Tales of hunting: For some years now I have abandoned my first passion, fly fishing and that the Ahrntal Valley and its surroundings continue to host me for another reason: chamois hunting.
The memory of this year's opening is still alive in my memories, it will be that it was an exciting hunting day, so I decided to tell it to you too, who knows that I won't find you in this short story. Like all hunters I have propitiatory rites which, in my most irrational opinion, will make the hunting day go well. The first is to reach the hunting place many hours in advance, preferably one night in advance: sleeping on the spot seems to me almost to establish a physical relationship with the forest, with the sky, with the earth. Also there is the great advantage of being able to sleep a few more hours, and who goes to chamois hunting he knows what it means.
The alarm went off early on the first day of hunting this year too, too early. I put on the coffee pot made the night before and with the cup in hand I walked just outside the door, covered by a nice heavy wooden roof. Here is my second superstitious ritual: I look at the sky, I observe it carefully and I try to guess how the day will go. Clouds usually never lie. Whenever out of haste or out of necessity I have omitted these rituals, things have gone badly, so ...
When Giacomo arrives it is four in the morning; Off-road headlights on, rather low gear and caution in tackling the path of that house that we know very well by now, since I have been renting it for years. "Marisa still asleep?", Inquires about the state of health of my wife and my children who, when I enjoy hunting, relax in the mountains, and after some pleasantries, which we have never needed, I get into the car and let's go. It reminds me that a short detour will be necessary, we must also load Raimondo, a boy from the area who will take us “to the right places” he says, and I support him.
We arrive in the first "right place" at five in the morning. I spend the first five minutes breathing and cheering on nature. This is my third propitiatory rite, to show respect for the place that gives me hospitality. It seems that nature does not mind this, too bad for my companions, rather hasty. I take up my rifle, for the occasion I have brought with me a beautiful 257 Weatherby carbine and I start off. I can smell fir and larch trees almost everywhere: the smell is so pungent that I scratch my nose but nothing. Getting used to the outdoors and its scents takes time, but it doesn't get any better. When we arrive on the spot, Raimondo waves his hand to us: in the distance we admire a red lightning bolt that descends at great speed, a beautiful roe deer that seems not to be interested in our presence. I smile. It will be a good day. We position ourselves behind a large boulder that gives us protection and we wait. In this period, hunting is especially a matter of waiting. On the other hand, the place is perfect since we are sheltered and the chamois for pasture must necessarily pass us by. We see seven of them on the top just above our head. Sooner or later they will reach the grazing places. Let's wait. After a couple of hours, however, the wait no longer seems to us to be the winning weapon so on the advice of Raimondo we choose to change tactics and place.
Nice walk, Giacomo panting, the sun getting quite hot, and Raimondo talking about the essentials. Better say me, so I have the opportunity to enjoy this spectacular day. After half an hour we reach the second right place, but history repeats itself: we identify seven specimens on a peak not far from us, we wait, they do not move and I decide to reach them: it will be madness, but the approach seems to me the solution improve. I load my backpack and shotgun and just as I wave my hand to those two I feel Raimondo's hand grabbing my arm and putting me "sheltered" from the acute sight of the roe deer. At least five are coming down and they are aiming for it. It is likely that something or someone has frightened him. My superstitious rites never fail.
I take the shotgun and my rather trained eye immediately distinguishes at least two jharlings. They are quite fast and are the last in the queue. Soon I put them in my viewfinder but they keep overlapping, changing direction and the situation is getting pretty bad. I am about to give up when suddenly one of them stops and as if he knew I was under fire, he looked at me. It's my chance: point, shoot, but a second before I plunged my finger into the trigger he was off again. I blaspheme, take down some saint, and then laugh heartily. Raimondo thinks who I am crazy. He advises us to go in search of another “right place” and I follow him taciturn. For today I have had my dose of adrenaline and from today I have an open account with that wonderful jharling.