Matt McDowell pulled away from the spotting scope and turned. “We need to take a closer look at this goat.” Scott Tibbs, sore from nine miles in the saddle and dizzy in the high altitude, scrambled for his pack and rifle. Tibbs followed McDowell down through the scree, a descent of 400 vertical feet into the basin. Then they attacked the ridge.
In the thin air, his lungs burned with exertion. The tops of his legs were on fire as the hunters traversed shale slides where the rock shifted and slid underfoot, and pulled themselves up, hand over hand, through granite chimneys.