Potential New Record Rocky Mountain Goat

A Rocky Mountain goat from Alaska was recently entered into the Boone and Crockett Club Records, and it’s likely to be the biggest goat ever killed in the U.S. 

Judd Manuel beat the odds long before he stepped off a boat onto the shores of southeast Alaska’s Cleveland Peninsula. His odds of drawing the one goat tag for the unit were less than .25 percent. He’d won the lottery, and he knew it. 

He had two hunting buddies with him, Lucas (early 30s) and Devan (late 20s). Judd is 53. They had all hunted sheep together. Once word got out that Judd had drawn the tag, they reached out to him, wanting to help however they could. “I’m enjoying these days of getting help from the young guys,” Judd says. “They knew how good of a tag this was. I didn’t even ask.” 

Judd grew up in North Carolina. When he was 19, he had three options for a station assignment with the Army: Alaska, Panama, or Hawaii. He didn’t realize the Army was in Alaska. Growing up playing in the woods and reading Fur, Fish, and Game, Judd had only one answer. The Army was happy to accommodate. Four years and one discharge later, Judd started work as a packer and hunting guide. That gig lasted nearly 30 years. Realizing he might not want to guide for the rest of his life, he worked for the Forest Service, then ventured further north to work full-time with the Park Service north of the Arctic Circle.

While he lives and works in Bettles, Alaska, the area where he drew the goat tag used to be his backyard. After spending a decade there, he had a good idea of where to find goats.  

The Hunt 

When he returned to his old stomping grounds of southeast Alaska in late August 2024, Judd and his two buddies were racing multiple storm systems. With any luck, they would actually see some goats to hunt through the clouds. In case of weather, they stashed a cache of gear at the beach, including warm clothes and beer. Then they started bushwhacking through Devil’s Club, muskeg, and steep timber. 

They were headed to timberline, to a spot Judd had scouted using Google Earth. He had also made plenty of phone calls to old friends, the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, and people who had hunted the area. “It’s one thing to know where the animals are,” Judd says. “It’s another thing altogether to get yourself there. It’s pretty extreme country.” 

As they approached goat country, one of the forecasted storms rolled in. They wanted to get close to goats but stay sheltered, too. Then the 60-mph gusts and rain hit. Each man had his own tent, and they hunkered down. “It’s not just that my hunting partners were willing to go; it’s that they were used to that weather,” Judd says. “You know you got the right partners when there’s zero complaints and nothing but enthusiasm.” For 36 hours, they stayed enthused. 

The weather slowed, and the skies began to clear on the second morning. Wandering from camp, they started to see goat beds, hair. Goats began to appear as well. They got up to a knob and all split up to glass. “Then Lucas comes running up the hill, saying, ‘Big goat! Big goat,” Judd says. “I didn’t really believe him. He didn’t know big goats any more than I did.” Even so, Judd crept over the hill to take a peek. Even after 30 years of hunting in Alaska, Judd admits that goats aren’t his thing and are hard to judge. But after setting eyes on that billy, “I didn’t know what it would score, but big is big. And it was big,” Judd says. 

The goat was bedded just 30 yards away. Judd stood behind some shrubby trees. Once the goat stood, Judd stepped out and shot him. The goat spun. He shot again. “By now, he’s standing over a cliff, and I thought he was going to take a dive,” Judd says. “I was thinking that I needed to hit him again before he launched. I hit him, and it flung him over the cliff. I guess he was going either way.” 

It had taken Judd days of travel just to get into goat country, and the hunt only took a couple of hours. “I bet we were up there 20 minutes from the time we started glassing to when I actually killed the goat.” 

As for the billy, it was lodged in a tree down a steep hillside. The team worked their way to it and tied the goat off to some trees so they could field-dress it under bluebird skies. “It was the prettiest day to kill a goat,” Judd says. “I didn’t end up caping him. I probably should have, but I save my money to hunt, not for taxidermy.” 

With horns and meat in tow, the team packed up camp and headed lower down the mountain to find some water to boil for freeze-dried dinners. The next day, they bushwhacked the seven hours back to the beach and sent a satellite message for a pick-up. While waiting, they had a couple of celebratory beers, toasting the goat and the hunt. When they returned to Thorne Bay, another storm hit for a week. They had used every bit of that day-and-a-half weather window. 

Judd, along with buddies Devan and Lucas, took advantage of a short weather window by spotting, shooting, and packing out this magnificent billy until the next weather system hit.    

Land of the Big Billy  

Judd is friends and hunting buddies with Jim Baichtal, a Boone and Crockett Club Official Measurer (OM) living in Thorne Bay. Jim wasn’t in town when Judd needed to return to the Arctic, so Judd left the goat in Jim’s freezer for safekeeping. “I opened the freezer and said, ‘Oh my god. This thing could be a world record,’” Jim says. 

Jim measured the goat at 57-6/8 before the 60-day drying period. Plus, meat still needed to be removed from the skull. After 60 days and a good cleaning, the skull was measured again at 57-4/8. Because the horns are among the top five All-time for Rocky Mountain goats, the score needs to be verified by a Judges Panel, which will be at the upcoming 32nd Big Game Award in July 2025. If the score is verified, Judd’s goat will be the largest Rocky Mountain goat on record for the U.S. and tied for the second largest of all-time. 

Judd knew the unit had the potential to produce trophy goats. “I’m not a big antler guy, but I didn’t want to shoot a dink on a tag that special,” says Judd.  “I’ve shot a lot of dinks in my day! When he stood up, his body size told me enough about his maturity. And on that tag and in that area, if you shoot a billy that big, you know it’s going to make book.” 

For reasons that elude researchers, the horn growth of Cleveland Peninsula goats surpasses other goat populations in southeastern Alaska. This helps explain why the peninsula accounts for 14 entries in the Boone and Crockett Club’s All-time records. Judd’s goat is second only to the Stinkine River billy killed by Justin Kallusky in 2022. Judd’s billy ties the previous world record killed by Troy Sheldon in 2011, also from the Stinkine River area. 

Ross Dorendorf works for Alaska Fish and Game as Ketchikan’s area biologist, who manages the goat population, among other species. He says that in the past couple of decades, studies have focused on getting an accurate count of how many goats call the Cleveland Peninsula home. The season in the southern portion of the peninsula closed entirely to goat hunting in 2003 out of concern for low goat population numbers. Further research efforts allowed managers to start a limited hunt again in 2020. But that doesn’t mean the population is booming. 

One study points out that goats on the lower Cleveland Peninsula are likely genetically isolated from other populations. This means the potential for inbreeding can reduce overall goat health and further reduce numbers. The study goes on to say that the habitat is atypical for mountain goats and unlikely to “accommodate more individuals.” 

“The research helped us realize how many goats there were,” Ross says. “The southern portion of the Cleveland peninsula is genetically isolated, and this is one population that took a dip in numbers. Now, we’re carefully managing the population for sustainable harvest.”

On the Down Low 

Since the hunt, Judd has been intentionally quiet about killing the goat. When people asked him about it, Judd admitted that he killed a good goat. “But I didn’t mention the 12-inch horns,” he says. “My fear is that some guy who isn't really going to hunt there starts putting in for the tag. I want my buddies to draw the tag, but at the same time, I want to celebrate that animal.” 

Since the goat’s cape is still somewhere on a mountain, Judd is going to keep it as a European mount. And he’s going to keep hunting and trapping. “I had a great hunt as soon as we left the dock, thanks to the crew that was with me,” Judd says. “Just getting out on public land has been instrumental to my happiness.” 

“The cool thing is that Judd is a wonderful human being, and he just wanted to go out and kill a good goat,” says OM Jim Baichtal. “The way I look at this, he made other people’s dreams come true for years. And I think it’s cooler than shit that now he gets to have something like this.” 

The Importance of Records in Big Game Management

When you enter your trophy into the Boone and Crockett system, you aren’t just honoring the animal and its habitat. You are participating in a data collection system that started in the 1920s and was refined by Club members in 1950. Today, there are nearly 60,000 trophy records. By establishing a records database more than 70 years ago, the Boone and Crockett Club established a scientific baseline from which researchers can use to study wildlife management. If you’re still on the fence about entering your trophy, we encourage you to read Why Should I Bother to Enter My Trophy. To the best of our ability, we ensure that the trophies entered into the records were taken in accordance with the tenets of fair chase ethics. Despite what some may think, the Boone and Crockett records are not about a name or a score in a book—because in the end, there’s so much more to the score.