Goats In The Chilcotin

Tom Dillabough met us at the trailhead with more packhorses. We adjusted some loads and made new ones, then took a winding, ever-ascending horse trail up a long river valley, Tom and outfitter Mike Hawkridge, guide Emery Phillips, Aaron Cummins and me. Three hours into the ride I was feeling it in my back and legs and, well, tender posterior. However, when we saw the first goat, I didn’t hurt anymore.

My mind was racing, addressing the problem. At this point we were in a broad alluvial valley, with steep ridges (very steep ridges) rising on both sides. This goat was far up on the left-hand ridge, bedded tight on a little outcropping jutting out from a monstrous slide of gray shale. He (for he was alone and seemed slightly yellow) was just a pale spot against the gray rock—and not much more through binoculars.

Yep, thar’s goats in them thar hills, I thought to myself. I also fervently hoped we wouldn’t need this one. He was very high in very steep stuff and, to my eye, in a nearly impregnable position. I didn’t want to climb up there and try to find out. My saddle sores didn’t hurt anymore, but now I was faced with reality as I studied angles and approaches. This was a goat hunt, perhaps North America’s most serious mountain hunt. I was in my mid-50s, and the people who would go up the mountain with me—in front or behind—averaged twenty years younger. I had a bad feeling that I was in trouble.

Some of my fondest mountain memories are actually of goat hunting, not sheep hunting, so when asked to do this one, I didn’t hesitate. I also didn’t stop to consider what I was getting myself into. Fortunately, I was getting into a very good situation.

After some years of guiding in this and other territories, Hawkridge had recently acquired Tatlow Mountain Outfitters. A young and eager outfitter isn’t a bad thing. It’s even better when he’s smart, competent and has sound horses, good equipment and fine country. It’s a huge bonus when he’s a nice guy on top of it. Hawkridge fits all these things, a good hunter and a good cowboy. The bad news is that this was a goat hunt, a serious mountain hunt in tough country.

I had sort of imagined that we might ride up to the tops, tie the horses, peer over and find goats. I not only should have known better, I knew better. At least I knew; Aaron, on his first mountain hunt, was rubbing his backside and looking up at the distant goat, just starting to get a clue. Fortunately, we only had an hour of daylight left, and it would take much longer than that to attempt a most unlikely approach on that goat. So we saddled up and rode on, reaching an old trapper’s cabin surrounded by a small cluster of tents just at dusk.

So Close…

The camp wasn’t fancy, but it was nice and dry under some big pines, and Tom’s wife, Alice, put on plenty of good food. We were going to need it. On our first hunting day we rode several miles farther up the broad valley, glassing as we went. From camp we had glassed a distant goat far up on the left-hand face in what appeared to be a terrible spot. A mile or so upriver we glassed a big group on the right-hand face, moving up into the rocks. These were reachable, maybe, but there were too many, almost certainly nannies and kids.