Chamois hunting. It looks like a dream but it is not. There is me and there is him, that beautiful male specimen of chamois. In fact, I am a bit ridiculous wearing my cape that disguises me properly, giving me an unusual appearance. Sometimes this technique worked. This time things didn't go exactly as I hoped. The story of a terrible frying pan? Not exactly.
Have you ever come face to face with a chamois? Ok we are about 300 meters away from each other, but he wearing that cape does not recognize me as a human being and looks at me curiously. He even takes a few steps towards me. He's certainly wondering what the hell of an animal it is. My heart is beating fast, I could let myself go to anxiety but I don't: in the throes of anxiety and emotion I did some really stupid things. I remember that a few years earlier the brilliant idea that flashed to me at this moment had worked. I had walked towards the chamois without looking at it, hidden behind the cape and hooded. There hunting that day had gone well, with great emotion and contained effort. I hope that things go well today too: the hunting day is almost over and making a mistake now would mean going home empty-handed. I rely on my gun, take a few more steps forward, aim properly and am ready to shoot. A few seconds before he presses the trigger, the beak turns, attracted by something and moves away. The blow that would have struck him actually landed on a nearby trunk. He doesn't even look at me, two jumps and leaves towards an alder grove.
I immediately think that the hunting day is over but my legs are not giving up and they are not listening to the brain. They set off in pursuit of the chamois that disappears and reappears while I run up the valley trying not to lose it. They don't even think about the fact that my breath and strength are about to leave me. I run as fast as possible. It goes up the valley, cuts through the grove and stops not far from a beautiful blueberry meadow. I stop too, placing myself behind a large stone. I lean on it, my elbows adhere perfectly before I even take up the weapon. The stone is cold and comforting. It seems to be playing: it hides, appears and disappears. When it is finally in sight, I observe it well. There are a lot of females around and I don't want to go wrong. I think about how to behave when the beak continues its ascent. I don't let him go for even a moment as he grazes peacefully. It also occurs to me to try the shot, it could be fine. Fortunately, my grandfather gave me a good school: groped is not a verb a hunter should ever use. “If you pull the trigger you have to be sure it's the right time. It's a question of conscience ”he told me, and he wasn't completely wrong. Whenever I'm hunting chamois it comes back to me. I think he left his soul in these valleys, inside the wind, between the clouds and the grass.
It is only thanks to his memory that I resist the temptation and avoid the second pan of the day. I decide to wait. And the male rewards me: he stops because he is attracted to another male who arrives suddenly and also magnetizes my attention. It's a show. The occasion is the right one: I aim, shoot and see him collapse to the ground. I keep him under fire for less than a minute. Nothing, he doesn't get up. Reaching it is rather tiring, but you always travel that stretch of the valley with great agility: you have the curiosity and enthusiasm of a child on your side. Recovery is, as usual, a ritual. I spend a few minutes with my prey that to make me happy has lost its life and at least deserves all my respect, I clean the animal, I tie its neck and muzzle with the rope so that it remains straight and I load it in my backpack.
I enjoy the return lost among the thousand channels that I could take to reach the car: it still takes a couple of hours to walk but on my shoulders I carry a wonderful treasure and memories that are priceless in my heart.