My hunt for Himalayan Ibex started 18 months ago, when I completed a trek to K2 Basecamp. Our group was guided by Gul Muhammad, a wonderful man I came to admire and eventually call a friend.

Partway through that trip, I asked Gul what he did after the trekking season ended. He told me he guided hunters. That single conversation planted the seed in my head—an excuse to return to the Himalayan range and spend more time with Gul, a man who pushed me outside my comfort zone almost daily in the mountains.

On this hunt, I was joined by my hunting buddy Al. He was all in on chasing Ibex the moment I asked him.

After a weather-delayed start due to snow, we finally arrived in Islamabad to meet Gul. More bad travel news followed—the short 50-minute flight to Gilgit was canceled due to weather, so we had to drive instead.

Gul told us to prepare for a 12-hour drive. Fourteen hours later, we spent four hours in a small, unheated motel room, then got up and finished the remaining three-hour drive into Gilgit.

All the travel woes were forgotten when we arrived. Gilgit is a town ringed with mountains, and every view was beautiful. We had a great breakfast and then continued driving another five hours to the guest house where we would be staying—mostly under 15 mph due to road conditions.

We later learned this route was called the Silk Highway, once the main trade route from India to China. I would call it anything but silk.

We settled into the guest house, had dinner, and quickly went to sleep until morning.

The next day, Gul explained how Al and I should dress for the hunt. He told us he would be taking Al to a different area, while I would be guided by Wazire, a close friend of Gul’s. We would be hunting right outside the village where we were staying.

The day was sunny, 15 degrees, and calm. Two inches of fresh snow had fallen overnight, creating a blank mountain canvas. It’s hard to describe the beauty of the Himalayan mountains—it’s something you truly have to experience. One surprise to me was how many people from the local village helped us glass and spot Ibex.

Wazire found three different groups of Ibex and decided which one to pursue. We began our climb at 9:30 a.m. Our group included Wazire, myself, a government official (their version of DNR), two local men from the village, and a local shepherd to lead us up the mountain.

Wazire reminded me of what Gul had said that morning: don’t sweat, go slow. We did—until around 10:30, when the Ibex we were watching came down, then turned and moved away from us. We started back up the mountain, eventually traversing diagonally across the face for about a quarter mile to cut them off.

At that point, the “no sweating” rule was officially over. The snow grew deeper, the grade steepened, and the climb became relentless. At 2:30, Wazire told me if I could climb 20 more meters, we could set up for a shot. I said yes—but that didn’t quite work out.

Snow was up to our knees. Wazire cut switchbacks for us to follow, and for the last two hours I was holding onto the guide’s hand in front of me. Finally, at 4:40, we reached a spot where a shot was possible.

Wazire set me up with my .30-378 rifle, resting on my jacket over a rock. At 320 yards, I made the shot—and the celebration on the mountain began.

Wazire descended the mountain by sliding five yards with each step. As we started down, a full moon rose over the peaks, casting a glow that lit our entire descent. Eight kids and a few adults from the village came up to celebrate and help bring the Ibex down.

The kids were some of the old shepherd’s grandkids. I asked Wazire how old the shepherd was. He replied, “80.” I couldn’t believe it. Pays to keep moving.

In the end, we climbed 2,500 feet that day—and came down with an Ibex.

Every seasoned mule deer hunter knows that on a general-season tag, a mature buck isn’t given, he’s earned. They don’t just live on the mountain, they own it. And finding one that is next level in heavily hunted country takes more than luck, it takes months of grinding, glassing, and coming back when most guys hang it up.

This story started back in June. My buddy and I hit the high country early, climbing into that rugged Utah terrain. The kind of country that makes you earn every inch, loose shale, steep basins, and endless vertical climbs that feel like they’re trying to shake you off the mountain.

We set cameras, hiked ridges, and burned through long glassing sessions. But as the summer rolled on, our optimism started to fade. The big bucks just weren’t showing themselves, not to mention the year before we had a little PTSD from killing a buck we thought was big. Although still a great buck, he had serious ground shrinkage. That experience stuck with us, and we weren’t about to overhype another one.

Then one morning, I glassed up a buck that changed everything. He was running with a handful of others, but there was no question who the boss was. Good frame, deep forks, extras, the kind of deer that makes your heart rate jump just watching him feed. We recognized him immediately, the same buck we had seen the year before. Back then, he was a promising up-and-comer, and we knew if he survived another season, he could turn into something special. Now, standing in the glass, he had done just that.

We hunted that buck for over 14 days in total. During archery season, we watched him repeatedly, but that canyon he called home was brutal. It was steep, nasty, and full of swirling wind, the kind of place that eats stalks alive. I’d drop 1,500 feet, climb another 1,500, only to have him bed where I couldn’t get closer than a few hundred yards. Time after time, he slipped away like a ghost. And then, just like that, he vanished.

For nearly two weeks, he was gone. We checked every ridge and basin, running ourselves into the ground trying to turn him up again. Nothing. But we kept going, because quitting isn’t how you kill bucks like this on a general unit.

When muzzleloader season opened, we were back at it. I camped solo for the first few days, while my buddy planned to meet up later. Every day, I saw the bucks that had run with him all summer, every one of them except him.

Then came Tuesday morning. The air had that sharp, crisp edge that only comes in late September. I was glassing across the canyon when movement caught my eye. There he was, standing broadside on a bench halfway up the opposite slope. It was him.

I dropped my pack, took a deep breath, and started my move. To get into position, I had to sidehill around the canyon nearly half a mile. The slope was steep enough that every step wanted to send me sliding 30 feet downhill, and every bush I grabbed felt like it might come out of the ground. I finally got settled on a flat rock ledge about 200 yards out. I dialed my CVA Paramount, steadied my breathing, and squeezed the trigger.

The smoke cleared, and he was down. Just like that, one perfect shot, and weeks of effort had come together in a single moment.

Walking up on him, I couldn’t believe it. He was heavier than I thought, tall, deep forks, extras everywhere. My buddy and I just stood there smiling like kids. After last year’s disappointment, this one felt different. There was no shrinkage, no second-guessing, just a true high-country stud that lived up to the work it took to find him.

But the mountain wasn’t done with us yet. As we quartered him up, clouds rolled in fast. By the time we loaded our packs, rain turned to sleet, then to snow. We still had to climb out of the canyon and scale a ridge before we could start the nine-mile ride back to the trucks. Five hours later, we stumbled out, soaked to the bone, shivering, and grinning from ear to ear. It was the kind of pack-out you don’t forget.

That buck taped out at 191 3/8 inches, an incredible deer, but what made him special wasn’t just the score. It was the grind it took to get him.

Anyone who hunts general-season mule deer in Utah knows how rare it is to find a buck like that, and even rarer to kill him. These deer don’t come easy. They’re known, hunted, and educated long before the season ever opens. The guys who consistently tag mature bucks on general units aren’t the lucky ones, they’re the ones who put in the time, keep showing up, and never let the mountain break them.

For me, that’s what this hunt was about. Persistence. Commitment. And the reminder that in the high country, success doesn’t belong to the hunter who wants it the most, it belongs to the one who refuses to quit.