78 TWO CHAMOIS HUNTS 



The snow reaches to our hips, and makes most 

 painfully wearisome going. It is impossible 

 to see where one is stepping, and often a 

 fallen branch or the hidden bed of a stream 

 leads to a heavy fall. 



In a few minutes we are stripped to the 

 shirt. In spite of this the perspiration pours 

 off us. A fine bit of " training " this ! 



Every now and then we pause for a short 

 breather. And so we go on for nearly two hours. 



At last we get out of wood and reach the 

 bare slopes, for which I have no love. We 

 make for a lonely, weather-beaten fir which 

 stands defiantly on the remains of an avalanche. 

 Here we halt for breakfast. 



All at once we hear the well-known call of 

 a chamois. . . . 



There they are, coming straight towards us 

 over the snow plateau. 



First the doe and behind her the buck. 

 At this time of year the latter looks in the 

 distance almost like a bear. His beard waves 

 and flutters to and fro in the breeze on the 

 saddle. 



