Bill Swan of Chattanooga found himself a long way from home this fall. He came back to Tennessee with a handsome souvenir.

By Bill Swan

After peering through my scope for more than 20 minutes at the sleeping Altai ibexes, the strain was blurring my vision. We had watched this group of rams for almost four hours, waiting for the patriarch to stand long enough for me to shoot.

When it finally did stand, I wasn't ready. And so the cat-and-mouse game went on all afternoon with the animal rising for only 2 or 3 seconds every 45 minutes or so. Finally, my interpreter/guide, Hagil, upon hearing thunder, said that we could not wait any longer. It was now or never.

A bedded animal nearly 400 yards downhill is not a great target. I asked Hagil if he had the camera set. When he said yes, we watched my shot blow a large cloud of dust beside the sleeping ibex, which awoke in full run. To add injury to insult, the rain, thunder and lightning followed.

Every step on the rocks felt as if I were trying to walk on greased Teflon-coated rocks. Hagil is a 23-year-old college graduate who speaks four languages and is 6 feet, 2 inches tall. I had requested a chain-smoking midget for a guide, with short legs for slow climbs up the mountain. Instead, I was blessed with a basketball player.

This was my first trip to Mongolia, the land of the nomads, and I was looking forward to hunting in the mountains at 9,000-10,000 feet. Little was I to know that this hunt would be even more difficult than Rocky Mountain goat hunting, which had topped my difficulty list for many years.

My hunting partners for this trip were Chad Haney and Dan Atwood. We had flown from Atlanta for 14 hours to Seoul, South Korea, hung out for more than four hours in the airport, and then flown three and a half hours to Ullanbatter, Mongolia's capital.

Upon arriving, we were met by our guide and taken to our hotel for the night. The next morning involved a two-hour plane ride to Hovd, and, worst of all, a 12-hour ride in an old Russian jeep over rutted dirt roads to our camp about 50 miles from the Russia-China border. We were glad to finally get some rest in our yurt (the round tents used by Mongolian nomads).

After being awakened at an ungodly hour the next morning, we once again loaded up in the Russian jeeps and watched our driver put a hand crank in the front of the engine to start it. Next was a 45-minute ride to the base of the mountain. All I could think is, "Am I going to climb up there?"

At 7,000 feet, we were looking at peaks 3,000 feet above us. Climbing on the rocks was akin to walking on marbles. It was two steps up and three steps sliding backward.

The people of Mongolia are friendly and love the "crazy" Americans. If you plan a hunt there in the Altai Mountains, you should also plan on spending time in the gym in advance of the trip.

By noon, we had reached the top and were glassing the slopes for a suitable trophy. Unfortunately, my local guide was using my binoculars. My interpreter/guide was using my spotting scope. Now I can tell you that, in my eyes, the ibex is the most difficult animal to see in the rocks of the mountain, and without any assistance from my optics, I was for all practical purposes blind as a bat!

It was no surprise to me that my guides spotted a group of ibex halfway back down the mountain. Down we went, slipping, sliding and hanging on to anything we could grab to maintain our balance. But we could get no closer than 400 yards, which is when Hagil asked, "Are you able you shoot that far?"

I told him that I'd made shots at that range and I'd missed at that range.

After the shot mentioned at the first of this story, I added another miss to my hunting resume.

The rest of the day was spent descending the mountain in the pouring rain, thunder and lightning. I had never been so glad to see a Russian bucket of bolts in my life! Upon return to camp, we saw Dan's fine SCI ibex. He'd nailed it at 300 yards with one shot.

Unfortunately, the rain continued the next day with lots of fog on the higher peaks, and it ruined any chances for a spot-and-stalk. We returned to camp that night without seeing an ibex worthy of a chase. Spirits were low as we wondered if the rain would move out before our hunt was finished. Hagil had informed me earlier that there was about a 60 percent success rate on the Altai ibex.

Chad and I wondered if we were going to fall in the "40 percent," making the long trip home empty-handed. It was after the gloom-and-doom conversation when we walked outside of our yurt to see a beautiful sunset.

The next morning dawned with fog on the mountain, just like the docks at Liverpool. And there was no rain. As the day wore on, the sun began to show through the fog until the mountains became clear by lunchtime. As we reached the highest peak for lunch, my local guide (the mountain-savvy local) and Hagil walked over to the top of the ridge and began glassing.

After nearly an hour, they excitedly called on the radio and told me to come up and join them. The spotting scope was positioned perfectly on a band of ibex about a mile and half across the valley. My spirits rose, even though there is no sure thing in hunting.

Up and down we went around the back of the mountain, climbing, slipping and sliding for nearly two hours until our local guide motioned for us to stay back. He then inched over the ridgetop and slid back down, placing three small stones on the ground in a triangular pattern meant to show me the ibexes' positions.

The two on the right were the largest; the left one was the smallest. He then slid my vest on top of ridge and placed my .325 WSM in position facing the ibex he wanted me to take. As I eased forward and put the rifle to my cheek, there like an apparition was an old magnificent ibex 225 yards away, standing broadside.

Hagil whispered for me to wait, but after what I'd been through, there wasn't going to be any waiting. My shot took the beautiful SCI ibex through both lungs, though it ran about 15 yards in an effort to reach its fleeing buddies.

I'm sure everyone back at camp heard me hollering.

After many years of dreaming, I had my trophy of a lifetime, a super animal with 11-inch bases.

On the next mountain over, Chad heard my shot while he was making his final stalk to a bedded trophy 300 yards away. One shot from his .300 Winchester Magnum, and he also had a fine ibex.

We had a big night in camp celebrating our success. Even the thought of the jeep ride back to Ullanbatter did not diminish our spirits. The three of us had beaten the odds and were 100 percent for the hunt. The next day in the city was spent sightseeing and shopping for our families.

Editor's Note: Bill's trip was arranged through Mongolian Travel and Cabela's.

-- Bill Swan
Rack Magazine - December 2007
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