HUNTING ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOATS
When the ducks and geese were flying south, Mad Wolf said the time had
come to cut our winter firewood. So Little Creek, his son-in-law, and I
went together to the mountains. We started soon after sunrise, with
four powerful broncos harnessed to a timber wagon. Little Creek was a
reckless and fearless driver. He stood on the axle between the front
wheels and balanced himself skillfully, while I followed riding
Kutenai, my saddle horse.
The wild broncos, frightened by the rattling wagon, galloped across the
broad plateau. But it was an open table-land with an upgrade towards
the Rockies, and Little Creek let them run freely. We passed through
the foothills into a valley; and came finally to the edge of a forest
of pine and spruce on the mountains. There we camped and pitched our
lodge.
In the timber we selected only dead trees, standing and already
seasoned for firewood. We cut them into logs and put them in piles, to
haul later on the wagon. At midday we rested from our work, on a thick
carpet of green moss by a small brook; we ate our midday meal and were
refreshed by the fragrance of pine and balsam.
I watched a golden eagle soaring near the summit of a snowy peak; and a
flock of white swans with long necks outstretched, winging their way
across the deep blue of the autumn sky, the sunlight shining on their
wings and breasts. Many flocks of ducks whirred close to the tree tops,
in their level and rapid flight; and from far away came the honking of
migrating geese.
“Geese are wise and can foretell the weather,” said Little Creek. “Now
they fly high; and it is a sign of a hard winter. Other birds and
animals have also given warning. The curlew is not singing; many song
birds gathered early into flocks; prairie larks have disappeared; the
skins of otter, mink, and beaver are heavier than usual; and the jack
rabbits are already turning white.”
Next morning I stopped work in the forest to go on a hunt for mountain
goats. I took my saddle horse and followed a stream through a canyon,
into a basin with precipitous walls. There I left Kutenai and started
to climb the mountain on foot. I came to an exquisite alpine meadow
above timber-line, with a carpet of ferns and green grass. Little
mountain chipmunks were gathering seeds from alpine plants, scampering
and chattering in the warm sunlight. Then a hoary marmot gave a
piercing whistle from his rock tower on a cliff, where he lay watching
for enemies. Other marmots in their feeding grounds along the mountain
side took up the cry and ran for shelter to near-by cliffs and
boulders.
That day was strangely warm for the northern Rockies. Although late in
the autumn, the sky was clear and the wind blew softly from the south.
I ate my lunch of dried meat and bread beside a mountain torrent that
had its source in an icy cavern and snowdrifts. It crossed the meadow
and rushed tempestuously down a sheer and winding chasm to an unbroken
cliff, where it leaped forth and fell into the valley a mass of spray,
carrying chunks of ice which crashed upon the rocks far below.
Then I lay behind some gnarled and stunted firs to watch for game. The
surrounding country with its crags and towering precipices was an ideal
home for big horn and white goats. From my exposed place on the
shoulder of the mountain, I had a far-stretching view—a wide panorama
of unnamed peaks all towering into the blue, of valleys, emerald lakes,
green forests, and white snowfields.
It was then so late I had given up hope of getting any game that day.
Suddenly I caught sight of moving objects on a snowfield at the head of
a valley. Through my glasses I saw a herd of five goats led by a large
billy. They were the whitest things I have ever seen. It was only
because of their jet-black horns that I could see them on the snow.
Never shall I forget my feeling of exhilaration to see those wild
animals in their native haunts, and my eagerness to get one for a
hunter’s trophy.
They were coming my way. They were traveling fast and were headed for a
grassy knoll high above me. I waited until they were out of sight
behind a shoulder of the mountain, then left my ambush and climbed with
all my might. I crept along the side of a low ridge, hiding behind
clumps of alpine fir and juniper. With my large 45–70 rifle, rope, and
cartridge-belt, I had a heavy load for climbing. The ascent was steep
and covered with broken rocks. Because of the high altitude, I was soon
winded and felt weak in the knees. But my only chance for a shot was to
reach the knoll first.
When I was close to the spot, I threw myself behind a patch of
juniper—not a moment too soon. Before I could raise my rifle, the head
of a billy appeared over the edge of the slope. First he took a look
around; the others were behind and not in sight. Then he took a bite of
grass and stepped into view. I raised my rifle very slowly, very
carefully, and threw a cartridge into the barrel. The sound alarmed
him, for he threw up his head. I fired and hit him behind the shoulder.
He bounded into the air. I sent my second shot into another goat,
wounding him. With my third shot, I killed the first goat; and in the
meantime the second billy had disappeared. Then I saw him going up the
mountain with discouraging agility. I followed and came upon a nanny
with two young kids. I walked within a few feet, while they stood calm
and unconcerned. The kids were beautiful little animals, like woolly
toy goats. They stalked back and forth, wagging their ears and looking
at me in a puzzled way. They were consumed with curiosity and hopped up
on a big rock to get a better view. I wanted to stay and watch them,
but went instead to find the wounded goat.
By blood marks I tracked him up the mountain towards some precipices.
He ran to a series of ledges, made by the outcroppings of the rock
strata. I saw him jump from one shelf to another, and hit him with a
bullet. But, with vitality like that of a grizzly bear, he kept going.
In the excitement of the chase, I never thought of danger and followed
him along the shelves. He jumped to a lower series of ledges. If he
went farther, I would lose him, so I leaned over the precipice and
fired. The place where the goat stood was so narrow I thought he would
roll over the precipice; but he fell dead in his tracks.
Then the difficulty was to get to the place where the carcass lay. With
my rope in one hand and clinging to the rock wall with the other, I
crawled along the tier of ledges. I could hear the rocky débris from my
feet crashing on the boulders at the foot of the abyss. At last I
reached the goat on the narrow ledge. But I had trouble in skinning.
The carcass weighed two hundred pounds, and in such cramped quarters it
was hard to turn over. With hide partly off, the goat smell was
nauseating. But there was no escape. In front was a precipice which had
a strange fascination, but I dared not look over. At my back was the
rock wall which had such a slant I could not stand erect. Having
unjointed the head and finished the skinning, I crawled from the
carcass and sat down to rest.
Then, for the first time, I saw that a storm was gathering. Dark clouds
were settling over the mountains. The air was sultry; and from the look
of the sky a heavy snow was coming. I must hasten to a place of safety
before the storm set in.
With lariat I lashed the head of the goat, with its long sharp horns,
inside the pelt, threw one end of the rope to the shelf above, climbed
up and pulled the bundle after me. The return trip was more difficult
and dangerous; I had not the excitement of the chase to help. On hands
and knees I crawled along the narrow ledges and climbed from tier to
tier. I came to a buttress which blocked the way. I clung to the cold
wall with my fingers and clutched the scant projections of the cliffs.
It gave me a sickening sensation, when they crumbled and hurtled into
the abyss.
On one of the shelves, I came to a steep pitch in the floor. I shoved
the pack before me, but it began to slide. Quickly I freed myself from
the rope. I lay flat and heard the dull thud of my pack as it struck
far below. I thought all my labor was in vain; that the head had been
ruined by the fall. But I found it at the foot of the precipice, saved
from serious damage by the thick fur of the pelt. Then I skinned the
other goat; the two heads and pelts in one pack made, with my rifle, a
heavy load.
By the time I reached my horse on the floor of the basin, snow was
beginning to fall. And when I got back to camp, the timbered mountain
slopes were all white. That night we had the first heavy snow of the
season. But in the morning the clouds lifted and unveiled the cliffs
and canyons and high peaks.
Then I went forth for camera pictures, following the tracks of birds
and animals in the snow. The valley was filled with winter scenes of
wonderful beauty. As the sun rose over the mountains, icicles and ice
draperies pendent from cliffs and trees glistened like diamonds in its
bright rays. The branches of firs and pines drooped with heavy burdens
of snow. The undergrowth was covered with delicate draperies; boulders
and fallen trees had smoothly rounded caps. Brooks were covered with
ice, crystal clear—with here and there snow arches and arcades and
other marvelous ice structures.
Tracks of coyotes and timber wolves crossed and recrossed the trail. I
saw footprints of a snowshoe rabbit; they resembled snowshoe tracks,
because of the long fur on its feet; and the tiny tracks of mice and
their tunnels in the snow; where rabbits had played and a squirrel had
left a cone. There were tracks of willow ptarmigan; of a little “crying
hare”; and the splay footprints of a wolverine, called “Mountain Devil”
by the Indians, because of its meanness and wonderful cunning.
But our work in the forest was brought to a sudden close by my narrow
escape from death. Little Creek and I were felling together a large
spruce. He was chopping on one side and I on the other. When the tree
began to fall, I saw it coming my way and jumped for a place of safety.
But the top unexpectedly struck a leaning tree, throwing the butt of
our tree into the air; and then it came rolling down towards us. It
narrowly missed Little Creek. I heard him give a mighty yell; but there
was no escape for me. The trunk of the tree hurled me to one side, and
then the light went out.
When I opened my eyes, Little Creek was bending over me. I thought my
end had come; I could not breathe, neither could I move. Then my breath
slowly returned. I sat up and tried my limbs; to my surprise I could
move them all. But my clothes were torn and soaked with blood. The
jagged butt of the great tree had struck me as it rushed past, making a
ragged wound six inches long in my side; and that scar I shall always
carry. If I had been a few inches nearer the tree, I would have been
crushed.