Fair Chase in North America

by Boddington, Craig

  A half-hour later, after I’d climbed back up to my guide’s perch, I threw up. Me with my normally cast-iron stomach. Whether it was over-exertion, something bad in a sandwich, or sheer frustration I’ll never know. I was deathly ill all that day and all through the night. The next day, pale and unsteady, I climbed the same mountain and shot a fine billy.

  Ten inches of horn isn’t much for all that effort, but with a goat you have a lot more than just the horn. The coat is spectacular, especially if you hunt later when the winter coat is coming on. In fact, the winter coat of a big billy is a trophy at least equal to whatever horns he happened to grow. The long neck ruff accented by black horns and nose makes a stunning shoulder mount, but more so than any sheep I admire a lifesize or half-life mount of a Rocky Mountain goat. I’ve even seen them done as a stunning rug mount, head attached—but not for the floor. I wouldn’t want to trip and fall on those horns!

  There is a down side to old Oreamnos americanus: his flesh is, well, “chewy but flavorful” is about the best I can do. A nanny can be pretty good, but a billie is just plain tough. Goat is edible, especially if well-marinated. But it sure doesn’t compare with mountain mutton!

  Not only is their meat tough, but the goats are just plain tough critters. They also have a disastrous habit of heading for the ever-present precipice upon being threatened—including upon receiving a bullet. It’s important to anchor a goat in his tracks, and you simply should not shoot if he’s near a serious drop-off.

  Goats are slab-sided creatures, and their toughness isn’t so much physiological as mental. The answer is not hard bullets for extra penetration. Just the opposite, in fact; goats require bullets of appropriate deer/sheep calibers that are heavy enough to break bone but soft enough to expand readily and do damage. Shoot for the shoulder and don’t hesitate to shoot again. If he can, a goat will dive for the nearest cliff with the last of his strength. At best he’ll make recovery more difficult. At worst he’ll ruin the horns and cape—or, worse yet, drop into a chasm where recovery is impossible. I’ve had two goats that were perfectly well-hit drop into chutes, but was lucky in that both hung up with no damage after short drops.

  Something goat hunting has in common with sheep hunting is that it’s classic mountain hunting offering a fine excuse to wander through some of the prettiest country on Earth. But goat hunting somehow lacks the snob appeal of sheep hunting. This means, whether for good reasons or bad, you needn’t mortgage your home to hunt goats.

  In the Lower 48 populations permits are limited enough that drawing a tag is every bit as difficult as getting a sheep permit. There are exceptions; both Washington and Montana have a lot of goats, and some units aren’t that hard to draw. But to plan a goat hunt without winning a permit draw you need to look farther north.

  In both British Columbia and Alaska nonresidents are obligated to hire a guide, which increases costs considerably. However, there’s good news and more good news. First, due to inexplicably limited demand, guided goat hunts are quite reasonable, having escaped the runaway inflation of guided sheep hunts. Second, throughout most of B.C.’s mountain ranges and virtually all of southeast Alaska goats are an underhunted resource. Great billies die of old age each year—many, I suspect, without ever seeing a hunter. I hope it stays that way, for goat hunting is something I’d like to do more of while I’ve still got the legs and lungs for it. And not because it’s a poor man’s sheep hunt, but because the goat offers great hunting in his own right!

  There’s really just one way to get up a goat mountain: on foot. This mountain is much steeper than it looks and it got much worse minutes later.

  This northern British Columbia Billy was taken in late August. Billies tend to get their winter coats much earlier than nannies, but the later the better for the very best pelts.

  Goat country in southern British Columbia. In country like this, mature billies die of old age without ever seeing a hunter.

  A good billy with a full winter coat. This one was taken in southern British Columbia in late October.

  PRONGHORN—Uniquely American

  This uniquely American animal offers one of the continent’s most enjoyable hunting experiences!

  It’s late November now and the fall is on the wane. A couple of late-season whitetail tags remain, but the season is pretty much gone. It’ been a good year overall. Some good winter predator calling, a fine spring bear hunt. The summer doldrums were broken by an African hunt, and the fall schedule was a nice mix of country and game. Lord knows I can’t complain—and yet something was missing. 1995 has been one of very few years in the last 30 that I didn’t hunt the pronghorn antelope, still one of my favorite animals and most enjoyable hunts.

  Part of it is the fact that the pronghorn was my very first big game animal. Most of us, I suspect started with deer. But when I was growing up my home state of Kansas hadn’t yet held her first modern hunting season. In those days Kansans were bird hunters, and those few who hunted big game simply had to travel out of state. A friend of Dad’s, Jack Pohl of Bishop’s gunstocks in Warsaw, Missouri, hunted pronghorns in Wyoming every fall. Dad was a keen bird hunter and one of the finest wingshots I ever knew, but he never hunted big game. Pohl had taken both of us under his wing, teaching us about rifles and teaching me how to handload. Our final exam was to be a pronghorn hunt in Wyoming.

  Just days before the long-awaited trip Jack fell off his horse and broke his ankle badly. His son, Henry, stood in, and together we drove up to Gillette—with no place to hunt and no idea where to start looking. Dad stopped in the Gillette Chamber of Commerce. They recommended a full gas tank and some sandwiches, and suggested making a long circle through our hunting unit, stopping at every ranch until we found someone who would give us access. That was the day before the season, and of course we saw pronghorns everywhere. Pop wasn’t a big game hunter, but he’d been a fighter pilot—I was then and still am in awe of the eye he had for game.

  We stopped at a half-dozen ranches. Even 30 years ago finding a place wasn’t a sure thing. Some ranchers had hunters and some wanted too much money. But finally a weathered rancher named Lester Wright took us in. The next day the dream of a first hunt become a reality.

  Times have changed. The exact spot where I shot my first antelope became the boom town of Wright, Wyoming. Then the boom went bust and the town mostly went away. The pronghorn are still there, of course. That’s one of the things I like about them; they’re easily the most accessible and most democratic of our western big game. They may not be quite as readily hunted as whitetails in most of the U.S., and they certainly aren’t as numerous as mule deer or elk-but our pronghorn remains an animal that, provided you have the foresight to apply for a tag, you can still simply go hunt and have high likelihood for success.

  Even back then we were probably unwise to drive several hundred miles without a place to hunt—especially in a hunting unit that’s mostly private land. Today, though, I suspect a hunter in a similar fix could still knock on enough doors in Wyoming or eastern Montana and find a spot. Much simpler and more sure would be to plan a hunt somewhere on the millions of acres of public land that checkerboard pronghorn country. Either way, it would make a lot of sense to plan a couple of days’ scouting prior to the season opening.

  The other obvious option is a guided hunt. As with most hunting, guided hunts tend to be more successful than do-it-yourself, and the chances for a large trophy are also somewhat better. After all, part of the cost is in coming to an area that’s pre-scouted, with the outfitter betting his reputation on your success. Having said that, unlike much of our more exotic western species, a guide really isn’t necessary for pronghorn, provided you have a bit more time to spare and can get a hunting vehicle into pronghorn country. If you’re short on time or it’s just too far to drive, then an outfitted hunt makes the most sense. The good news again, is that pronghorn hunts are relatively simple to outfit and thus the costs—even for the best guided hunts—are comparatively low.

 
Excepting extra doe permits in some units, virtually all pronghorn permits are on a drawing today. The primary exceptions are landowner tags, available in new Mexico, Texas and perhaps a couple of other spots. These landowner tags can be costly since they’re a sure thing. Otherwise it’s a take-your-chances lottery, with permits applied for in the late winter and spring. How tough the permits are to draw is generally a pure reflection of hunting pressure, trophy quality, or both. California, for instance, offers relatively few permits, residents only. The trophy quality is fabulous, but it can take a lifetime to draw. Arizona has easily the best pronghorns in North America, but permit numbers are low and the tags almost impossible to draw. Wyoming has far and away the most permits—but some units are almost “sure things” and others are very tough. The Red Desert region, for instance, is known as a great trophy-producing area—but permits are very hard to come by. Off on the east side, where I’ve done most of my hunting over the years, the country is mostly public land and the trophy quality is thought to be average. Drawing is usually easy.

  The most overlooked pronghorn country is probably eastern Montana. There are loads of pronghorns and trophy quality is surprisingly good—but hunting pressure is low and chances for drawing very, very good. Colorado has limited numbers of pronghorns, but hunter interest is fairly low and the tags aren’t all that hard to come by. Colorado also offers preference points, which makes drawing a tag eventually a sure thing.

  Given a tag and a few days to hunt, a pronghorn hunt should be successful unless you’re inordinately picky. I rarely am with pronghorns simply because I love to eat them as much as I like to hunt them. All my life I’ve had friends turn up their noses at pronghorns. Much as I hate to admit it, I have to concede that those first pronghorns Dad and Henry Pohl and I shot were darn near inedible. I don’t know exactly why, but I have some theories. Since I learned better, I’ve skinned my pronghorns as quickly as possible, taking care to keep the hair off the meat and cooling them down as rapidly as I can. I also always bone the meat on the unproven theory that the bone marrow gives the strong taste. Handled quickly and properly, I’d rather have pronghorn than any other meat I know of. No, it isn’t like eating a sagebrush!

  The other thing about trophy hunting for pronghorns is that few areas hold surprises. If you want big pronghorns, you need to be in an area that produces them. This is true with virtually every animal, but I find it especially true with pronghorns. In most areas the bucks are of a type; you can find one an inch or even two larger than the average if you look very hard—but in the typical pronghorn area that produces lots of 12 and 13 inch bucks your are very unlikely to find a 17 incher. Truth is most areas are managed too intensively to produce huge bucks—and in many areas pronghorn longevity is limited by bad winters.

  For big pronghorns you need to look to areas with mild winters and limited permits. Northern Arizona and well-managed ranches in New Mexico are good bets. But, perhaps surprisingly, some of the highest percentages of very large pronghorns come out of eastern Oregon, northern California, and Nevada—all tough draw areas—and west Texas. Among areas that are accessible (meaning easy to draw) eastern Montana would be my top choice. Hunting pressure is light and the winters are generally surprisingly mild. My “best-ever” pronghorn came from West Texas, where the herd is small—but hunting pressure is light and the winters are mild, both factors combining to allow bucks to reach their full potential. My “second-best” pronghorn came from eastern Montana, which I consider an excellent and generally under-rated area. However, one should be mindful that Wyoming has the highest number of permits, the highest number of pronghorns, and consistently produces the larges number of Boone and Crockett heads. In terms of percentages the odds aren’t high—but Wyoming does produce her share of monsters.

  Generally speaking, after a day or so of scouting with good optics you should know what your area has to offer. If you’re lucky enough to hit pronghorn country after a series of mild winters—two or three can make a big difference—then even so-so country can produce surprises.

  Back in the ‘70s, after I got back from overseas with the Marines, Dad and I put in for pronghorn tags at Wright, Wyoming. We got there a day or so before the season and scouted around. That’s the kind of country that usually produces lots of 13 inchers, but rarely better—under normal circumstances. While scouting Dad and I saw several nice bucks, but what I was seeing simply didn’t register like it should have.

  I spotted a very good buck with long prongs and horns that hooked sharply backwards—distinctive as well as nice. He was alongside a waterhole about two in the afternoon, and I decided he’d do just fine if I could find him in the morning. Of course he was there, in some hilly country about a half-mile from his water. He and his does drifted over about three hills, and I drifted with them, keeping low and closing the distance. I don’t think it was yet eight a.m. when I shot him. He was as god as I’d thought, about 15 1/2 inches.

  Through the day we saw a couple more good bucks that we couldn’t get onto, but toward mid-afternoon a heavy-horned buck charged up out of a draw and insisted on filling Dad’s tag. This one was actually a better buck than mine—a half-inch shorter but much heavier all over. Both bucks measured over 80, certainly no mistakes. But with our tags filled, while we cruised around looking for prairie dog towns, we saw two or three bucks that were clearly bigger. There had been several mild winters, but I didn’t appreciate the difference that mad until that day. I appreciated it more the next year.

  A buddy of mine, Tim Jones, and I came up the following year. He’s a serious trophy hunter, so I’d filled him full of tales about the huge bucks we’d seen after we filled out. All they were was tales. The passing winter had been a hard one and the big bucks were simply gone. Plenty of antelope remained in their place, but all the bucks were of a type—12 inches, maybe 13. We hunted hard for several days and never saw a buck close to 14! I think the older bucks go first in case of a hard winter or serious drought—but I also think a hard winter or very dry spring retards horn growth, just like it does on true antlered game.

  Those horns that shed are just one of many unique features our Antilocapra Americana displays. His Latin name describes him as an antelope-goat, and indeed he has some characteristics of both types of ungulate. However, he is uniquely American and totally unique. His is a genus with just one species, and he has no close relatives anywhere in the world. He has coarse, hollow hair that provides superb insulation—hair unlike that of deer, goats or antelope. He can hear reasonably well and probably has a decent sense of smell, but his first line of defense is his legendary eyes. Those orbs are set well apart, almost bug-eyed. Unlike many animals, you cant really move on a pronghorn when he’s facing away or when his head is down feeding. He can almost see in a 360-degree circle, and it appears that his peripheral vision is as good ad the rest. We simply don’t know exactly how good those eyes are. I’ve often heard them compared to a man with 10-power binoculars, but I’ve read the same about sheep and deer. I tend to believe the pronghorn’s vision is the best of all—and however good that is, suffice it to say that you simply cannot move around within sight of them and have any chance of closing within range.

  I said a pronghorn’s eyes were his first defense. That’s not really true. The eyes are the warning system while the legs are really the defense. The pronghorn is built for speed, not only short bursts but staying power. Those spindly—seeming leg bones have the strongest tensile strength in the animal kingdom, and that barrel-chested body is all lungs. Or short bursts the pronghorn is almost as fast as the cheetah—but for the long haul nothing can touch him. When the eyes give warning he uses the legs - and he’s gone form danger in a flash of buff and white, mouth open to suck in oxygen. When I was a kid all I ever saw was running pronghorns—and I supported the ammunition makers quite well trying to hit them. Four many years now I’ve avoided shooting at running pronghorns like the plague. It can be done, but it’s to be avoided—especially when they’re r
unning in a group. When I was a kid I gave the leading buck what I thought was a perfect lead—and cleanly dropped the doe two antelope behind him!

  And yet pronghorn are hardly invulnerable. All too often hunters make the mistake of cruising pronghorn range in vehicles hoping to stumble onto one. That works. Worse yet, would-be hunters still chase them with vehicles in some areas. That works, too—but both solutions rob the pronghorn of his dignity as a game animal and cheat the hunter out of a truly fine experience. Stalking pronghorns is, to me, one of the most enjoyable hunts this continent offers. It can take time and sweat, and usually plenty of cactus spines—but is it fun!

  That dead-flat, treeless country they inhabit usually isn’t as dead-flat as it looks. There are usually unseen little gullies and rises that offer cover. If you spot your buck from afar, read the ground well, and take your time it’s amazing how close you can get. Sometimes.

  Oddly, while pronghorn country may look all the same to you it doesn’t to them. Pronghorns are surprisingly habitual in that featureless country. No, they don’t use the same trails like whitetail. But if you spot one in a certain area at a certain time of day and your don’t spook him unduly, chances are better than even he’ll be in the same general area at the same time the next day. Certainly within a mile or less. He’ll probably water at the same stock tank or pond at about the same time of day. And when pushed you can follow him for miles—but you’ll often follow him along a circular path as he eventually heads back to the starting point.