THERE ARE NO EASY MOUNTAIN GOATS  BUT SOME ARE MUCH HARDER THAN OTHERS

There Are No Easy Mountain Goats — But Some Are Much Harder Than Others

Norwegian husband and wife looking for a 'hardcore hunting adventure' in the wilds of British Columbia get that and much more.

Hunting mountain goats late in the year is a big gamble and upon returning to their pickup point as a winter storm moved through, a British Columbia guide and her two Norwegian clients found their lake iced-up, meaning the float plane couldn’t fly in to extract them from the wilderness.

There Are No Easy But Some Are Much Harder Than Others

STORY AND PHOTOS BY CASSIDY CARON

It was an icy morning sunrise. Frigid air was swirling through the airplane cabin as we left the float plane dock. e de Havilland Beaver might be reliable, but air-tight? Not so much. e heater, approximately five decades old, tried to keep up. e pungent fumes of oil and aviation gas stuck to the wisps of air in a losing battle to keep the inside of the old airplane warm. e thundering of the engine on takeoff was deafening. Propeller blades sliced through the freezing November sky, as we surged toward British Columbia’s Coast Mountains, looming on the horizon.

As the first jagged, impassable – and completely snow-encased – peaks came into plain view, I felt something close to absolute panic rising in me. Late-season mountain goat hunting is always a gamble. It is a game suited only to those looking for an insane challenge, and it is guaranteed to be plagued by horrible weather and very difficult access conditions. But, from the plane, this was already looking even more extreme than usual.

Trygve and his wife Nina sat shoulder to shoulder in the backseat of the Beaver. Glancing back, all I could see were teeth, their smiles were so enormous. ey had traveled from Norway and were pumped for a “hardcore” hunting adventure.

I had more trepidation. is was the last hunt of a mountain guiding season that had begun in mid-July. I was feeling burnout from more than 100 days of grueling backpack hunting for sheep and goats. To make the current situation even more difficult, a terrible storm had rolled in while Tryg and Nina were enroute to Canada. It had hammered the area we were planning on hunting.

As the airplane rattled and roared its way into the heart of the Coast Range, the true enormity of the recent snowfall was quickly made apparent. e pilot glanced over at me doubtfully, asking, without saying a single word, if I was going to go through with this.

I stared with grim determination through the frosty windscreen at the intended landing lake. e water looked ominous and black against the snow-

blanketed slopes. ere was no going back. Trygve and Nina had specifically requested an epic, hard hunt. ey wanted an experience that pushed their limits – and they were going to get every single dollar’s worth of that!

THE ENGINE NOISE of the Beaver faded in the distance as we hauled our gear off the lake shore. Luckily, we were just below the snowline, but I was not feeling reassured as I gazed up at the formidable peaks surrounding us. ey towered thousands of feet. eir deadly cliffs and crevasses were concealed by 2 feet of new snow.

A sinking feeling in my gut told me that there was a good possibility we were too late for this area. e goats had likely moved out with the dump of snow.

We set up a camp and spent the rest of the day glassing every inch of visible slopes. While I had held out some hope that my theory was wrong, the fresh snow did not lie. We didn’t spot a single animal, or even an animal track.

My original plan had been to hunt from the lake. It was high elevation, and just the week before would have been prime goat habitat. I was trying not to rain on the Norwegian parade, but I knew the backup plan was going to be tough.

Off the opposite end of the lake were south-facing slopes that looked like they could be goat wintering grounds. e problem was they were far away. Very far. And since I had never hunted that particular area, I had no idea what to expect. e next day we scouted around and found an old, extremely overgrown trail going in the direction I thought we should try. Without other options, we broke camp and headed off on it, carrying six days’ worth of provisions and all of our camp gear.

It took all morning just to battle our way to the other end of the lake with heavy backpacks. Trygve and Nina were all smiles, seemingly enjoying the grueling 4-mile trek. I was somewhat less impressed by the situation. Had I known the conditions we would find, I would have had the pilot drop us off at the far end of the lake. e Norwegians, however, seemed to be having the time of their lives! e old trail continued toward the south slopes, but got worse and worse. It was completely choked with alders, making it horrible to navigate as we ducked and dove through tangled branches with our big packs. As we finally turned into the southfacing valley, the trail began to drop in elevation rapidly. e descent made the hike easier, but in the back of my mind I was already picturing having to haul our camp – and potentially two goats – back up through these miles of hellish brush. My sense of knowing and dread returned.

After nine solid hours of hiking, we finally glimpsed parts of mountains that looked “goaty.” We dropped our packs and set up a spike camp. Sure enough, the first “goaty” spot had a goat on it! We wolfed down some freeze-dried dinner and made a move to get a closer look. e goat turned out to be a young, immature billy. He was an easy pass. Still, I crawled into my sleeping bag that night exhausted, but feeling a little at ease that my big gamble might work out. We were seeing goats – well, one anyway.

Caron admits defeat as the terrain becomes too steep and dangerous to continue a stalk.

THE NEXT DAY we packed up camp again and trekked even further down the old path. e more elevation we lost, the more goats we saw. It seemed we had hit a jackpot! We saw over 20 goats that second day. Still, the Coast Mountains guard their treasures ferociously and the sheer cliffs, ancient twisted deadfall and thorncrusted underbrush blocked us from making a move on any of the good billies we had spotted.

On day three, we spotted a big billy sniffing around a few nannies. He was midway up the mountain at the top of a ring of cliffs. From where we sat, it looked “doable.” But after six murderous hours of trying – and failing – to get up to the cliff ring, we had to admit defeat for that day. It was imperative to get safely off the deadly cliffs before dark descended. All three of us were exhausted and shaken by the extreme difficulty of the terrain we were encountering. e next morning, I was only a few sips into my precious morning coffee ration, when I saw the group of goats from the previous day. ey were below the cliff ring! It takes a lot for me to toss aside my morning coffee – particularly after 100 straight days of mountain guiding – but toss it, I did!

“Let’s go!” I shouted at Tryg and Nina, who were in the middle of breakfast. I could see the goats were already moving higher, headed to their safe perch above that impregnable line of cliffs. We hustled hard, but the herd was moving fast. I realized the only way we were going to have a chance was to come up right below them,

Rare sunlight and a hot cup of coffee in spike camp make for a peaceful moment for the hunters after getting completely soaked the day before.

under the cover of the ancient forest.

It was still early enough in the morning that we had the benefit of the downdraft. As the thick trees thinned near the base of the sheer rocks, we darted carefully from one huge rainforest tree to another, using their massive trunks for cover.

Finally, some of the goats were directly above us. I was on edge, as I could see that a few of them were already too high on the cliff. Even though we still had the shot, it would not have been ethical, as the goat would have either been impossible to recover or could fall 500 feet and smash to bits.

A waterfall cascaded through the middle of the sheer rock face. I watched a nanny deftly splash across it, the vertical, slippery rocks and highpressure water having no effect on her. I couldn’t see the big billy anywhere.

Trygve and Nina are excellent, experienced hunters and without having to tell them, they set up in a good position to shoot. Suddenly, the big billy appeared by the waterfall, where the nanny had just crossed.

I pounded my fist on Tryg’s shoulder. “Him! Him!” I hissed. I was not sure if he could hear me over the roar of the waterfall, but Trygve knew what I meant.

Booom! e billy faltered and collapsed. Before I could even congratulate Tryg on his perfect shot, I watched horrified as the billy fell, wedging himself right in the most powerful stream of the waterfall!

It was a dangerous and very cold task to pluck him from the waterfall. With extreme caution and incredible teamwork, we finally dragged Trygve’s beautiful goat from the waterfall. We got completely soaked in the process, but it was worth it.

I’m not sure I have ever guided a harder-earned trophy – until two days later, that is!

WE SPENT THE next morning properly dressing Tryg’s billy and drying our soaked clothes, a monumental task because of the miserable coastal humidity. Coffee – and goat tenderloin on a smoky fire – eased away the stress of the past days.

en, in the afternoon, I spotted an absolute monster billy in the second tier of cliffs above our camp. We were tired, bruised and still wet. But one glance through the spotting scope at the billy we named “Stove Pipes,” and our enjoyable lazy day was cut short. Nina was determined to get her goat. As usual, the climb was much harder than expected. e thick forest hid so many more obstacles than could be predicted when observed from below. We were finally close to where we had last seen the lone giant, but the cliffs were so steep it was terrifying to look back at the way we had come up. One slip could easily be fatal.

But with predatory singleness of focus, we continued the stalk. It finally became so steep that it was impossible to keep going up. It was also apparent that there was no way we could safely navigate this terrain in the dark. Dejectedly, we knew we had to stop.

Finding our way back down the cliffs was absolutely hair-raising. We used a 100-foot climbing rope and took turns lowering each other down. Fear had to be ignored in favor of intensity of focus: one foot here, one hand there, until finally we all got back to the forest floor. e weather was threatening to turn very bad again soon. We had a very long, challenging hike ahead of us, with the added weight of Tryg’s goat meat and the heavy late-season hide. It would be very difficult to go that far uphill through the overgrowth if it snowed. at night, around the campfire, we discussed that the smartest option would be for us to start for the lake the next day.

I woke up in the morning and started to break camp in preparation for the long day ahead. But I couldn’t help stealing looks up at the cliffs where most of the action had been. en I saw him.

Stove Pipes had moved into a spot that looked “doable.” Once again, we stopped everything and made a very fast move to try to intercept the goat before he ascended into unreachable terrain.

I wanted so badly for Nina to get her goat. Her positive attitude and hard work had never wavered. We

The author and Nina flash thumbs up and victory signs despite getting soaked to the bone pulling Trygve’s goat from its final resting place: the cascading waterfall in the background.

found ourselves practically running up through the old-growth timber to get to the open rocks where the billy had been spotted.

Finally slowing, we crept to the edge of the trees and could see the whole clearing. It was obvious he was gone. We had done our best, but everyone knew the hunt was over. We still had a huge hike ahead of us.

I STARTED BACK down the mountain, when suddenly behind me I heard excited Norwegian chatter!

I looked up and the billy had appeared at the top of the first cliff, feet planted, staring down at us. It was an easy shot but he was going to take a big fall.

“Should she?” Tryg asked excitedly, as Nina took aim.

“No!” I exclaimed, looking in dismay at the 200-foot freefall the goat would take. en I saw that if he moved maybe 30 yards to his right, he would land on some dense bushes that would break the fall and probably preserve the meat and horns.

“Wait until he gets there,” I pointed.

It was a slim chance that the goat would go that direction. It seemed more likely he would spook and go straight up into the sheer cliff, giving no chance.

But luck struck again and he slowly walked right to the perfect spot.

“Boom!”

Nina’s shot was so good that the goat died on the spot. Literally. He didn’t move. We all stared up the cliff. He didn’t fall down.

Oh no. is was a huge problem.

It was finally decided that Trygve and I would attempt to use ropes to recover the billy. Nina would wait to make sure we were OK and respond in the event of a bad emergency. She had the InReach to signal SOS if one of us fell.

As Tryg and I started onto the cliff, I knew that one little mistake would cost us our lives. ere was zero room for error. It was, by far, the most dangerous thing I have ever attempted while guiding. If Trygve had not been as competent and skilled a mountain person as he is, we would not have attempted it.

We precariously made our way, inch by slow inch, to the dead goat. Despite being one slip from certain death, when we reached him, we took a few seconds to enjoy Stove Pipe’s incredible beauty and heavy horns. e formidable, spectacular Coast Mountains that had been his kingdom towered around us.

And then it began to snow. Trying not to panic, Tryg and I skinned as fast as we could. (I hope their taxidermist can sew, is all I can say about that!)

We knew we had to get off the cliff or it would soon be impassable. We stuffed Stove Pipes into the one backpack we had managed to drag up with us, and kicked it off the edge. en, trying not to rush or slip as the snowfall became a full-on blizzard, we inched our way down. e sheer cliff became slippery and treacherous with the skiff of fresh snow. My adrenaline was surging, but I was able to hyperfocus on the next inch forward instead of focusing on certain death below. Finally, our boots touched the bottom.

But our ordeal was far from over! By the time we reached the camp with the goat, it was snowing so hard that visibility was less than 50 yards. We all knew that there was no time to rest or celebrate. If it snowed like this all night, over 3 feet could accumulate, making it impossible to hike back up to the lake.

We ate a rushed dinner, loaded all of our camp gear and both goats, and started hiking. We hiked all night, fighting with 100-pound packs, going uphill through the thick, overgrown trail. e snow kept falling and as we got higher, it got deeper.

As the night wore on, the snow did not stop, but the temperatures plummeted from 0 to a shocking -25 degrees Celsius.

WITHOUT A DOUBT, Trygve and Nina were the toughest clients I had ever hunted with. We had fought every single day against every single thing those harsh mountains had to throw at us and still persevered. We had all stayed positive, laughed in the face of difficulty and danger, and formed a great team in the process. Still, it took everything we had to get out of that valley and back to the lake.

We reached the lake at 4:30 a.m. e snow was almost 2 feet deep already. We were soaked, numb and exhausted. We had not stopped all night. It was dangerously cold. As the daylight seeped through the still falling snow, we could see the lake was completely frozen over. ere would be no float plane coming to get us. ere was a cabin near the lake and we were forced to seek shelter in it. For four days, it remained deadly cold. We stayed warm inside, reliving the most epic hunt of all time. Meanwhile, the pilot tried to figure out how to get us out of there.

We could not legally use a helicopter, as the law doesn’t allow for the use of one for transporting hunting trophies in British Columbia. Finally, an elaborate rescue was planned. Two local guys braved the elements, and managed to get a jet boat and an ATV a heck of a long way in dangerous conditions to meet us.

We were extremely grateful for the improvised ride home, but the boat trip was the final test. It remained unseasonably cold and none of us had any clothing suited for a five-hour ride in an open boat at -20 degrees.

While the two rescuers were wearing full survival suits, we shivered against the steel hull of the boat, the water spray instantly turning to ice as it hit us. At one point, we all had icicles freezing our jacket hoods to our chests, forming bars in front of our faces. I had over an inch of ice built up on my shoulders. We were so cold, I’m not sure any of us clearly remember that final leg of our journey.

At last, civilization came into view. e ordeal was over. Trygve and Nina came to the Canadian wilderness as adventure-seeking clients and left as lifetime friends. I hope we have many more mountain adventures together, but I know the story of old Stove Pipes is one that will never get old around a campfire.  Editor’s note: Cassidy Caron is the owner of Compass Mountain Outfitters. For more information, visit compassmountainoutfitters.com.

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