Two Hungarians Hungry for a Kill

It was a crisp autumn morning when my father, Alex Bracewell, a seasoned mountain man with 65 years of wisdom etched into his weathered face, rolled into the lodge. He wasn’t alone. With him were Zoltan and Peter, two enthusiastic Hungarian hunters. Their mission was to be among the first in their group back home to proudly display mountain goat trophies on their walls. Their excitement was palpable, but so was their disbelief when Dad explained how scarce the wildlife is here compared to the bustling fields of boars and stags in Hungary. "Hundreds in one field, huh?" Dad had chuckled. "Well, you’re in for a different kind of hunt here."

The next morning, we saddled up for an unforgettable journey. Annalena, my beautiful and fiercely capable girlfriend, had worked tirelessly to get everything ready. Together, we wrangled the horses and packed them with care, ensuring we had all we needed for the journey. With the horses ready and loaded—Zoltan on Bravo, Peter on Jasmine, Dad on Playboy, me on Brave, and Annalena on Focus—we led our trusty pack horses, Phoebe, Pesso, and Chester, loaded with supplies and, hopefully, the spoils of our hunt for the journey home.

With rifles strapped to our saddles and spirits high, we set off in the early afternoon. The trail led us deep into the Stikland Valley, which lies behind the towering Bracewell Mountain. For five long hours, we rode through breathtaking terrain, crossing the infamous Billy Goat Wash. This stretch of trail left many wide eyed, a treacherous 200-meter-long rockslide, demanded utmost precision from our horses. One misstep could send them sliding to their doom. We crossed it cautiously, holding our breath with each step. The horses on the other hand, didn’t bat an eye—it was just another day in the office.

A few hours later, we arrived at a location where we had gotten lucky before: Nanny Goat Wash. Sadly, no sign of them today. At times we would find fortune and be home in time for dinner. Dad joked, "Maybe the goats got a memo we were coming."

In the afternoon we reached the heart of Stikland, a valley that felt like something you only read in explorer magazines. Towering peaks framed the lush basin, looming over you as we rode through the valleys heart. Streams of glacial water wove through meadows, carving incredible ravines into the mountainous terrain. It was the kind of place where the air feels crisper, and the world seems quieter. As we set up camp later on that evening, we scanned the cliffs and ridges for movement. Dad reminded us that hunting mountains goat was not only a test of patience but also of perseverance. Hours of watching and waiting can pass without a single sighting, only for the goats to appear for brief moments before vanishing again. That’s why they’re called the "Ghost of the Mountains" he would whisper.

Into the Wilderness

The next morning, Annalena whipped up another incredible breakfast, complete with fresh cowboy coffee brewed over the fire. It’s moments like these that remind you how much better everything feels when out in the wilderness. Energized, we saddled up the horse, packed Pheobe with supplies and set off deeper into the valley, leaving Annalena at camp to relax and look after the other horses telling her we'll be back before dark. 

The ride through Stikland was nothing short of spectacular. The valley floor unfolded before us like a painting, the Stikland River snaking through the grasslands, shimmering in the morning sun. Each turn in the trail offered a new vista: jagged peaks reaching for the sky, waterfalls cascading down cliffs, and the occasional eagles soaring overhead. Valleys and Mountain ranges branched off in all directions giving way to limitless hunting and exploring opportunities. We stopped periodically to scout the ridges for goats, spotting nannies with their playful kids but no solitary billies.

At the valley’s end, the landscape transformed itself. Thick underbrush replaced the winding pine trees, we had to navigate around boggy patches and unstable rockslides. Finally, we reached the head of the valley, where a glacier streams of turquoise water fed pools of ice-cold water. The sight was mesmerizing. We paused for lunch with the only sound heard was the snorting of our horses and occasional rock rumbling down the mountain.

Dad thought this was the perfect opportunity for a "practice hike," as he called it. "Let’s see what’s on the other side of that ridge. And if nothing else, it’ll get you boys warmed up for a real climb." While dad stayed behind with the horses, tending a small fire, we slung our rifles over our shoulder and began our ascent, eager to see what the next branch of the valley had to offer.

The climb was steep but manageable, making our legs burn yet rewarding us with breathtaking views. From the ridge, we glassed across the valley, spotting two massive billies far above a glacial lake. They were too distant to hunt that day, so we returned to the horses and made our way back to camp, arriving just before dark. Annalena had dinner ready, and we laughed around the fire, sharing stories and a flask of whiskey. The Hungarians joked about the emails they shared before coming and their expectations: "Kevan said there was a cabin up here where we’d sip whiskey and shoot down at goats from the porch!" We all laughed, agreeing that maybe next year we’d build that “ski cabin.”

The Big Day

The following morning, the air buzzed with anticipation. After a cup of cowboy coffee and a light breakfast we ventured back to the valley’s end, scanning every ridge and crevice along the way. Only sightings were nannies with their kids running and playing. As we neared yesterday’s spot where we had our "practice hike," there they were: three billies, including the two monsters. Excitement surged through us as we carefully approached weaving through the thick underbrush of the valley.

The goats vanished as we reached their last known spot. Dismounting and tying our horses to a patch of trees we mapped out our strategy for the climb. We wove our way up the reviene, pausing at every crest to carefully peer over, scanning for movement. The terrain was unforgiving, with loose shale and jagged rocks testing our every step. At one point, Dad and I split up, each taking a different route around a ridge. It was this decision that saved the day—while I found nothing but endless rocky slopes, Dad spotted the goats first, their white coats shinning in the sunlight as they soaked it in. Without him, I would have walked right past them, none the wiser.

We watched the magnificent creatures through our spotting scopes, studying their every move and deciding which of the three might grace our walls back home. The group consisted of two massive, well-aged billies and a younger goat trailing behind, learning the ways of the wild from his older companions. As we observed the goats they began shifting toward a sunnier spot—a move that played perfectly into our strategy. They descended into the shale valleys, giving us the chance to circle above them. We moved with painstaking care, each step deliberate as we closed in on the goats. The climb was grueling, loose rock teasing with every step to rolling over the edge giving us away. At last we found ourselves within 100 yards—close enough for a clean shot, but still requiring absolute precision. 

Peter and Zoltan moved with purpose, taking up positions at the edge of the cliff, their rifles lined up and ready. Every movement was deliberate and patient as to not give us away, for a goats eyes are sharp as an eagles. The plan was set: Peter would take the first billy that was sunning itself. We hoped that would cause the second to leap up, giving Zoltan a clean shot. Time seemed to stretch as we waited, watching the goats below. Peter’s rifle cracked, the shot echoing across the cliffs. The goat jerked, startled by the impact and staggered. Peter fired again, ensuring the kill and the billy collapsed, sliding down the ravine in a cascade of dust and rocks.

The second billy darted up, spurred into motion by the chaos. Zoltan’s rifle barked milliseconds later, the shot finding its mark with surgical precision. The goat dropped instantly, tumbling down the steep slope to rest near Peter’s kill. Meanwhile, the smaller goat, spooked and unsure, scrambled along an almost vertical cliffside. It paused briefly on a precarious ledge, peering back as if to understand the commotion before darting off to find safety, leaving its fallen companions behind. The hunt had unfolded like a scene from a thrilling nail biting movie, adrenaline was at an all time high, whoops and hollers erupted, cutting through the mountain air. Relief and exhilaration coursed through us, the tension giving way to pure celebration. I had a feeling Annalena may even hear our hollering back at camp. 

The Real Work Begins

With the hunt successful, photos captured with there beautiful creatures the adrenaline started to fade. The real challenge would begin: skinning and retrieving the goats. Dad, ever the workhorse that he is, started skinning the first animal while he asked me to fetched the horses. The trek down to where we’d tied them was an adventure in itself. "Didn’t we tie them to that bush? No, maybe this one! Haha!" It took some searching, but we found them. Riding back to the clearing below the goats was another process, maneuvering through a labyrinth of tiny ponds and hidden creeks tangled in the underbrush. We zigzagged our way up a steep grassy hillside, every turn and landmark committed to memory as I tried to piece together the route for the trek home. The task felt daunting; the adrenaline of the hunt had faded, leaving me to rely on instinct and a hazy recollection of the rugged terrain we had traversed earlier in the day. 

Back at the kill site, the real work began: skinning and packing animals on what felt like the side of a crumbling rock slide. The ravine’s terrain gave the feeling of walking on marbles, and every step threatened to send us tumbling. Dad worked his magic with the knife and started to skin the first goat like it was his masterpiece. “Hold this leg! Pull that! Careful, or it’ll flop down the mountain!” he barked as I scrambled to follow his instructions.

With the first animal skinned and quartered I crammed my backpack and began to descent the slide to where we tied the horses. Rocks threatening to roll out from underneath me with every step, occasionally I glanced back to see Dad expertly quartering the second goat. Once my pack was emptied by the horses and I caught my breath I began the climb up to the goats. I was huffing and puffing when my father yelled out “Remember the creek bed has better footing than the loose shale!” his voice tinged with amusement as he watched me zigzag like a drunk trying to climb the slippery shale.

The job was bloody and demanding, but with his guidance, we made surprisingly efficient progress. In the process I tossed some scrap pieces of meat to my hunting dog, showing her thanks for being so obedient. After what felt like minutes  my backpack bulging with meat from the second goat, dad slung the fluffy white hide over his shoulders, striking a pose like a Viking warrior straight out of a saga. “Look at me! King of the mountain!” he declared before wobbling precariously. He made it nearly 30 feet before grinning and saying, “Alright, your turn. I’ll leave the heavy lugging to the young bucks.” I staggered down the valley ladened with the trophy, catching myself here and there as rocks slipped from under neath.

Back at the horses we had packed our kills quickly but not before dusk had settled over the valley, dimming the landscape into shades of blue and gray. The fading light made every task feel more urgent yet slower. Shadows stretched long, and the uneven terrain became trickier to navigate. We worked swiftly, strapping the last bundles onto the horses under the glow of our headlamps. While the headlamps helped with packing, we couldn’t use them riding home—the bright head lamps benefit us while blinding the horses, leaving them moon blind. Instead, we had to trust our horses completely, relying on their instincts and the faint gray shapes visible in the minimal moonlight. Every step felt like an act of faith as we made our way back with complete trust in our mounts. 

We started down the steep hills I told the hunters to lean back, keep their balance, and stay centered in the saddle. It was moments where your fully relying on their instincts to take you home safely—though I wasn’t totally sure about Brave. Few weeks back he thought the mud was going to attack him and sent me yard sailing threw the air as he bucked in circles.  My hands held the reins in a death grip, I wasn’t about to kiss the dirt this evening. We made our way back dodging small creeks, keeping track of the bushes along with little land marks hoping this was the correct path. But then, a small miracle happened: Brave led us straight past a tree I’d marked earlier. Not only did he navigate the creek without a hitch, but also crossing it without a hitch. After that, I was feeling more confident in his abilities.

Of course, this wouldn’t be a real adventure without a little setback. At one point, we couldn’t find our way because Playboy had taken a different route earlier, and Brave wasn’t familiar with it. So, I handed the lead to my dad. For a second, I lost sight of him and Playboy—just a flicker of a white hat and a white rump as they plunged into darkness—panic hit me like a shock. But then I thought, if I didn’t hear him yell, I was probably safe. Right?

We kept going, and when we finally hit the main trail through the trees, a collective sigh of relief went up. The worst of the bushwhacking was behind us. But even that wasn’t without its surprises. The trees on the trail seemed to love coming a little too close to your knees. At one point, a branch reached out and stroked my face, I flinched so hard I nearly fell off the horse.

I let out a breath as we reached the last river crossing at the edge of camp. The end was in sight, and we were almost at camp. Then, just after we crossed, I spotted a flashlight ahead of us, shining from higher up than a person should be on foot. As we got closer, I saw it was Annalena, riding out on Focus searching for us. By this point, it was pushing midnight, and she’d been alone in camp for over 13 hours. I don’t blame her—it’s not easy being out there solo on your first hunt.

We rode up to her, assuring her we were safe and sound. I had to gently bring up a couple of important things because I couldn’t help but worry. “Please don’t ever leave camp like that again,” I told her, trying to get across how much it matters. “If you’re not here when we get back, I’d be the one out there searching for you, not knowing where to even start—and I’d be worried sick. Also try not to use a flashlight directly when you’re riding after dark,” I said. “It can moon-blind your horse and make things harder for both of you. If you do need to use one, shine it upward so the light spreads more softly around you.” Dad piped in softening the mood “Besides, you’re too valuable. Who else tends to the horses while making breakfast like that?" With a smirk we all rode back to camp eager to sit around the camp fire.

Homeward Bound

Back at camp the stories flowed faster than the creek we’d crossed earlier, and it felt like a mini-celebration just to be back. We hung up the goat hides to cool and arranged the meat on the poles like it was a meat Christmas tree. It wasn’t quite the feast she’d prepaired for us, but with Annalena unsure when we’d be back she’d given up on keeping the food hot and possibly over cooking i . Cold dinner never tasted so good after an adventure like that.

Everyone was exhausted, yet somehow still wide awake—probably from sheer adrenaline—and we couldn’t help but laugh about everything, even if it was just the exhaustion talking. For a few hours, we passed the time around the fire, cracking jokes, reliving the chaos of the experience. Eventually, we all decided it was time to crawl into our tents and try to get some sleep before the sun came up again.

The next morning, we packed up camp with a sense of relief and headed back to the lodge with smiles plastered across our faces. The ride back speed by, with jokes flying about the “sky cabin”. The only thing we actually succeeded at telling the hunters was that we shot the goats from above. We promised that if they were to return in the future we would make an honorary “Sky Cabin” for them!

On the final day, after all that riding and hunting, the hunters had racked up a total of 110 kilometers on horseback. Not bad at all! Bravo to all the horses—Jasmine, Brave, Playboy, Focus, Bravo, Chester, Pheobe, and Peso—who truely earned their grain after that hunt. For Zoltan and Peter, it was the hunt of a lifetime, stories they can share around camp fires around the world. For Dad, it was another chapter in a long lifetime of adventures. And for me, it’s just the beginning, a strong reminder of the bond we share trekking through the mountains, learning valuable lessons for years to come. 

- Aaron Bracewell