Chasing Shadows in the Pyrenees: The Hunt for Canigó's Sacred Chamois

Time has filled the high peaks of Canigó with countless hunting tales: endless waits for old bears decimating flocks, wolves that preyed on children —felled by buckshot and displayed in town squares— and hunters who vanished forever, lured by the call of the capercaillie. Yet, among all the legends of mythical beasts, only one has endured to this day: the true guardian of Canigó's Sacred Fire, the Pyrenean chamois.

The day broke clear in the sky and frozen on the ground that January morning. Both Jean Luc and I would have given anything for the warmth of a bonfire —sacred or not. Soon, I forgot about the cold, focusing instead on keeping up with my Pyrenean friend, who, with near-sherpa skill, began a near-vertical ascent toward Puig de Tres Esteles. From its ridge, we aimed to scout the San Martín Valley and Plà de’n Guillem for our quarry.

The first cabradas appeared with the dawn's first light: females with young, a few second-year males… But one head stood out: a female with a gurrumino —a pity, ego te absolvo! Orphaned kids aren't always adopted by the herd, so we chose to keep searching. We had two permits —both for adult chamois— and held out hope of encountering the elusive old guardian.

It took less than half an hour to spot another group of three animals. Males! And one looked promising. I set my backpack down and scanned through the scope as the small group ascended calmly, seemingly aiming for the Pic des Amoreux. They didn’t stop. Jean Luc, using the rangefinder, called out the distances: “Cent quarante (140), cent soixante-quinze (175), deux cent-dix (210)… Il ne s´arretera pas le maudit! (The damned thing won’t stop!)” I had him in my crosshairs and trusted his curiosity would betray him before he crested the peak. Voilahop! There he was—turning his head for two seconds to glance back. The 6.5 cracked, and I heard the “tap!” At 230 meters, just ten shy of the summit of the Lovers’ Peak, I stole his soul and made him mine.

By ten in the morning, he was packed in the bag, and we continued climbing. Canigó loomed white and pristine at 2,784 meters, still 500 meters above us. We crossed the Collada dels Vents and let ourselves be swept away by the view: Py, Sahorre, Vernet-les-Bains sprawled in the distance… High-altitude hunting always rewards the suffering it demands. That’s when Jean Luc spotted another group of animals basking in the sun on a scree slope. We approached as close as possible, settling behind a small rock that served as a lookout, about 300 meters away. Several females and young lay resting —there had to be an adult male nearby. We decided to wait.

We couldn’t get closer without entering a dense oak grove that would blind us to the herd for too many meters —not to mention the noise from leaves and loose stones. Jean Luc, using the spotting scope, located our target. The male lay discreetly at the grove's edge —a fine specimen, much like the trophy we’d already taken. We waited for him to rise and move, as there was little else we could do. We refueled with barely-edible —yet life-saving— energy bars, fruit concentrates, and chocolate. An hour passed, then two… The animals had no sense of urgency under the high sun. We napped in turns, one of us always keeping watch. Suddenly, a French hand shook me awake. “Ils bougent.” They’re moving.

Our male ambled lazily along the scree’s edge, still partly hidden by branches. An eternal wait until he stepped into the open, clearly aiming to cross without stopping. 320 meters. Jean Luc asked if I dared take the shot. “What choice do I have?” I replied. The chamois paused a few meters before reaching the opposite side, where he’d disappear again. My single-shot rifle rested atop the backpack, barely steadied by my right hand. The shot rang out. Bon tir, touche! A good hi t—but the animal remained on its feet. While I reloaded, he took a few steps and disappeared into the grove. Unable to finish him, I grabbed my radio and headed into the oaks. Jean Luc guided me with the other walkie. I feared he might revive and escape deeper into the forest, but I couldn’t rush: the steep incline and sea of leaves concealed thousands of treacherous stones. Finally, I emerged into a clearing, about a hundred meters above the animal. The shot had been true —he barely moved. Kneeling, I ended the hunt.

When I reached the chamois, I was alone. He was old —ancient, even. I stroked his hide, and before Jean Luc arrived, I had a few quiet moments to think of my father. Just months ago, I’d shared my hunting misadventures with him, seated in the old Chesterfield armchair. He’d smile and give me that laconic look, surely imagining far-off places. Now, I find comfort in believing he sees these moments —sharing in my triumphs, or failures, more closely than ever.

High-altitude hunting rarely offers many chances to those bold enough to challenge it. That January morning, Canigó showed us its kinder face, letting us take two of its guardians. But make no mistake: it will demand its price in due time. And we’ll be there to pay it…

Text and photos: Jordi Figarolas (Aventure Boreale)

Este artículo también está disponible en español: Los guardianes del fuego sagrado