Goats do roam

Adrienne Fuller
Jul 24, 2017 · 7 min read

It was 8 in the morning, and the fog on highway 160 west out of Durango was showing no signs of lifting.

“It says it actually might snow,” Lucy said from the backseat.

I always felt bad when Chris and I offered rides to the desert, our guests cramped in the crew cab fold-down seats of our 1994 Chevy S-10 pickup. If Lucy wasn’t a super petite 100 lbs it could have been a lot more uncomfortable.

There was not a single side of that truck that did not have a dent in it. The headlight was held on with baling wire and duct tape. I hated that truck.

We were headed to Moab like we were most weekends, except this time it was not to climb, or explore a canyon, or run the river. Lucy’s pretty-much husband Jake and our friend Matt had left the night before in order to head down to Red Mesa to pick up the goat. They got to Indian Creek late that Friday night, let the goat out of the oversized pet carrier they used to transport it, and started the bonfire.

Donna had hooked us up with it, one of my husband’s favorite customers at the slaughterhouse. She was a 4H mentor for Red Mesa area, and coordinated with the kids to make sure they had someone to buy their animals after the 4H judging at the county fair.

“Great goat, really great animal, you’ll love it, it’ll be great, hard worker, that Ashley, she really did a great job with it. It’ll be great. You’ll love it.”

$150 bucks later and our group of rag tag dirt bags were the proud owner of an intact four year old buck.

By the time we arrived the next morning, our trip slowed down by spitting, icy snow and rain combined with our shitty windshield wipers, most of the fog had lifted and a crisp, blue sky remained. The towering canyon walls of Indian Creek were hugging us with a quiet stoicism, and the creek trickling by our campsite seemed to say, “here have a drink.”

Right behind us Gus rolled up in his 4Runner, with Simon standing on the rear bumper and holding on to the roof rack with one hand, the other in the air.

I wished for a moment that we brought our climbing gear. We first cracked beers, then unpacked, set up our chairs around the fire and our sleeping bags in the back of the truck. 11am beers only lead to one thing at night: you wishing you had set up your bedding earlier when you were soberer. So as a rule, we always got it out of the way first.

The guys had already piled large rocks on the coal bed of the bonfire and I felt the heat emanating from 5 feet away.

The goat was tied to a scraggly scrub oak tree outside the campsite, looking like it was bored, or tired, or both. You could smell it from a mile away, it’s nasty old goat balls dangling around its knees. As young adult men are wont to do, they gathered around and commented on the size of its nuts.

“Well, let’s do this,” Matt said. “We gotta get this thing in the ground.”

Gus loaded the .22 and Chris tested a few hanging limbs off of old dead Cottonwoods. He found a sturdy limb taller than the goat and slung his rope over it.

“Should we like… say something?” Lucy asked.

“Yeah, definitely.”

We gathered in a huddle and put our arms around each other. I led the prayer, offering thanks to mother nature for her bounty and to the goat for his sacrifice for our nourishment. After a few sentences I opened my mouth to continue and thought better of it. “Amen.” “Amen.”

Everyone stood back while Chris straddled the goat from behind and held both of its horns firmly. Jake raised the .22 and Chris told him where to place it.

“Make an X from the ears across the eyes. Right on that X in the back of the head, right between my hands, that’s where you’ll want to place it.” They steadied for a moment and then the goat moved its head. They started over.

“My husband needs his hands,” I murmured to myself. He did this every day in the slaughterhouse, but this was definitely different.

After 2 continued seconds of stillness, Jake pulled the trigger. The goat fell to its knees, its legs stiffening. It almost looked like it wanted to get up. Did he miss? Chris sensed we were wondering and said to the onlookers, “It’s okay; every animal does this, it’s just its nerves.”

When the goat fell still, Chris roped the ankles and then he, Jake and Gus hoisted it onto the Cottonwood limb. “Stick around if you want to see some guts,” Chris said.

He played the role of teacher and showed Jake how to drain and gut the animal without puncturing the digestive tract, then they buried the guts with a shovel 100 feet away. A coyote would enjoy that later.

Matt unloaded 4 quarts of bacon grease he saved from the restaurant, plus quartered apples, onions and whole heads of garlic. We laid out an assembly line, dipping swaths of cheesecloth in bacon grease and laying them flat on an oversized restaurant cutting board.

When Chris and Jake delivered the goat to the tailgate, we stuffed the empty stomach cavity with the fruit and vegetables and began the mummification. Each layer of cheesecloth was gently wrapped around the body of the goat until the entire thing was wrapped in cloth.

“Hopefully this keeps the sand out,” Matt said. The four men placed the goat onto a chicken wire screen and then lowered the rack onto the hot rocks in the fire pit. We took turns shoveling enough sand to cover the pit.

The rest of the afternoon was spent enjoying the cold air and warm desert sun. These are arguably the best months in the desert. Snow graces the tops of the mesas and the sun reminds you of what it is capable of. Crisp air fills your lungs while the warm rocks feel like an expensive spa treatment.

In mid afternoon, Lucy and I headed down to the river to take photos. She’s a creative type, always doing amateur modeling shoots with her friends, and I was happy to partake this time, even in my pearl snap shirt and Carhartts. We captured the crystal ripples on the water, Gus’s yellow lab running up and down the canyon, and the golden autumn leaves of the Cottonwoods.

The afternoon got away from us, and the sun set behind the mesas. Halfway through a handle of spiced rum and a 30-rack of Tecate, we realized that no one brought any snacks. That goat would be our only meal that day.

At 8 o’clock, drunk as hell, we dug out the pit and the guys lifted the chicken wire rack out of the ground. We laid the goat on top of a sandstone rock and Jake pulled out a quart-size tupperware of tzatziki. No one bothered to ask if there were any utensils or plates. We all just stood around the rock, grabbing handfuls of sandy, tender goat that fell apart in our hands, scooping it into the dish of tzatziki and then straight into our mouths.

The next 2 hours were a blur, where we just gorged on goat and yogurt and roasted garlic. It felt like a real-life Will Ferrell and Rachel Dratch lovahs skit. We peeled away layers of sandy exterior to reveal a smokey pink, tender interior that was even better.

Gus grabbed as many heads of garlic as he could, passing them around. “No, you don’t understand, man, this is like, the best part.” I brought out two bottles of white Cote-du-rhone that I had found at the liquor store the day before. The label said “Goats do roam.” I had to buy it. We passed them around in between handfuls of gamey meat.

At some point, we all passed out and woke up in the morning with splitting headaches. Musty meat smell was everywhere, I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t recall ever washing my hands, only going to bed, and the consequences were nauseating. Goat-scented oils were all over my jacket, my sleeping bag, the inside of the truck bed where we usually sleep when we’re car camping. The walls and ceiling of the topper felt like they were closing in; I struggled to find the zipper on my sleeping bag and unzip it with my oily fingers. I peeled it off of me as fast as I could.

I got out of the truck for fresh air and saw Jake standing on the edge of the campsite, looking down. I wasn’t sure if he was looking at something or trying not to puke. Empty bottles of rum, wine and beer peeked out of a trash bag tied to the truck.

We assessed the damage. The entire goat had been stripped clean of its meat, the tzatziki container was polished and charred, empty garlic skins floated around the edges of the fire pit. All that was left were a few mushy apples and an empty bottle of Goats-do-roam someone shoved in its stomach cavity. I pulled the bottle of wine out and threw it in the trash. We buried the remains with the rest of the guts, which were certain to be plundered by coyotes shortly after we left.

Slowly, dragging our feet, we wrapped up the campsite and packed the trucks. We agreed to take all the trash, if Jake and Matt could return the dog crate to Donna. We buried extra sand on top of the fire pit. When we pulled out of the site and back onto the 4x4 road, there was no trace of our presence except the tire tracks we left as we drove out.

“See you back in Durango.”

“Yeah, see you guys back in town.”

We got home and dumped our bags in the hallway. I headed straight for a hot shower. Chris called Donna. “You’re right Donna, it was really great.”


Originally published at www.adriennekfuller.com.