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As a flock of wild goats wound in and out among the crevasses and crossed the slender ice bridges of a glacier on Mount Rainier they appeared for all the world like a party of skillful mountain climbers.

Not until I had studied them for a few seconds through my field glasses did I realize that they were goats. There were twenty-seven of them, nannies, billies, and kids, strung out in a crooked line, single file. Once safely across this glacier they lingered to look round. The kids played, the old goats had friendly bouts, and one or two couples scratched each other. After a delay of more than an hour they set off round the mountain and I followed.

While crossing another ice slope they were suddenly subjected to a severe bombardment. A number of large rock fragments crashed down the steep slope, bounding, hurtling, and ripping the air with terrific speed. The goats were directly in the path of the flying stones, which for a number of seconds bounded over them and struck among them. A small stone struck an old billy on the shoulder and knocked him sliding for some distance. When he regained his feet his shoulder appeared to be broken. Though making every effort to control himself, he continued to slide and presently tumbled into a crevasse. He caught with his good fore foot on the ice and clung for a second, made one desperate attempt to push himself back and almost succeeded, and then fell into the crevasse and disappeared.

A few of the flock watched him, but most of them stood with their heads up the slope facing the wildly bounding stones. None of them ran; there was no confusion, no panic. It was, perhaps, safer for the goats to stand still, thus presenting the smallest target for the flying stones, than to rush forward or to retreat in the midst of the bombardment, for the rocks were coming down both in front and behind them. At any rate, the goat is a wise fellow, and this flock probably had experienced rock fire before. When it was all over the bearded old leader started forward with the rest again following.

Until recently most goats lived in localities rarely visited either by Indians or by white hunters. As a result, when first shot at they were not excited and were slow to run away. This procrastination of the goat while under fire, together with his supremely crude outlines and slow, awkward actions, led most early hunters and trappers to call him a stupid animal. But he is not at all stupid. Evidence of his alertness and mental development is shown in his curiosity and in his ability to readjust himself promptly to new dangers.

In localities where he was unacquainted with man the goat apparently made no effort to guard against enemies or to use sentinels. But promptly after the coming of hunters and long-range rifles he became extremely wary and sought look-out resting places of safety and had sentinels on duty. He is thoroughly wide-awake at all times. When surprised in close quarters he shows no confusion or panic, and retreats in a masterly manner. If one route of retreat is blocked he starts for another without losing his head. If finally cornered, he makes a stand.

Hunters and dogs cornered an old billy near me in the head of a glacial cirque, in what is now the Glacier National Park. The goat made his stand on slide rock at the bottom of a precipitous wall. He watched for an opportunity to escape, and made one or two himself. The dogs surged round him. He leaped at one, and with a remarkably quick move of head struck and impaled him on his sharp horns; with a twisting upward toss of the head he ripped and flung him to his death. In rapid succession he killed three dogs. The fourth dog was tossed entirely over a precipice. At this the other dogs drew off.

Finding himself free, the goat did a little desperate rock work to gain a ledge, along which he safely climbed. He stepped accurately, and though the ledge was narrow and covered with small stones there was no slipping and only a few stones fell. The goat defied and defeated this pack of dogs so coolly and easily that I could believe, as I had been told, that he is more than a match for a black bear.

I have never heard of a goat showing any symptoms of fright or fear. Fear with him appears to be a lost trait. It is possible that such a trait may have been detrimental to life in the daily dangers of icy summits and through evolution was long ago eliminated. The goat is decidedly philosophical, makes every movement, meets every emergency with matter-of-fact composure. In all times of danger, and even when dying, he retains mastership of his powers. A mother with a kid, retreating and heroically fighting off dogs while doing so, impressed me with goat spirit. At last cornered, she kept up the fight, remaining on her feet after she had been struck by several bullets.

The goat often does not die nor does he surrender for some time after receiving a number of fatal wounds, but fights on with telling effectiveness. I imagine he will absorb as many or more bullets, and temporarily survive as long, as any animal in existence. He has the vitality of the grizzly bear. Mountain goats, as the cowboy said of the western horse thieves, “take a lot of killing.”

This same day I saw a number of goats abreast coming head foremost down a nearly vertical smooth wall; they had complete composure. They appeared to be putting on brakes with hoofs and dew claws. Loose stones which they occasionally started might have been serious or fatal for one in the lead had they been descending single file. As soon as they reached a ledge at the bottom they stopped to look round, and one of them stood up on hind toes to eat moss from an overhanging rock. Two near-by goats of another flock were limping badly. Possibly they had been struck by flying stones, or they may have been injured by a fall. These two accidents appear to be the ones most likely to befall this or any other mountain climber.

The white Rocky Mountain goat really is the wild mountain climber. Of all the big animals or the small ones that I know, none can equal him in ascending smooth and extremely precipitous rock walls. That mountain climbing organization of the Pacific Coast which calls itself “Mazama,” meaning mountain goat, has an excellent title and one peculiarly fitting for mountain climbers on the icy peaks of the Northwest.

Like all good mountain climbers the goat is sure-footed and has feet that are fit. His stubby black hoofs have a dense, rubbery, resilient broad heel. The outer shell of the hoof is hard, but I think not so hard as the hoofs of most animals.

One season in Alaska I came close upon a party of seven mountain goats in the head of a little cañon. I supposed them cornered and, advancing slowly so as not to frighten them unduly, I thought to get close. They at once made off without any excitement. At a moderate pace they deliberately proceeded to climb what might be called a smooth, perpendicular wall. It leaned not more than ten or twelve degrees from the vertical. There were a few tiny root clusters on it and here and there a narrow ledge. After a short distance the goats turned to the right, evidently following a cleavage line, and climbed diagonally for two hundred feet. They went without a slip. Most of the time they were climbing two abreast; occasionally they were three abreast. Each, however, kept himself safely away from the others. As they approached the top they climbed single file, old billy leading.

This last climb proved to be the most ticklish part of the ascent. The one leading stood on hind toes with breast pressed close against the cliff and reached up as far as he could with fore feet. He felt of the rocks until he found a good foothold and clinging place, then putting his strength into fore legs literally drew up his body. His hind feet then secured holds and held all gained. Again and again he stood on his toes and reached upward, caught a foothold, and pulled himself up. Just before going over the skyline he reached up with front feet, but apparently found no secure place. He edged along the wall a foot or two to the left and tried, but not satisfied with what he found, edged several feet to the right. Here, squatting slightly, he made a leap upward, caught with his fore hoofs, drew himself up, and stood on the skyline. After two or three seconds he moved on, faced about, and closely watched the others. Each goat in turn, daringly, slowly, and successfully followed his precipitous course.

John Burroughs says that a fox is a pretty bit of natural history on legs. The mountain goat is just the reverse. I have never seen a big animal which, both in outline and action, is so much the embodiment of stiffness and clumsiness, just block-headed, lumbering wood sections. The fox is alert, keen, quick, agile, slender, graceful, and deft, and looks all these parts.

The goat is a trifle smaller than the mountain sheep. The weight of a full-grown male is about two hundred and fifty pounds. He has a heavy body, high shoulders, and retiring hind quarters; he somewhat resembles a small buffalo. His odd head is attached to a short neck and is carried below the line of the shoulders. He has a long face and an almost grotesque beard often many inches long. The horns are nearly black, smooth, and slender. They grow from the top of the head, curve slightly outward and backward for eight or ten inches, and end in a sharp point. The horns of both sexes are similarly developed and are used by both with equal skill. The goat’s hair, tinged with yellow but almost white, is of shaggy length.

In running he is not speedy. His actions are those of an overfat, aged, and rheumatic dog. He appears on the verge of a collapse. Every jump is a great effort and lands far short of the spot aimed at. Nearly all graceful movements were omitted in his training. Nearly all the actions of this woodeny fellow suggest that a few of his joints are too loose and that most of the others are too tight. He gets up and lies down as though not accustomed to working his own levers and hinges.

Many times I have seen a goat trying in an absurd, awkward manner, after lying down, to remove bumps or stones from beneath him. Holding out one or more legs at a stiff angle, he would claw away with one of the others at the undesired bump. Sometimes he would dig off a chunk of sod; other times a stone or two would be dislodged and pushed out. It seems to be a part of his ways and his habits not to rise to do this, or even to seek a better place. However, an acquaintance with his home territory gives one a friendly feeling for him. After seeing him composedly climbing a pinnacle, apparently accessible only to birds, one begins to appreciate a remarkable coördination of head and foot work.

Although the goat appears clumsy he is the animal least likely to slip, to stumble, to miss his footing or to fall. While the mountain sheep perhaps excels him in zigzag drop and skip-stop down precipitous places, nothing that I have seen equals the wild goat when it comes to going up slopes smooth and almost vertical. His rock and ice work are one hundred per cent efficient.

When it comes to what you may call durability the goat is in the front ranks. He can climb precipices and pinnacles all day long and in every kind of weather. When not otherwise engaged he plays both on roomy levels and unbanistered precipice fronts. He is ever fit, always prepared. From the view-point of many hunters the grizzly bear, the mountain sheep, and the mountain goat are almost in a class by themselves. They exact a high standard of endurance and skill from the hunter who goes after them.

These wild white goats are found only in the mountains of northwestern United States, western Canada, and Alaska where the majority live on high mountain ranges above the timberline. The goat is a highlander. Excepting the few along the northwest coast which come down to near sea level, they live where a parachute would seem an essential part of their equipment.

Many high mountains are more storm-swept than the land of the Eskimo. Storms of severity may rage for days, making food-getting impossible. But storms are a part of the goat’s life; he has their transformed energy. He also has his full share of sunshine and calm. Though up where winter wind and storm roar wildest, he is up where the warm chinook comes again and again and periods of sunshine hold sway. He is fond of sunshine and spends hours of every fit day lying in sunny, sheltered places.

During prolonged storms goats sometimes take refuge in cave-like places among rock ledges or among the thickly matted and clustered tree growths at timberline. But most of the time, even during the colder periods of winter, when the skyline is beaten and dashed with violent winds and stormed with snowy spray, the goat serenely lives on the broken heights in the sky. Warmly clad, with heavy fleece-lined coat of silky wool, and over this a thick, long, and shaggy overcoat of hair, he appears utterly to ignore the severest cold.

The goat thus is at home on the exacting mountain horizon of the world. Glaciers are a part of his wild domain; cloud scenery a part of his landscape. He lives where romantic streams start on their adventurous journeys to mysterious and far-off seas; arctic flowers and old snow fields have place in the heights he ever surveys; he treads the crest of the continent and climbs where the soaring eagle rests. The majority of goats are born, live, and die on peak or plateau above the limits of tree life.

The goat distinctly shows the response of an animal to its environment. Of course an animal that can live among cañons, ice, and crags must be sure-footed, keen-eyed, and eternally wide-awake. He must watch his step and watch every step. Again and again he travels along narrow ridges where dogs would slide off or be blown overboard; he lives in an environment where he is constantly in danger of stepping on nothing or sliding off the icescape. Certain habits and characteristics are exacted from the animal which succeeds on the mountain tops. The goat’s rock and ice climbing skill, his rare endurance, and his almost eternal alertness all indicate that he has lived in this environment for ages. His deadly horns and his extraordinary skill in using them show that at times he has to defend himself against animals as well as compete with the elements.

Commonly the Rocky Mountain goat lives in small flocks of a dozen or less, and his home territory does not appear to be a large one. Local goats of scattered territories make a short, semi-annual migratory journey and have different summer and winter ranges, but this appears to be exceptional. They feed upon the alpine plants, dwarfed willows, and shrubby growths of mountain slopes and summits. They may also eat grass freely.

Bighorn sheep also live above the timberline. In some localities they and the goat are found together. But sheep make occasional lowland excursions, while goats stay close to the skyline crags and the eternal snows, descending less frequently below the timberline except in crossing to an adjoining ridge or peak. Among the other mountain-top neighbours of the goat are ground squirrels, conies, weasels, foxes, grizzly bears, lions, ptarmigan, finches, and eagles; but not all of these would be found together, except in a few localities.

The goat, in common with all the big, wide-awake animals that I know of, has a large bump of curiosity. Things that are unusual absorb his attention until he can make their acquaintance. A number of times after goats had retreated from my approach, and a few times before they had thought to move on, I discovered them watching me, peeping round the corner of a crag or over a boulder. While thus intent they did not appear to be animals with a place in natural history.

In crossing a stretch of icy slope on what is now called Fusillade Mountain, in Glacier National Park, I sat down on the smooth steep ice to control my descent and bring more bearing surface as a brake on the ice. I hitched along. Pausing on a projecting rock to look round, I discovered two goats watching me. They were within a stone’s toss. Both were old and had long faces and longer whiskers, and both were sitting dog fashion. They made a droll, curious appearance as they watched me and my every move with absolute concentration.

I do not know how long the average goat lives. The few hunters who have been much in the goat’s territory offer only guesses concerning his age. One told me that he had shot a patriarchal billy that had outlived all of his teeth and also his digestion. The old fellow had badly blunted hoofs and was but little more than a shaggy, skin-covered skeleton.

Although his home is a healthful one, the conditions are so exacting and the winter storms sometimes so long, severe, and devitalizing, that it is probable that the goat lives hardly longer than twelve or fifteen years.

The goat is, I think, comparatively free from death by accidents or disease. Until recently, when man became a menace, he had but few, and no serious, enemies. Being alert and capable among the crags, and in defense of himself exceedingly skillful with his deadly sharp horns, he is rarely attacked by the lion, wolf, or bear. True, the kids are sometimes captured by eagles.

There are a number of species of wild goats in the Old World—in southern Europe, in many places in Asia and in northern Africa. The white Rocky Mountain goat is the only representative of his species on our continent. He is related to the chamois. Some scientists say that this fellow is not a goat at all, but that he is a descendant of the Asiatic antelope, which came to America about half a million years ago. This classification, however, is not approved by a number of scientists. The Rocky Mountain goat, Oreamnos montanus, is in no way related to the American antelope, and it would take a post-mortem demonstration to show the resemblance to the African species.

By any other name he would still be unique. Dressed in shaggy, baggy knickerbockers, he is a living curiosity. I never see one standing still without thinking of his being made up of odds and ends, of a caricature making a ludicrous pretense of being alive and looking solemn. And then I remember that this animal is the mountaineer of mountaineers.