In the rugged Tushar Mountains of southwest Utah, where wind-sculpted peaks pierce the sky, a creature of remarkable strength and agility reigns supreme. The mountain goat, with its alabaster coat and sinewy frame, embodies the raw power of a body honed by nature’s harshest forge. Introduced to these mountains in 1967, a small herd has grown to nearly 300, their descendants now threading through Utah’s high country, sovereigns of the precipitous heights.
On a crisp afternoon, with the sun casting a crystalline glow over the Tushar Range, we set out to track these elusive phantoms. Our ascent began on the southern flank of Mt. Holly, a 12,000-foot sentinel of stone and sky. Mountain goats are wanderers, their hooves tracing paths across terrain that defies human endurance. Knowing their penchant for roaming, we tempered our hopes of a sighting, aware that the odds were as steep as the slopes we climbed.
Above 10,000 feet, the air thins, each breath a labor. Laden with camera gear, water, and provisions, our backpacks weighed heavy as we navigated the unforgiving incline. By 11,200 feet, we reached a wind-battered saddle, lungs burning and legs protesting. Through long lenses, we scoured the craggy faces of distant ridges, searching for a flicker of white against the stone. The mountains, vast and silent, offered nothing but their stoic grandeur.
Dropping our packs, we paused to drink and eat, letting the alpine breeze cool our sweat-soaked skin. “Come on, goats,” we whispered, a plea to the wild. The summit of Mt. Holly loomed 800 feet above, daring us to continue. With no trail to guide us, we picked our way over rocky outcrops and sparse alpine grasses, each step a negotiation with the mountain’s unyielding terrain. At 12,000 feet, a panorama of ridges, canyons, and valleys unfolded, a mosaic of earth’s raw architecture. Yet, as we scanned the southern buttresses, our calls of “Nada!” echoed in frustration.
Then, a fleeting glimpse—two white specks against the emerald sweep of a western ridge. Our pulses quickened. Crouching low, we darted through a shallow gorge, moving like predators to avoid spooking our quarry. To our right, a lone billy goat emerged, its muscular form a stark silhouette against the sky. We froze, hearts hammering, as a procession of nannies, kids, and more billies appeared, traversing a slope 200 yards distant. For an hour, we watched, spellbound. The kids gamboled over rocks, butting heads in playful sparring, while their parents, cloaked in patches of shedding winter fur, grazed on sedges and mosses with quiet dignity. Against a backdrop of layered blue ranges, alpine flowers bloomed in defiance of the harsh terrain, and peregrine falcons danced in the updrafts, their wings slicing the wind.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, dodging storm clouds that ushered in a chill, the time to descend arrived. We scrambled down scree slopes and wove through highland forests, the fading light urging haste. The mountain goats, those indomitable sovereigns, remained etched in our minds—muscular, resilient, and utterly at home in a realm where only the hardiest endure. Their images, captured on film, are but a fleeting record of a wildness that commands Utah’s loftiest peaks.
Mark has spent 40+ years exploring and documenting all of Utah, and for the past five years he has been a weekly featured guest on Utah's KSL Outdoors radio show. He is the former Director of Tourism over southwestern Utah which includes areas...