The Goat, the Mountain, and the Lesson I Didn’t Know I Needed

By Jamie Fiorucci, LMSW

In September 2026, my husband and I traveled to the Canadian Rocky Mountains for a mountain goat hunt. This was not just another hunt. Mountain goat hunting in the high country is difficult, physically demanding, unpredictable, and, at times, downright intimidating. My husband had told me that if he was ever able to harvest a mature mountain goat, it would be the gold medal of his hunting career. I understood what he meant. I just didn't understand yet what the mountain was going to ask of both of us.

Our trip started with complications that delayed us by a full day. One day gone. One less day to hunt. Eventually, we met our guide and headed into closed-off road portions of the Rockies, traveling by mules with one horse carrying our gear. And then we entered another world. Mountains. Trees. Cold mountain streams. Rocks covered in moss. Spruce. Yarrow. Mullein. Mycelium. Thimbleberries at the very end of their season. Everything felt alive. Even the things that looked like they were finished growing were still telling a story.

Our camp was rustic in every sense of the word. It was an old log camp that had been built decades ago, with gaps between the logs, an outhouse, a barrel wood stove that held a fire for short periods, mouse traps, a horse barn and grazing area, and a ramshackle cook cabin. There was no luxury. We boiled our own water for basic washing and used headlamps for light. At night, we crawled into our sleeping bags after long days in the mountains. And the mountains? They were incredible, especially when the snow arrived, especially under the growing moon, and especially when the full moon finally rose over everything.

Our guide had just turned 20. Born and raised in Canada, with outdoor parents and brothers, he seemed to have been built for this kind of life. He was fit as a fiddle and moved through the terrain with a confidence that made the rest of us look like we were visiting from another planet. He was a hunter himself, and this was his first season managing the camp alongside another guide. He did everything: guiding, scouting, wrangling the mules, cooking, stoking fires, managing camp. It was something to watch — this young man managing a dozen details, most of them on his own. Once my husband and I figured out the rhythm of camp, we were able to pitch in. We made a couple of group dinners, helped organize food storage, cleaned, and made our own fires. It was rough. It was rugged. And it was exactly what we had come for.

Every day we went out searching. We were scouting, hiking, climbing, watching, and waiting. And then we found him…. 

We had been watching one particularly mature mountain goat for two days. We followed him from a distance, learning his feeding spots and his resting places. He was beautiful. A brute. He was entering the later stage of his life and already past his prime, but somehow, almost immediately, I knew. This was our goat. There was no other goat. I could feel it.

The energy of that realization surged through me. I became instantly giddy. At one point, I actually walked back to camp alone through the running streams rather than ride my rough-but-gentle mule, Sally “Rose.” I needed to walk. I needed to think. And as I walked, I thought about something similar that happened the year before in Greenland when we found our musk ox.

Let me be clear: I don't hunt. I partner with my husband as a hunter. I am the helper. The pack mule. The cheerleader. The advocate. And over the years, we have learned that this works for us. We each have our own roles, and somehow those independent roles make us stronger together.

That night, we went to bed warm, excited, determined, focused, and ready for the next morning. We had no idea what was coming.

We woke up to snow. The mountains were covered with clouds. No morning hunt.

Uh oh.

This was not good.

Mountain goats can move incredibly quickly. One minute they can be standing on a ridge and the next they can disappear over the mountain, completely unseen. Unpredictable. Uncertain.

Around 10:30 that morning, the weather started to change. According to Garmin, we might get some clear skies in the afternoon. So we waited. And then we went.

We rode the mules for about 45 minutes to our destination. We unpacked and looked through the spotting scope.

He's still here.

He had moved feet above his original position, close to the top ridge, but he was still there.

Now we had a decision to make. We looked in every direction. We looked at the weather. We looked at the climb. And finally we told our guide, “Okay. Let's do it.”

I took one small pack for my husband and I with wet wipes, protein bars, an apple, water, and Gore-Tex rain gear. I was already wearing an old pair of Gore-Tex pants, complete with duct tape from another climb earlier in the trip. I brought another pair anyway. I was learning. Slowly.

Our guide, with his own pack of supplies, led the way. Down through fallen trees. Across a dried-up creek bed. Then up. Zigzagging through rocks, loose rock, more fallen trees. We climbed at a pace we could maintain, but it required every ounce of physical training my husband and I had prepared for. Every bit of it. 

At the top, it started snowing. Not really snowflakes. Tiny little snowballs — almost like miniature Styrofoam balls — falling from the sky and collecting on the ground. The temperature dropped, and I got cold. Very cold.

I found a sit spot far enough away that I wouldn't spook the goat if he was still there. But he was no longer visible through the scope. We made a gamble that he was tucked into a resting spot somewhere near the top. My husband wanted to be within 300 yards with his rifle.

So I sat. And waited.

While I waited, I tried to embrace the beauty around me. I used my five senses. Fresh juniper berries. Thimbleberry plants past their prime. Tiny mushrooms. Willow bushes. Thistle. Rocks. Dirt. Moss. Sky.

I thought about the story of Thor and his two goats — how he shared them as food with a starving family. A story about sacrifice. And suddenly, here we were, in our own moment of sacrifice. The goat would either be there and offer his life, or he wouldn't. There was nothing I could control.

And this is where Life started talking to me.

Jamie, you are not in control.

The elements are.

Your husband and your guide are.

You have to wait. The waiting was hard. It was cold. I was cold. 

And honestly? That scared the crap out of me.

Then I heard it.

A shot.

Two minutes later, another shot.

And somehow, I knew. My husband had seen the goat.

I gathered myself and climbed a little higher, finding a small trail weaving toward the very top. I didn't look down. It was steep.

I waited.

First, I saw the guide. Then my husband. They slowly started descending, maybe 50 yards. I wanted to be respectful and watchful. No goat. No cheering.

When I reached my husband, I asked, “Did you miss?”

“No,” he said. “I got him. We just have to find him. The guide watched him and knows where he went.”

And then we started walking.

Along the side of the mountain. Holding onto strong juniper limbs. Stepping carefully across loose rock. My feet slipped. My grip wasn't great. But I was determined. We had to find our goat.

And then...

There.

Cradled into the rocks.

He was there.

And what a place he was in. A steep ledge. Rock. A mountain dropping away beneath us.

At first, I was all cheers and gratitude. We found him. We had done it.

And then I wasn't.

My senses suddenly locked onto the rock, the steep angle, the exposure. I became acutely aware of how unsafe I felt and how worried I was about my husband and our guide. I tried to breathe. I tried to push past the fear. But the significance of everything hit me at once.* (see footnote) 

I suddenly wanted to leave.

I needed to get out of there.

Without saying anything, I started edging my way slowly across the steep cliff. My hands felt like they were holding onto almost nothing. I thought I was going to fall.

“Help me.”

“Help me.”

Our guide immediately came to my aid. He placed one foot beneath my foot, using his strong foot as a ledge. I looked at him. He looked like he was walking on air. Completely comfortable, standing upright on the side of a mountain. Meanwhile, my fingers felt like they were holding on for dear life.

Eventually, I made it to a sit spot near some rocks and trees. The ground felt more solid. More even. The guide returned to my husband to procure the animal.

And I sat.

By then, it was dark. The temperature had dropped. I had my headlamp, but the full moon was bright and luminous above us. Still, I was cold. So cold.

And they were taking what felt like forever.

I looked down the mountain and across the surrounding peaks and thought, Oh my God. How am I ever going to get off this mountain?

We had climbed something similar days before, and I had been completely wiped out. This descent was going to be harder. The angle was steeper. It was colder. Everything was wet. And I had a giant hole in the butt of my rain pants. My gloves were soaked. My feet were freezing, even with proper footwear and wool socks.

I had never been in this situation before.

On a mountain. Cold. Wet. Tired. Suddenly scared. And afraid.

I felt completely out of control.

My body started shuddering. I rocked back and forth. My breathing became rapid — so rapid that I knew I was heading into hyperventilation. I knew what was happening. I was having a panic attack.

And despite knowing exactly what was happening, I was still losing my shit.

I yelled toward my husband, “Get me off this fucking mountain. I am so scared.”

I tried to calm myself. I tried rational thinking. I tried to remind myself that I knew what was happening inside my body. But none of that changed the reality.

I wasn't in control.

I had to wait.

The goat, Jamie.

They have to harvest the goat.

They aren't done yet.

Twilight turned into darkness. The moon rose. Time slowed down. The descent waited below us.

And I was terrified.

Finally, my husband and the guide walked toward me.

My husband was calm. Rational. Gentle.

He coaxed me to slow my breathing, relax my body, drink some water, and eat something. At first, it seemed ridiculous. I wanted off that fucking mountain.

But I listened.

I drank.

I ate.

I breathed.

Slowly, I started getting my bearings.

And then I noticed something else.

The guide had the goat in his pack.

Again, did I mention he had just turned 20?

All we had to do was follow him down to the bottom. To the mules. To home.

We climbed up the mountain around noon. My husband shot the goat at approximately 5:30 p.m. We reached the mules around 1:00 a.m. We arrived at camp around 1:45 a.m. By 2:00 a.m., I was in bed and there was a fire going in the stove.

The descent was the hardest physical challenge I have ever experienced.

Every Barre class. Every yoga stretch. Every hike. Every time I climbed up and down the 500 stairs at Pine Mountain in Iron Mountain. All of it mattered. Because now my body had to maneuver through fallen trees, brush, steep terrain, ducking, jumping, slipping, sliding, and even sledding on my butt.

And yes, that giant hole in my rain pants?

It got considerably bigger.

At some point during the descent, my husband said, “This is the hardest hunt I have ever done in my lifetime. This is the gold medal of my hunting career.”

He was right.

I consider myself mentally and emotionally tough. Physically, I learned something else. I am tougher than I ever thought I was.

But toughness didn't mean I never got scared. It didn't mean I didn't panic. It didn't mean I didn't want to give up.

I wanted to give up.

I wanted someone to come rescue me from that mountain.

I wanted to be somewhere warm. Somewhere safe. Somewhere I could control what happened next.

Once I was finally in bed and able to process everything with my husband, I realized just how overwhelmed my body and brain had been. I had been cold. I was scared. I was exhausted. I was out of control. And I had a panic attack.

But I also learned something else.

Sometimes being strong doesn't mean controlling the situation.

Sometimes strength is recognizing that you can't control it.

Sometimes strength is waiting. Sometimes it is trusting the person beside you. Sometimes it is taking the water when you don't think you need it. Eating the snack. Slowing your breathing. Putting one foot in front of the other.

And sometimes, strength looks like yelling, “Help me,” and letting someone help.

We came home with the most beautiful mature billy goat.

But we came home with something else, too.

A story. An adventure. A memory that I know will stay with both of us for the rest of our lives.

My husband got his gold medal.

But somewhere along that mountain, I found something of my own.

A deeper understanding of what partnership means. A reminder that I don't have to be in control to be safe. And maybe the most important lesson of all:

We don't know what we are capable of until we try.

Sometimes we try and fail.

Sometimes we try and succeed.

And sometimes, somewhere between the two, the story unfolds into something far more profound than the outcome we were hoping for.

Maybe that's the real adventure.

Not knowing what is waiting at the top. Not knowing what the mountain will ask of you. Going anyway.

And discovering, one step at a time, that you are capable of more than you ever imagined.

With humility and gratitude, 

Jamie 🐐

*Footnote: At no point was our guide concerned about our ability to hunt or handle the physical and mental aptitude for this hunt. These details were all clear from the beginning. He was a natural on the mountain and kept us safe at all times. 

Jamie Fiorucci, LMSW is a mental health therapist with Caught Dreamin Therapy. 

Here are a few more photos from our Adventure to the Canadian Rockies. 

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