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ISSUE 166

King of the Dutchman

After hours of climbing steep terrain that would put even Conrad Anker on edge, we crested the final horizon, unveiling our base camp destination for the next nine days. The snow was deep, maybe too deep, and mountain goat numbers were historically low. Self-doubt crept into the recesses of my brain and my hunting buddy, Pete, was trying to keep his skepticism at bay as well. Had I waited until too late in the season? Did the mountain goats move out of the country? Was I going to eat my coveted Montana Rocky Mountain goat tag? The barrage of uncertainty was nauseating. But I’m getting ahead of myself.