Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/433799
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 2 6 sharp rocks in an effort to stay low and out of sight. Moving painstakingly closer to the goat, I took a breather and glassed high on the sunny side of the valley and noticed a hidden fold, which cradled a small patch of grass and in it, three white spots that had to be goats. At first glance I thought I was looking at a nanny and two kids, but through my scope I discerned three males. Focusing on the biggest billy, I heard myself mutter, "Whoa…that's a big one." Part of my preparation for this trip included a study to help me judge the size of goats in the distance, but this billy was half again bigger than his buddies. When the brute got up I was in awe as the wind rippled his winter coat. His massive shoulders gave him a bulky, cartoonish hulk as he moved in a lumbering stroll. The smaller billies looked up from their feeding and moved away, giving the big boy a wide berth. This was the billy I had been looking for all summer and fall—my whole life really. I quickly forgot the goat at the end of the basin. I'd found the animal I wanted, and would push myself to any limit to get him. P lanning strategy, I figured it would take me about an hour to get into shooting range—and I could only hope they stayed on that small ledge. Just about any location is a bad place to shoot a billy, but a shot that fails to drop a goat in its tracks precedes a tumbling death crash that quickly turns a trophy into a mangled mess. The small ledge they occupied would be perfect if I could drop him where he stood. I moved upward toward the goats, but the stalk took more time and was more difficult than I originally figured. The steep grade and loose footing forced me to use my hands as much as my feet, and I felt like I was crawling up a slide of granite baseballs and busted bricks. The slope and great altitude took their tolls with each step and breath. It took almost two hours to get where I wanted, and worst of all, cold dark shadows had begun replacing the beautiful fall day. When I crawled into position to see the goats, I saw only the ledge. Either the ever-changing winds pushed my scent their way or they had simply wandered on. They could have gone unseen over the rock ridge several hundred yards farther up, but beyond that was a jagged nastiness of straight up and down. Staying focused and breathing deeply, I kept moving forward but had no place to hide. I saw a patch of white, then a head, then the backs of running goats. Soon the The author with his big billy, one of three he spied on a distant ledge. Opposite: The goat´s golden teeth might be a product of a reaction between its saliva and mountain knotweed. photos by ted schnack