but we knew their general area and had roughed out a route to get above them. Keep in mind: from the lake, these lines look doable. IRL? Not even close.

Our route was a bone-dry drainage—steep as hell, with zero upward visibility until you crested the top. Four hours of grinding later, we finally leveled out, figuring we were higher than the billies. We eased up and out of the drainage for a look around. It was pushing 5 p.m. by then, and finding them took longer than expected. We spent the next couple hours scrambling cliffsides until we finally picked them up through a steep ravine, about half a km away.

The Overnight Gamble and Water Woes

Too late to close the distance that day—we’d have to navigate that steep ravine in fading light we decided it was a no go that night. The goats had no clue we were in the neighborhood, so we bailed to the closest flat spot, hunkered down, and made camp. One big mistake we didn’t realize yet: we only packed about a liter of water each. We figured we’d find water up here. Nope. Bone dry—not a drop. Thirsty already, but we pushed it off. Drank most of our water, cracked a little mickey of rum, and crashed with high hopes for dawn.

Up at first light in a misty rain (not fog, just that annoying drizzle). The goats hadn’t moved far. Now the real challenge: drop into the ravine undetected, then climb the opposite side to get in range without spooking them. Getting down was dangerously steep—slow, deliberate steps or you’d tumble. At the bottom, we scanned for a suitable route up. Nothing straight across, so we worked downstream, probing for a way.

Just ahead, in the ravine bottom, we spotted a goat feeding. He had zero idea we were there. We settled in to glass him—turned out to be a nice billy, out around 80 yards. Set up the shot. Felt solid. Bang. We smoked him clean. But here’s where I learned how tough these goats are: he bolted like a freight train and vanished out of site.

We waited the standard half-hour before following. Twenty minutes in, we were standing over him—a real beauty. Super close to the cliff edge too. If he’d had any steam left, he’d have launched off and made recovery near impossible. We took our time dressing him out, skinning, and deboning the meat into our packs. Heavy loads now, but stoked.

The Fatal Mistake: Never Go Down What You Didn’t Go Up

Now the real screw-up—the biggest mountain lesson I’ve learned to date in terms of mountain hunting steep country. We’d come down this ravine a ways, so we figured it’d peter out and dump us easy back to the lake. Instead of climbing back up and over to our ascent route, we loaded the heavy packs and committed to heading downhill.

Right away, it sucked. Steady rain turned to a pour, but we pushed on, thinking the steepness would ease. Nope—got worse. We committed fully, sliding down 10-20 foot chutes on our butts, packs scraping. Until… A 40-50 foot sheer cliff dead ahead. Instant killer if you fell. We were on a 4-foot ledge: 50 feet straight down in front, 10-20 feet of near-vertical behind to climb back.

Packs down. Time to asses the situation. Peered over the edge—death. Looked behind—too steep to retreat. Scanned sides: one dead end, the other a slim sliver of hope. But by now, confidence was shot. Nerves fried. We sat, radioed the main camp. Turns out, Jeff and Joe had rolled back from their own successful goat hunt. Jeff’s an experienced mountaineer and rock climber, so we explained our cliff predicament.

He bosted across, climbed to a vantage by the lake, and had us pinpoint our spot over the radio. “Just wait,” he said. “I’ll come get you.” Hours ticked by as he fought his way up. Finally, from 300 yards left (facing the lake), he radioed: that’s our exit. We debated ditching packs for rifles only—the climb was 20-30 feet of sheer rock into steep shale. But nah, we went for it using hands and feet desperately finding grip on the steep wet rock.

The Rescue: Ropes, Terror, and Hallucinations

Jeff rigged a rope across the shale and talked us through. We inched sideways along the cliff, packs on, hearts in throats. One slip = done. Halfway, my pack strap loosened—the tent tumbled 50-60 feet into oblivion. Didn’t care. Just wanted off that death trap. Inch by inch, draining every ounce of strength, we hit the shale where Jeff waited.

Nerves unwound a bit as we crossed to safer ground. Quick rest, then down. But remember—no water since the night before. After two days of hell, dehydration hit hard. Darkness fell mid-descent. My boot untied? Ignored it. Exhaustion kicked in—I started hallucinating, seeing the lake shimmering below when it was just more slope.

In the thick undergrowth, we tripped and stumbled like zombies. Jeff, wiped from his own overnighter; Dustin and me from the ordeal. So zonked, we walked straight into the lake at the bottom before realizing it. Beyond grateful. Limped to the boat, motored to main camp in pitch black.

Rehydrated like kings, cooked up goat steaks, cracked beers, and swapped stories with Jeff and Joe. Next day, homeward bound. Weighed myself later: down 12 pounds in two days. But the lesson? Crystal clear: Never come down a steep, unknown mountain. Always retrace your up-route.

Wrapping It Up: Why I Live the Wild Ways

Goat hunting’s extreme for a reason—it humbles you fast. That billy was worth every cut, every slide, every hallucination. But respect the mountains, pack your water, and stick to proven lines. The wild don’t forgive mistakes, but it sure as hell rewards the prepared.

What’s your craziest mountain hunt gone wrong?

If you enjoyed this consider checking out my You Tube https://youtube.com/@lymanswildways?si=H35sgKA4OjZuWD54. Stay sharp out there.

—Lyman, North Central BC