Justin Christensen used to run all over the Utah mountains. Back in the day, his buddies dubbed him “the Mountain Goat” for his ability to cruise through the most treacherous backcountry terrain at a stunning pace. After decades of chasing big mule deer bucks in the Wasatch Range, Christensen knew the terrain and the habits of the animals that lived there by heart.
But he doesn’t get out in the mountains much anymore. Christensen has secondary progressive multiple sclerosis, a chronic disease that affects the central nervous system. MS basically causes the body to attack itself by mistake. That means Christensen’s once fit and healthy body is slowly weakening. He has trouble with balance and coordination, which has led him to rely on a pair of walking sticks. A really good day for Christensen is one where he doesn’t fall.
He was diagnosed with MS in 2014. At the time, he was serving as the chief of police for the small town of Escalante, population 821.
“I knew something was wrong because I couldn’t run anymore,” 54-year-old Christensen says. “I loved running, but I would trip every once in a while because my right leg just wouldn’t work right.”
The diagnosis was devastating for a lifelong outdoorsman like Christensen.
“That diagnosis was tough because I was very, very active. I couldn’t find anybody who could keep up with me,” he says. “It’s hard now. Walking has gotten really hard. And whenever I go anywhere, I have to use the walking sticks. I’ve about worn them out. Some days just really hurt, and it’s hard to do anything.”
Christensen shot plenty of big bucks and bulls during his heyday as a mountain hunter. But one critter that was still on his bucket list was a Utah mountain goat. For decades he had dreamed of chasing goats in his unit, which contains Mount Nebo, the highest peak in the Wasatch range at almost 12,000 feet.
The odds for drawing a limited-entry, once-in-a-lifetime mountain goat tag in the Nebo unit are incredibly steep. There are only nine resident “any weapon” goat tags for the unit and there would be more than 600 Utah applicants in 2023. But Christensen had 20 preference points to his name from two decades worth of applying and waiting. It was finally his turn to win the lottery.
“My days were numbered to draw this goat tag while I could still do something,” Christensen says. “I finally drew a limited entry, any weapon goat tag on the Nebo unit … It’s funny because nobody else in my family drew anything [in 2023]. It was like somebody said, ‘Okay, here’s your last hoorah, and everybody’s going to be there to help.’”
Getting Dialed In
Hunting goats in Utah’s Nebo unit isn’t easy. Mountain goats live in the worst terrain on earth: places most other animals (including humans) can’t get to. A successful hunt in goat country usually requires serious shooting skills, saint-level patience, and top-notch fitness.
Christensen has six grown children: Jacori, 31; Jaquel, 30; Brock, 26; Brittan, 25; Brayden, 22; and Jarrett, 20. All of them hunt and all were stoked to help their dad fill his goat tag.
Getting close enough to a goat to make an ethical shot is tricky for hunters in their physical prime, but it would prove even more challenging for Christensen. Stalking over steep, rocky terrain was impossible, so he knew he would have to stretch the limits of his effective shooting range.
To do that, he had a rifle custom built for longer shots. His rig was built on a Remington 700 action, chambered in 6.5-284 Norma, and topped with a 6.5-20x50mm Vortex Viper MIL-dot scope.
His son-in-law worked up a handload using Norma brass, 93 grains of Hodgdon H4831 Short Cut rifle powder, and a 143-grain Hornady ELD-X bullet. All that was left to do was for Christensen to put in the range time. After plenty of time getting comfortable with the rifle, he also confirmed his dope at elevation.
“About two weeks before the hunt, we drove up on the mountain so I could shoot at elevation,” Christensen says. “I shot at 1,000 yards, and it was right on. I was feeling pretty good, and my son-in-law was beaming.”
A Long Shot
Christensen and his family decided that he should wait until as late in the season as possible to time his hunt with the rut, when billies are less wary and often move down to lower elevations in search of nannies. But when early snowstorms hit Utah in October, Christensen decided it was time to make his move.
“We decided on the weekend before the rifle deer hunt and that everyone would come to the house,” Christensen says. “My daughter and her husband brought their horses, and we had side-by-sides. We were prepared to go just about anywhere.”
Christensen, three of his children, and their spouses loaded up their UTVs and took an old mining road up Mount Baldy the second weekend in October to look for goats.
“We honestly thought we were going to go for a little side-by-side ride. We thought we would go to where the road ends in a little saddle, sit up there, and not see anything,” Christensen says. “Then we were going to come back down off the mountain, load the horses up and spend the night on Dry Mountain. That was our plan.”
Those plans changed quickly when Christensen’s daughter Jacori stepped out of the UTV and said, “Hey, Dad. I think there’s a goat over there.”
After discussing whether the white object was actually a goat or just a goat-shaped rock, Jaquel pulled out her spotting scope to settle the debate.
“No, that’s a goat. That’s a good goat,” she said. “Get your gun ready.”
Christensen hurried over as best he could to take a look. Sure enough, the white blob was not a goat-shaped rock, but a nice billy lying down and facing the group. Christensen ranged him at 923 yards.
“We didn’t think we could get me any closer,” Christensen says, “So we’re lying there in this saddle just watching this goat, waiting for him to move so I can shoot. I felt real comfortable shooting at that distance.”
While he was waiting for the billy to get up and give him a shot opportunity, some other hunters in ATVs rounded the mountain and started driving their way. At that point, the goat stood up, but instead of turning broadside, he turned around and laid back down in the same spot. Only now, he was facing away from Christensen.
“We kind of got nervous hoping that those hunters wouldn’t see him and try to shoot first,” Christensen says.
Knowing that with his limited mobility he might not get another opportunity at a mountain goat from such a stable position, Christensen decided he had to shoot.
He steadied his crosshairs on the goat and broke a clean shot as his family spotted for him through their optics.
“I ended up hitting him a little lower than I wanted in the hind quarter,” Christensen says. “He was kind of hobbling away, so I shot him again. That time I hit him on the opposite side. That’s when he turned and tumbled down the hill into some pine trees and out of sight.”
As if to confirm the miracle, an annular eclipse passed right over them almost immediately after the shot, wrapping the mountain in an unearthly glow.
The Recovery
Now they had to get to the billy and pack him off the mountain.
“We took off to recover him, but that mountain is really pretty gnarly,” Christensen says. “I was going slow because I had to use my walking sticks.”
Jacori stayed with her dad to ensure he didn’t take a tumble while the rest of the family forged ahead to get to his goat. Almost five hours after he fired his two shots, Christensen managed to hike almost close enough to put hands on his goat. Almost.
“I couldn’t get the last 100 yards to the goat. Everybody else was over there, but I couldn’t get to it,” Christensen says. “He’d fallen down a rocky chute that I just didn’t dare try to cross. If I had fallen, that goat recovery would have turned into an emergency rescue. That was really hard. I couldn’t get any pictures of me right there with the goat where he laid.”
At that point, sunset was pressing down on them, and Christensen decided to head back to where they had parked that morning. He knew that hiking out of there in the dark would be far more difficult and dangerous for him.
“I was probably 300 yards from the trail when they passed me packing out my goat. Everyone was hustling because it was getting dark,” Christensen says. “I hadn’t even seen him yet. I only saw the white hair as they packed him past me.”
Christensen didn’t get the opportunity to lay hands on his once-in-a-lifetime goat until he made it back to the parked side-by-side he’d rode in on that morning.
“They bring him over and set him down in front of me, still tied onto the pack,” Christensen says. “I got to unwrap him like a Christmas present and see him for the first time. All I could say was, ‘Wow.’ I had no words.”
It was dark and cold, and everybody was hungry, so Christensen rolled his goat back up, and the whole group headed off the mountain with everybody smiling. When they got home, his wife gave him a good scolding for hiking so far across the mountain, and then fed everyone warm taco soup. They ate, laughed, and talked about the hunt until almost midnight.
“It was a good time. Nobody got hurt. We all made it in and out. I just didn’t get to put my hands on him right where he fell,” Christensen says. “It was a pretty cool feeling to know that I had waited all these years to try and get one and when it finally happened almost everybody got to be there. He’s not a record-book goat, but he’s a good one. Way better than I ever expected to get.”
Christensen isn’t hunting this year, not only because he didn’t draw any tags but because his body just doesn’t work like it used to. He feels blessed to have ended last year on such a high note and that he got to share the experience with his family.
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He’s also looking forward to picking up his goat from the taxidermist.
“I’m getting a life-sized mount,” Christensen says. “He has super-long, gorgeous white hair. I can’t wait to get him back.”
In addition to his mount, Christensen is having casts made of the billy’s skull and replica horns made for each of his children.
