Lucky With The Wind

“Lucky With The Wind” 

By Andrew Jacobsen

You could say this hunt had been in the making since 2016. That was the year I met a group of guys from the Sandhills of Nebraska, one of them was Zach Welch. I’ll spare the details of how we first crossed paths, but undergrad gave us a few memorable moments before life pulled us in different directions. In that time I started my bowhunting journey, Zach kept stacking harvest toward his Super Ten of North America. Eventually, we crossed paths again while finishing our education at UNMC. Zach graduated a year ahead of me, but somehow we both ended up in Alaska.

If anyone knows me well, they know I keep to myself. I enjoy being alone, especially when I hunt. I like doing things the right way, which usually means my way. Trusting someone else to plan a hunt, take the lead, and ask me to fall in behind them doesn’t come naturally. But Zach had lived in Alaska before I arrived. He became my go-to for anything hunting related. I probably drained his phone battery more than once with questions about gear, terrain, and logistics. To his credit, he never stopped answering. I didn’t realize it then, but this hunt would test more than my legs or my shooting; it would test my willingness to trust someone with every aspect of the hunt. 

When I first moved to Alaska, mountain goats were near the bottom of my list of species to hunt. It wasn’t that I’m not impressed by them, but growing up in the Midwest, I just never imagined I’d have the opportunity. That changed on July 10th when I got a text asking if I wanted to hunt mountain goats on the south side of Kodiak Island.

At the time, my dad had just arrived, and we were gearing up for sport and salmon fishing for the next few days. July in Alaska meant filling the freezer with salmon and preparing for the wave of visitors that comes with summer. I was already thinking about fall hunting, but mountain goats weren’t even on my radar. Up until then, I’d always hunted alone. I had never done an expedition-style hunt. I was a Midwesterner, comfortable sitting in a tree stand, waiting.

Over the few months, the goat hunt consumed my thoughts. I took in all the information I could gather from articles, podcasts, and YouTube hunts. Once again, Zach’s phone took a beating. I asked about everything: gear, terrain, logistics, and every random concern that crossed my mind. I dialed in my bow, tailored my workouts to Kodiak’s terrain, and constantly refined my gear list.

Finally, the morning came to start our journey and it started with a bang. We arrived at the airport hours before our 6:45 a.m. flight out of Anchorage to give ourselves plenty of time to unload gear and park. Zach pulled up to the drop-off, and I hopped out to start unloading the 13 days of food and totes full of gear. As I worked, Zach dug through his center console, his coat pockets, and every zipper on his luggage. He looked at me and said, “Dude, I can’t find my wallet.” You’d think our first adrenaline dump would come from the hunt itself. I envisioned the scenic flight across Kodiak, banking into our landing zone, stalking up a ridgeline, punching a goat tag, or maybe even a run-in with a Kodiak brown bear. Instead, it came with problem-solving on the fly. I paced the terminal, never knowing when Zach would come around the corner, but with two minutes to spare, we boarded. After landing in Kodiak, everything went smoothly. We made it to the floatplane dock, picked our location, waited for our pilot, and were airborne again.

The real fun started when we landed in a rainstorm. In the rush to get the camp set up, we chose what I would consider a subprime location. We unloaded and made camp in four inches of marshy terrain. Every step came with a slurp, and the cold Kodiak runoff felt like standing in an ice bath. Eventually, the rain passed, camp was up, and we glassed for deer. We spotted a buck the first night, pinning his location. We hiked around the lake to scout terrain and glass more. We also made friends with an ermine that showed interest in Zach’s Korean BBQ snack bites and added a few photos to the camera roll.

The next morning, we were out of the tent and heading toward the base of the first mountain by 8 a.m. The sun was out, the skies were clear, and “Captain Zach” had the plan laid out, whether I fully agreed with it or not. At the first climb, I realized how unprepared I was to keep pace with the 2014 Class D Cross Country State Champion. After the first vertical push, my only goal was to keep the distance between us under fifty yards. We continued to stop to drop layers and finally reached the first saddle, which turned out to be the honey hole of our trip. 

For the next four hours, we ridge-walked, peering over rock ledges and glassing every crevasse. The weather held with blue skies and deep blue lakes below. We watched blacktails feeding on a south-facing slope that seemed unconcerned with us moving a hundred yards away. 

As a light haze slowly rolled in, I got my first real taste of Kodiak weather. We spotted our first goats as the skies turned grey. I was peeking over a ledge, giving my legs a break, when I saw two billies bedded on a point just sixty yards away. As I tried to get Zach’s attention, sleet started hammering my hood with deafening noise, and killing visibility. Thankfully, he glanced back. The first stalk was on.

My inexperience hunting with others and my poor communication came to light quickly. Zach wanted to get into shooting position. I was still evaluating and surveying my surroundings. Indecisiveness shifted the plan between waiting and pushing closer. Eventually, we dropped one more ledge, exposing ourselves just enough to get caught. What felt like minutes was really seconds. Zach drew. I prepared for a follow-up shot. Then chaos with arrows flying and unharmed goats racing downhill as wind and rain intensified. I pursued the sure-footed goats. No tags punched.

Exhausted, cold, and beat, I started back toward Zach at the peak of the mountain. With the constant weather, we decided to start back to camp, glassing above where we’d seen the buck the night before. As we hugged rocks to shield ourselves from horizontal rain, I spotted my first Kodiak brown bear, directly in our path back to camp. With intense shivers, we kept our eyes on it as we worked downhill. It turned toward camp, spiking my nerves, before making a full U-turn and heading back the way it came. I checked the tension on my holster more than once on the hike back to camp. 

The next day, I was determined to prove my worth after the previous day’s hit to my ego. I led through the alders before inevitably falling behind once we broke into the open. After four more miles of ridge walking, we spotted a dozen goats three-quarters of a mile away. We dropped packs, rehydrated, and watched a cross fox hunt its lunch. We would have to drop 800 feet and then regain 1,200 feet. A plan was formed, and we headed out for another attempt to fill our tags. 

We side-hilled toward a rock slide opposite the goats, carefully avoiding loose rocks. Cresting the top, we found excellent cover. I led the final 300 yards, hugging rock faces and passing gear down sheer rock drops. Our final cover was a pyramid-shaped rock protruding from the slope. Most of the goats were bedded, or milling around without a clue what was about to unfold. 

Four arrows. Two goats. Both nannies. An archery double. I was in disbelief. Zach was ecstatic. Hugs, fist pumps, bow-wielding selfies. My first mountain goat lay forty yards away, Zach's only ten. 

We broke the goats down as shadows climbed the opposite mountain face. With daylight fading, we stashed meat and hides under rocks. The pack back to camp was brutal with over 3.5 miles, 1,500 feet up, 1,000 down. My feet burned, swelled, and throbbed. I told Zach I couldn’t stop. We leapfrogged our way back to camp with Zach stopping every few hundred yards waiting for me to catch up. Finally, we made it back to camp. That night brought foot cramps, mice crawling under pads, and later, laughter comparing our arrival to Tom Hanks’ rescue in Captain Phillips.

The next morning, we freshened our socks, applied Leukotape, downed electrolytes, and headed back toward the stash to recover the remaining meat and both hides. Retracing our steps felt almost easy with lighter packs and better spirits. When we reached the basin, we dropped our packs and took a moment to glass for bears. Seconds later, one appeared, cruising directly through the area where the carcasses had been left. We watched as it zigzagged across the slope toward a patch of alders. Suddenly, it froze. The alders shook. Then the bear turned and tailed it, away from the meat. We knew immediately there was another bear in there, and most likely, the damage was already done.

We worked our way down carefully. The ground around the stash looked like it had been run through with a rototiller. Zach’s remaining meat, hide, and skull were gone. My hide, tucked under an overhanging rock, had somehow survived. Quietly, we buckled our packs and climbed out of the basin, making the hike back to camp by mid-afternoon. With the sun out, we dried gear, rested sore legs, and that night shared a few laughs in the tent over freeze-dried ice cream sandwiches. Later, the sky put on a show with green and red ribbons from the aurora dancing overhead.

The next morning we were back at it, hiking toward the same range where we’d blown our first goat opportunity. The plan was to get me a deer and fill the freezer. I left my bow at camp and grabbed the rifle. Zach, committed to his bow-only mentality, led the way. As we crested the saddle between two peaks, Zach stopped, turned, and said, “Goats.” I laughed and shook my head. We were in for another rodeo.

Zach pushed ahead to get into position while I trailed behind, dodging falling rocks and optics. Trailing quickly and quietly, his stalk was perfect. His arrow hit, we watched the goat work vertically and then sidehill across the adjacent face until it finally expired. At last, Zach had horns to take home.

The pack back to camp was heavy, steep, and short, leaving us time to hunt again that afternoon. By 3:30 p.m. we were back on the ridge, this time to fill my goat or deer tag. As we ridge-walked and peeked over each side. We neared the end of the ridge before I spotted a group of kids, sixty yards behind us, right where we had just walked. We quickly backtracked and laid eyes on the rest of the group, around sixteen goats, including four solid billies. Zach spotted and sized them up while I settled the rifle between two protruding rocks. We waited patiently for the billy to crest, wanting to avoid losing him down the sheer drop below. When he finally stepped clear, the shot felt automatic. He dropped exactly where he stood. With weather moving in and daylight fading, we made a quick trip back to camp, planning to return in the morning for the final pack-out.

We took our time the next morning with goat tags filled and clear skies in the forecast. We reached the billy, finished breaking him down, loaded packs, and grabbed a quick snack. As we clipped our belts, I suggested we check with the air taxi to see if there was an opening for an early pickup. The night before, we’d talked about heading north to the Haul Road for caribou with the extra days off, if, a big IF we could get out. Zach sent an InReach message and the reply came fast: pickup at 4:00 p.m. We had two miles to go, 1,500 feet to drop, and a camp to pack up. All with under 4 hours to complete. We turned on the jets and bombed back to camp. With minutes to spare, we heard the engine and props closing in. I thought the excitement was finally over.

After loading all our meat, gear, and a full week’s worth of food onto the Beaver, our pilot, Phil, throttled toward the end of the pond. As he swung the tail, we beached. Zach and I waited, expecting him to hop back in. Instead, Phil backed us farther and farther into the far end of the pond. Then he jumped in, hammered the throttle, and we started to gain speed…slowly. From the back seat I couldn’t see forward, but out the side I could tell we were running out of water. I glanced at Zach and caught the uneasiness in his eyes as he side-eyed the pilot. At what felt like the last second, we lifted, just clearing the brush at the end of the pond. Once airborne, Phil turned around with a shit-eating grin and said, “We got lucky with the wind.”

As Phil piloted the beaver back toward civilization, we cut through the heart of Kodiak Island with serene skies. Passing over sharp mountain peaks and long alpine lakes. From the air, we could see goats scattered across rock faces, tiny white dots in a landscape that still felt immense. Staring out the fish-eyed glass of the plane a deep sense of gratitude set in. Gratitude for the invitation to hunt a place I never imagined I’d set foot in, for the opportunity to experience Kodiak in ideal weather, and for the miles shared with someone willing to lead, teach, and push when it mattered. I’ve always preferred hunting alone, believing that doing things my way was the right way. Kodiak showed me that sometimes the right way is trusting someone else, embracing the unknown, and letting an experience write its own story. The tags, the suffering, and the stories will always stand out and I will tell them to anyone willing to listen.