Tails from the Trails: The Elk Hunt
Reading Time: 6 minutes
After a dry, hot day and a few thousand feet of elevation gain, I make the final touches on our camp setup for the night. The goats are high-lined, with six of them strung in a weather-beaten stand of ponderosa pines on top of a ridge that will serve as our home for the night. I’ve found that while hunting, staying mobile creates more opportunities, so our camp ends up being wherever we put our heads down at night. I examine the final placement of my tent to ensure I can see the goats from the door when I poke my head out to check on them throughout the night with a headlamp. A snort or the sound of them all standing up will have me up and ready for action. Truthfully, it’s usually deer or elk wandering past our camp that causes excitement, but the occasional bear or wolf has taught me to appreciate having them close, even if it means being awakened by their intermittent grumbling or pawing at the ground throughout the night.
Tonight is another one of those nights full of excitement. It’s September, and the bull elk have begun their rut. A bull somewhere below us bugles, and it reverberates through the canyon; another responds off on an opposing ridge, boisterously challenging one another and hoping to attract the attention of a wandering cow. I make a mental note of his location; it’s unchanged throughout the night, and he’ll likely be there waiting for us in the morning.
Before first light, I break camp, using my headlamp to quickly stow my camp kit into a set of large roll-top panniers. I then use an electronic luggage scale to check the final balance. The way I organize my gear makes for a quick departure (my food and hunting kits are already organized the previous night). My camp kit rarely changes gear and has designated sides to maintain balance — a perfected system over hundreds of nights in the backcountry. Ziggy, a big traditional Boer that’s 290 pounds and 36 inches at the withers, usually manages this bulky load. With the various breeds and body types I have in my string, I’ve found each one excels at something different, and these larger-bodied goats are great for the big, bulky loads. As I quickly saddle my other goats, he’s the last to get loaded. We play a little game where he drags me around the campsite as I make the final adjustments on his rigging, and we’re on our way.
It’s cool this morning, and I have a light jacket on as we begin to slowly work our way toward the occasional bugle in the distance. The elk force us to drop down into a bowl thick with new growth from a fire 10 years ago. The occasional stand of ponderosas that survived serve as high-mountain bedding areas, deeply woven with elk trails from heavy use. These shady spots offer them a cool place to pass the time in the heat of the day and doze, and my herd has been known to take shelter in them for the same reason, often using elk beds as our own.
We take a moment to stop and rest in the shade. There’s a trickle of a stream running off the side of the mountain and a muddy depression the elk have gouged out while rolling around in these wallows to keep cool. The goats take an opportunity to drink, being cautious not to muddy their feet by standing haphazardly on bunches of grass above the murky pool. These goats may have crossed rivers and streams, but they’ll still do whatever’s necessary to avoid getting wet. This is the first drink they’ve had since midday yesterday. For these trips where water is scarce, I like to give them the opportunity to drink once a day, usually in the morning when I can also refill my canteens. Water is life in the backcountry, so I always make it a priority to get our fill whenever possible.
I pick a spot slightly upstream and dig out a small depression by shifting around rocks and scooping the cool, wet earth with my hands. I let the cloudy water clear, and then start pumping it through my filter. As I’m about to finish, we’re greeted by a herd of elk slowly ambling toward us. The goats and I huddle off to the side of their route in a small pocket of bushes just out of direct sight. Most pass without taking notice of us, but an errant calf stops at 3 yards and stares blankly at us before quickly shuffling away to catch up with the group. Elk and deer rarely spook at the sight of goats and are usually inquisitive. As long as we stay stationary or move slowly, they cautiously examine us and then move along.
Knowing we’ve tickled the edge of a larger herd, I slowly make my way through the dense brush, the goats trailing close behind me. Their panniers drag and scrape the brush alongside them, and I embrace this noise as cover for our movement, not at all unlike the sounds of a herd of elk moving through the brush. Suddenly, a large crashing noise comes barreling down from above us — a satellite bull thinking he’s found a new girlfriend. I watch the bushes sway as he makes his way toward us, stopping short with just his neck and head above the thick buckbrush. Wide-eyed and nostrils flared, he examines us. These satellite bulls will try to pick cows from the outskirts of the main group, and overwhelmed by testosterone during the rut, they can make impulsive and sometimes costly decisions. After a brief standoff, he goes crashing off in another direction in search of a more fruitful encounter.
Gently coaxing my goats to continue onward, we work our way deeper into the bowl, picking and choosing the path of least resistance. I look back occasionally to make sure the boys are keeping up. Navigating this rough terrain is part of what makes pack goats excellent for these backcountry trips, but it can be slow going at times. We encounter pockets of cool air, clinging on to the last remnants of the night’s chill, and I savor them as I wait for my stragglers. A short distance ahead, the forest is alive with the sounds of elk, too caught up in the energy of the rut to notice my ragtag group skillfully approaching from below.
I catch a brief flash of a bull coming in hot from my left as I quickly step behind a massive tree for cover. Waiting for our moment and not wanting to risk poking my head out and spoiling our hunt, I watch my lead goat, Titan, as he works his way through the brush toward me, his head hung low. He looks up and his ears point hard at something on my right. I swing my muzzleloader around to the right side of the tree as if in slow motion, and I feel myself bracing my left arm against the trunk to steady my aim while I shoulder my rifle and squeeze the trigger—an instantaneous reaction that feels like it took several lifetimes to complete. A plume of smoke signals the end of our hunt, but our work for the day has just begun.
NATHAN PUTNAM is a board member of the North American Packgoat Association. He and his wife, Jackie, own Putnam Pack Goats in Mountain Home, Idaho, where they breed SaberPine crosses and build pack goat equipment. They enjoy hiking and hunting in the Idaho backcountry with their goats. You can learn more about them at putnampackgoats.com or on Instagram @putnampackgoats.
Originally published in the September 15, 2025, digital issue of Goat Journal.
