CHAMOIS DRIVING
What has been said will show that, to become a successful stalker, practice and early training in mountain work are, if not absolutely essential, at least very desirable, and even the possessor of these advantages has cause to pray for perpetual youth. As years roll by, even the keenest stalker gradually becomes more and more reconciled to the assistance afforded by beaters and other extraneous aids to outwit this wary game, and more and more satisfied with the buck carefully picked from the band as it rushes past one’s post in headlong flight, or in cutting short the earthly career of a tricky old veteran whose oft-repeated practice of sneaking through the line of guns unobserved was attempted once too often.
The following account of a ‘Treibjagd’ in the Duke of Saxe-Coburg’s famous preserves in the Hinter Riss in Tyrol will give a comprehensive picture of driving chamois at its very best.
In this vast preserve, consisting of a great strip of mountain country, a very sea of jagged ranges, stretching from the Inn Valley to the Isar, driving is made a fine art, the experience of fifty years assisting to no little extent the efforts of as fine a staff of keepers as can be found in the Alps. Sport can be obtained there with a luxurious ease that is in striking contrast to the hard fare and rough times usually the lot of the stalker. To drive chamois over an exceedingly rough country in a given direction is a very much harder task, however, than appears on the face of it. Take a tract of mountains, the selection for that day’s drive, five or six miles square, connected with adjoining ranges by numerous passes by which the wary game can easily escape; take the extreme uncertainty of the wind in these elevated localities, now blowing in the desired direction, now suddenly veering round, carrying the alarm for many miles to the keen-scented game, and undoing in one minute the most carefully planned manœuvre, and it will be realised how many obstacles and contingencies, often of the most unforeseen nature, must be provided for to make a drive successful. Where such large areas have to be surrounded a whole army of beaters would not suffice to keep chamois in the drive, and the ‘lappen,’ or flags, one of the most important aids on such occasions, have to be employed. These consist of many miles of strong cord to which at intervals of every four or five feet bright-coloured pieces of linen about the size of a pocket-handkerchief are fastened. These cords, resembling a laundry line hung low, are drawn on two sides of the tract to be driven, and are kept in position about three feet from the ground by rods firmly fastened into the rocks. Swayed by the breeze these flags wave to and fro, and under ordinary circumstances serve their purpose of preventing the chamois escaping that way. As a rule they are strung along the knifeback backbone of the mountains to be enclosed, jagged ridges peculiar to a limestone formation, where apparently only flies with glue on their feet could find a footing. Great care has to be taken in stringing these cords, as the ever-busy breeze makes simultaneous action necessary; and even then, when everything appears to work like clockwork, some hitherto unknown gap in an apparently perfectly impassable wall of rock will afford escape, for where one chamois can get the whole band will follow, and the day prove a complete failure.
Along the narrow glenlike valleys that intersect the Duke’s vast shoot he has constructed, so far as the ground permitted it, carriage-roads, and up the precipitous slopes, where practicable, carefully laid out bridle-paths wind and twist, enabling elderly sportsmen to reach the vicinity of their ‘stand’ or post on the backs of sure-footed mules or mountain-bred ponies. Leaving the central shooting-box, a charmingly situated little Gothic castle reminding one of a miniature Balmoral, at the comparatively late hour of 7.30 a.m., the four Hungarians take the break in good time to the furthest extremity of the valley which in its higher recesses is to be the scene of the day’s drive. Quitting the vehicle where the precipitous slopes begin to rise at an angle that makes the construction of even a bridle-path a matter of some difficulty, the genial host and his principal guest mount sturdy cobs, while for some of the more elderly guests mules are provided, and without loss of time the party, followed by eight or nine of the keepers, begins the ascent. The latter are fine stalwart Tyrolese, clad in their picturesque native dress: grey frieze jackets, black chamois leather knee-breeches, and greenish-grey worsted stocking-like leggings, leaving bare both the knee and the foot, which, where visible, are tanned to a mahogany hue; low heavily nailed shoes protecting the stockingless feet. For two hours we continue to ascend, presently reaching timber-line and the crest of the ridge, from which we obtain our first view of the scene of the drive. Here the riders dismount, for the remaining mile to the posts has to be done on foot, and as noiselessly as possible. The ground selected for that day’s drive consists of two vast semicircular ‘Kaare’—amphitheatre-shaped declivities two miles across, the sides being formed by steep moraines ending in great cliffs, a thousand or fifteen hundred feet in altitude. Along the jagged top of these walls one can see with one’s glasses the string of flags which were put up early that morning. The drive is to begin sharp at 12 o’clock, and as the beaters, some forty or fifty in number, are far beyond the furthest limit of the drive on the other side of the flagged ridge, punctuality is very necessary. Each of the four guests has allotted to him a keeper, who conducts him to his ‘stand’ or post, and as we part the German contingent wish each other the usual ‘Weidmansheil,’ sportsman’s luck, as prescribed by ancient custom. The drive is one of the longer ones, lasting between four and five hours, so the softest looking rock is selected for a seat permitting of a good view of the whole scene, and a layer of pine branches gives increased comfort. By the time the signal shot, which is echoed and re-echoed from precipice to precipice, warns the guns of the beginning of the drive, some luncheon has been disposed of, and if the wind permits it, even a cigarette can be indulged in without danger.
The result of the day would be very different were the breeze even at this late hour to chop round, for no power on earth can drive chamois into the teeth of a danger-tainted breeze; but this fortunately does not occur, and we can watch the drive from our point of vantage, and follow the details of it at leisure. On two small snow-fields lying well under the cliffs we can see small black specks. Closer examination with the glasses discloses two bands of chamois each some twenty in number; some are lying on the snow, others, mostly kids, are frisking about, the whole lot, till they hear the signal shot, being quite ignorant of the impending ordeal. Very rapidly does the scene change when the first alarm strikes their ears. The frisky kids, which a second before were playing about, now press against their respective mothers’ sides, while the older animals have jumped to their feet with amazing rapidity. Misled by the echo as to the direction whence the sound really came, they dart hither and thither, unable to make up their minds whither to flee. The next minute the bands separate into several groups, each under the leadership of a doe, who select different routes, each of which, however, will in the end probably bring them to the guns, though some sooner than others. The plan of the drive depends greatly upon the lay of the ground. In many cases the line of beaters, from twenty to fifty in number, is drawn from the bottom to the top of the mountain, and then at a given signal the whole line works along its flank. The crest of the ridge is flagged off and so is the bottom, if it is at all likely that the chamois will attempt to break through in that direction. The fourth side is occupied by the guns, and if there are not enough to stop the gaps and passes, short lengths of flags are strung between them, or keepers are posted who, when chamois approach, show themselves and cause the game to turn back into the drive, and try for some other place of escape till they finally come to one of the guns. In other drives the two side lines of flags are curved inwards till the extremities almost meet, and that is usually the best post; for chamois on getting to the ‘lappen’ turn one way or another, dashing along the flag-line till they reach an opening. In other places, again, where the mountains are very steep, and a large area has only three or four possible outlets by which the game can get away, flags are almost unnecessary, for the beasts must come by the passes, or ‘chimneys,’ or ledges, which of course should all be well known to the keepers, who make the configuration of the ground their special study. But only too often the amazing climbing powers of the chamois will at the last moment upset all the well-matured plans, and the hard-pressed animals effect their escape by some hitherto unknown ledge, or by a series of leaps down perpendicular heights that make the onlooker hold his breath with astonishment. Speaking of the wonderful climbing feats, space may be given to one or two actual measurements. Tschuddi’s eminently trustworthy figures are the following: a chasm on the Monte Rosa jumped by a chamois measured 21 feet, while a perpendicular wall, 14 feet high,[10] was jumped by a semi-tame chamois frightened by a dog; and the writer has measured a vertical depth of 24 feet, down which a wounded buck cornered by a bloodhound unhesitatingly ventured to leap without injury to himself. When in their flight suddenly coming upon the flag-line chamois will not always turn to one side or leap clean over it, but will sometimes boldly charge the bunting, and if the cord is not too old and stands the strain, the result is a chamois violently flung on its back. In a few instances they have been known to get entangled in the cord and strangled to death.
A somewhat singular and ludicrous result of such a charge once occurred to me, and may be worth repeating. It happened at a drive in the Hinter Authal, Prince Hermann Hohenlohe’s excellent preserve in Tyrol. There being but three guns present, flags had to be used between the posts. I was posted on a rock at the bottom of a steep and high slope of loose stones stretching many hundreds of feet upwards; my range of vision and of fire being unusually confined in every other direction. Two shots fired in rapid succession by my host, who was the nearest gun above me, put me on the qui vive, and not needlessly, for there, flying down the slope, bounded a chamois straight for my post. The Prince’s coup double had knocked over the companion buck, and the frightened animal was travelling at a terrific pace. On getting closer I observed, to my utmost surprise, that to one of its horns was attached what appeared to be a scarlet handkerchief, which fluttered like a pennant in the air as the animal pursued its headlong flight. The fluttering rag made it impossible to determine by its horns whether the animal was a buck, but its large size, strongly formed neck, and whole appearance confirmed me in my belief that it was a buck. On it came with the speed of a ricochetting cannon-ball straight down towards me, and would have passed me within a couple of yards had my rifle not ended almost à bout portant the days of what, on going up, turned out to be an old and unusually large barren doe! It afterwards appeared that several beaters had seen her in her wild flight dash against the ‘lappen,’ which were new and strong, and after turning a double somersault and being flung on her back, dash away with one of the red rags, pierced by one of the horns, fluttering from her head. What made the matter worse and earned me some chaff, was the fact that it was my hundredth chamois, and I had only a few hours before expressed the determination that it should be a buck and not a doe.
Chamois, to return to our drive, pursue different tactics when driven. Old bucks—and they, of course, are the special object of the ambitious sportsman—as a rule, try to steal away at the first sign of danger, after having from some prominent crag thoroughly inspected the whole ground. These wary old fellows proceed very cautiously: every ravine is carefully scanned before it is crossed and every couloir narrowly inspected, lest danger be lurking behind some rock or boulder. If the guns are posted on exposed points, good cover, and as perfect immovability as it is possible to maintain during a three or four hours’ drive, is advisable if nearer acquaintance with these old stagers is sought. Often has the writer watched old bucks approach and inspect some restless and fidgety gun, who, because he could not see any chamois, imagined no chamois could see him, than which no greater mistake can be made. Bucks will often stand for an hour at a time perfectly motionless, fixedly regarding some point to which their attention has been attracted. The does and younger generation of bucks are more easily startled than the fathers of the tribe, and they generally approach the guns in full flight, testing the nerve of the sportsman to a high degree, for it is no easy matter to pick out males under these circumstances. On the occasion I am endeavouring to describe, some ninety or a hundred beasts are in the drive, and soon the easily distinguishable right and left of the Duke’s Express are awakening the echoes, and as the fleeing band, after leaving two victims behind, dashes down the flag-line, the turn of the other guns comes too. About one o’clock another distant signal shot tells one that the beaters have reached the top of the flagged ridge from the back, and now we can see them clearly outlined against the sky. They remove the ‘lappen’ before beginning their exceedingly perilous descent down the face of the cliffs—a most desperate looking undertaking, which one watches with bated breath. Some seven or eight chamois trying to escape by a ledge up the face of the cliff reach the top from one side just as the beaters do the same from the other, and to see them wheel about on a band of rock only inches wide and dash down, leaping from projection to projection, startlingly exhibits their wonderful surefootedness. My turn comes by-and-bye, when an old stager, whom I have been observing for some time, makes up his mind to escape by the pass my ‘stand’ commands. Stealthily and carefully winding at every stop he makes, he slowly comes up towards the only remaining point, whence as yet no thundering note of warning has issued, and I am glad that I let the small fry which shortly before dashed past me do so unmolested. It frequently occurs that a sacrifice like that at the beginning of the drive is finally thus rewarded. In this instance, a second old buck an hour later is also fatally misled as to the safety of the route I am guarding. Soon after four o’clock the drive is over, sixteen chamois forming the ‘Strecke,’ as a very ancient custom of venery, i.e. the placing in a row of the day’s bag, is called. A stirring and picturesque sight it is when all assemble at the meeting-place, usually some bit of Alpine sward where sportsmen, keepers, and beaters mingle in eager discussion of the chief events of the day, and every head is carefully examined. To an active climber, joining the beaters under the guidance of a keeper is more exciting work than sitting for hours in one spot and potting driven chamois; but this, like stalking, no tiro should venture on, and permission to do so is often difficult to obtain.
As some adjoining country is to be driven on the morrow, the night is passed in one of the many delightful shooting-boxes, simply furnished chalets with wainscot interiors, dotted about on the timber-line regions of the Duke’s shoot. The entire month of October is thus devoted to driving, and never is ground beaten twice the same year, so that some idea can be formed of the extent of the shoot. Fine weather does not always, however, attend these occasions, for October in the Alps can make itself very disagreeable, with snowstorms and fierce gales that drift the snow in great heaps round one on one’s post, turning one’s body into an icicle, and cramping the fingers, so that aim at even the shortest distances, as the mistily outlined game flits past one in the driving snowstorm, becomes strangely uncertain.
In conclusion, a hint or two to those participating for the first time in a large drive may be of use. In the first place, if not expressly told to the contrary, it is wiser not to open the ball by firing the first shot. Such a premature warning may possibly spoil the whole laboriously laid out drive by causing the chamois to break back at a moment when the beaters have not yet been able to reach those points where their attempt could be frustrated. The writer has known more than one instance when a big shoot, which otherwise might have been entirely successful, has been spoilt by a shot fired very soon after the beginning of the drive by an impatient gun.
Another and last hint is always to find out from the keeper who posts one, not only the exact position of the next guns—information he usually volunteers—but also, if they are invisible to one, the limits of one’s own field of fire. Nothing is more disagreeable than at the end of the drive to find out that, by shooting perhaps a little further than was expected, one has shot beasts really belonging by all rules of venery to one’s neighbour. Such an oversight, arising from ignorance respecting these limits, once caused the writer on the occasion of a formal Court chasse very painful embarrassment by tempting him to fire at and, as bad luck would have it, also hit, at somewhat long range, four good bucks, which at the time—of course, unknown to him—were much closer to his neighbour, an exalted English personage, and which bucks, to make it worse, were the only chamois the latter saw during a long day’s drive. The consternation of the dumbfounded officials, when they discovered the result of their negligence in failing to give the necessary information, was lamentable to behold till the amiable prince very good-naturedly made light of their awkward oversight.