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Ross Groben Goat Hunt StoryDated: October, 2002
I had been hunting elk on Etolin Island in beautiful weather with Ketchikan buddies for 4 days. On the morning of October 5th, we broke camp, loaded the boat and headed for home. Coming down Clarence Strait, I stared at the mountain where Robert Ortiz had taken the two monster Billies earlier in the season. It had been a long 9 ½ hour hike from spike camp to the beach. I thought I saw a few goats near the top of some of the peaks. I decided it would be a perfect day for some scouting. I was also thinking about scouting Etolin for the elk that had been so elusive. I gave my old supercub pilot a call and told to get her gassed up, I'd be in around noon.
Shortly after arriving back in the harbor, I dashed off for the floatplane hangar. Earl had his cub warmed up, making for a speedy departure. En route to Etolin, we swung through my favorite area for record book goats. I spotted a few that I had been watching earlier in the year and decide to take a look for an old billy I hadn't seen for years. He had been living on or near one particular peak for several years and then just disappeared. I check the harvest data to see if a big one had been killed in 2000. No record of any monsters killed in that area. I had looked again during my July scouting flights, without success. But as Earl and I approached the mountain on this beautiful day in October, I had a feeling we would see something. Sure enough, just down from the top there he was. Or at least I thought it was him. Earl agreed he looked big, and wondered if it was the same goat.
Earl and I went on to count 28 elk, including two big herd bulls later that afternoon, and wished my partner with the drawing permit had time to go after them. I couldn't get that big billy out of my mind, so Earl and I took another look on the way home. He was still there, laying in the grass and chewing his cud. He was in a good spot to go after, other than the fact the nearest access point was several miles away. I decided that this would be a good goat for my friend Ross Groben to go after. Ross has always been in excellent condition and i9s one of the best hunters I know. I called Ross that night and told him about the goat. I had another hunter coming in less than a week, but told Ross if he could come up the next day, we'd go right after him.
Ross set up his flight and showed up the next evening. I prayed that the weather would hold, although a low pressure system was moving in. I enlisted my friend Aaron Worthy, who had been visiting Ketchikan as a fishing guide all summer to join us and aid in the packing. Ross, Aaron and I few out with Ernie Robb from Southeast Aviation. Ernie does nearly all of my air taxi work here in the Ketchikan area. He is also a goat hunter and knows instinctively what I'm thinking.
Ernie dropped us into a relatively low lake with a gentle splash and taxied to a suitable beach for unloading. We had brought along extra provisions, and hung them from a high branch until our return to the lake. Although Ernie was scheduled to pick us up in a few short days, the weather often dictates when the airplane comes to pick you up. Always better to have more food than you need. After caching the extras and donning our caulk boots, we set off through the jungle on a compass course. It had just started to rain as we began our trek. It was nearly 2 hours through the thick stuff before we broke out into a muskeg that offered us a look at the mountain we had to climb. We had a mile or so, hop scotching muskegs and crossing small tributaries, before we started our ascent. Another two hours of climbing in big timber, put us near the 2000' elevation mark. We finally broke out into a saddle between the mountain the goat was on and it's adjacent sister. It was still raining and the wind was starting to pick up, so we hurriedly looked for a campsite and finally settled on a flat piece of ground guarded by one large Mountain Hemlock. It had been a 41/2 hour hike from the lake to spike camp. We actually made better time than I thought we would.
After setting up the tent and a few tarps for coverage, we climbed a ways up the sister to get a peek at our mountain. We were still a few hundred feet below the summit. We spotted a goat almost immediately, but closer inspection through the scope proved it was a younger billy. Certainly not the monster Earl and I had seen form the plane. The temperature started to drop and the wind started howling. Pretty soon the blowing rain, turned to sleet and then snow. I rigged up a tarp as a glassing shelter and goat a fire going to keep warm. It was a moot point as visibility dropped to almost nothing. We finally bagged it and headed down, arriving in camp just at dark.
We were all wet and cold, and decided to skip the fire building and head straight for the sleeping bags. The wind continued to build and seemed to be gusting at least 60 mph. I fired up my little stove and got the water boiling for hot tang and Mountain House. The hot food and drink hit the spot and we soon had the 3 man North Face tent warmed up to a comfortable temperature. We listened in awe as the wind howled through the trees. During one intense gust, a grommet on one of the tarps pulled free and resulted in shredding one whole side off one of the tarps. Then another tarp string snapped and it sound like all the tarps were being torn to shreds. Dreading the idea of going out in the weather and stumbling around in the dark, we reluctantly crawled out, with headlamps illuminating the ferocious storm. Shivering within seconds, we managed to make some quick repairs and dove back into our bags. I hoped that the big hemlock would not decide to let go on this night. I can remember dozing, only to be awakened to another deafening blast of wind. It sounded as if a jet were passing by at treetop level.
Eventually we all fell asleep and were surprised to hear nothing when we woke. The storm had passed. We crawled out at first light to inspect the overall damage. Two of my ultra light backpacking tarps were torn on the seams, but the main tarp covering the tent, had held fast with no damage. Ross decided to climb back up the sister to glass, while Aaron and I set about straightening out camp. It took an hour or so to put things right and had just finished off our 1st cup of coffee when Ross came racing into camp saying he had spotted a big goat. After shoving some food in our mouths and some more in the packs, we took off immediately up the hill towards the goat. Ross had spotted him a few hundred feet below the peak on a long ridge on the North side of the mountain. Although anxious to get over there, we advanced cautiously, in the event other goats were present. We certainly didn't want to spook anything that would in turn spook our goat. It took almost an hour to climb to the peak and then go around the south side of the mountain to put the wind in our favor.
We peek over every ledge, and looked for angles that would provide a view of the lower slopes form above. The mountain dropped precipitously on the North side and one skinny goat trail led down the long ridge. Ross got his bearings and by looking over at the sister mountain, was able to identify where he was when he spotted the goat and about where the goat had been. We had to be close. Within minutes, we came to a place that afforded a view back toward the peak and there he was: only 40 yards away, feeding in our direction on a very steep side hill. He had not spotted or winded us, so we settled down to size him up. Only a glance was necessary to identify him as a tremendous trophy. Ross didn't even need a rest, but kneeled down anyway to make sure his shot was true. The goat collapsed and started tumbling almost before I heard the shot. Stop, Stop, Stop, was all I could think or say. Darn, why hadn't we waited until he moved a little closer to better ground? He tumbled out of sight and earshot within seconds and we all hoped that he had hung up somewhere no too far. The goat had been feeding near the headwall and was rolling right down the cut that led to a serious waterfall not far below. It was a nerve-racking descent, and would have been suicide without our caulk boots. The wasn't anything but grass and weeds to hang onto at first, until we hit the alders choking the draw. What a blessing it was to see him piled up only 20 feet from a drop that would probably have destroyed his horns. We eased down to him and rolled him over to inspect the damage. His horns were intact, and the cape looked fine, although very dirty, from rolling down the muddy hill.
Your Friend ~ Ed
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