Vol. XC. MAY. 1920 No. 5 
A CHAMOIS HUNT IN SWITZERLAND 
CLIMBING ON THE SNOW SWEPT SLOPES OF THE DENTS BLANCHES 
IN PURSUIT OF THE AGILE LITTLE DWELLER OF THE HIGH ALPS 
By LORING ANDREWS 
4 f A H, but during the war it is not 
permitted,” deplored Victor, plac- 
ing my little 22 hi-power back in 
the corner of the room. 
“But look!” I explained, removing the 
barrel from the breech with a half-twist 
and packing the parts snugly in the 
bottom of my rucksack, “Who would 
know?” 
The old guide’s eyes twinkled. He 
took the rifle out, turned the parts over 
in his hands, replaced them again. “Ma 
foil I wouldn’t be surprised if you did 
get one that way — a l’ Americaine," he 
■chuckled, lighting a match and drawing 
the flame into the ample bowl of his big 
hazel-stemmed pipe, “Tell me when you 
get him, and we will go and carry him 
down together during the night. No one 
will know. But, quand meme,” whispered 
he in Swiss idiom, “take well care! One 
’s not allowed to even climb the Dents 
Blanches at present. Those dirty Savo- 
yards at the frontier, they would plug 
you full of holes and send you to follow 
"the chamois.” 
I leaned over the half-door of the 
chalet and watched his departing figure. 
As he swayed up the narrow village- 
street with the clumsy gait of a moun- 
taineer I thought to myself: “Poor old 
Victor — he of the blunderbuss tactics and 
noisy hobnailed tramp! What can he 
know of the light tread, of the subtile 
woodcraft, of the delicate art of hunting 
as nanded down by the Indian. 
The little Old World with its palaces 
and parks, ruins and tradition is all very 
enchanting to dream and sentimentalize 
in, but the call of the wild echoed in my 
heart. I had been called to my country 
by the war, but stranded in Switzerland 
because of passport complications, and 
the virile side of my pedigree was be- 
ginning to assert itself. 
T HE old Swiss turned a bend in the 
road and I came back to my room. 
My eyes swept over a line of shoes 
beside the wash-stand and rested on a 
pair of thick, black boots whose soles 
were studded and overlapped with about 
four pounds of iron nails. I scratched 
my head. I recalled many a slink through 
the wilds of Montana in moccasins,, and 
sighed. Then I noted a pair of little 
white sneakers hiding in the corner. This 
was an inspiration. I lost no time in 
slipping them on. Donning my faded 
green hat with the edelweiss in the rib- 
bon, strapping on the somewhat bulky 
and heavy rucksack and taking my ice- 
pick from the wall I swung out and down 
the stone steps. 
The evening air was clear, and frag- 
rant with summer flowers. The faint 
rumbling of the torrent below the pas- 
tures could be heard in the still atmo- 
sphere. Beyond and far above the steep 
The author 
pine-slopes, which encircled the lovely 
valley of the Val d’Hliez rose the Alps, 
cutting the blue sky with a horizon of 
jagged peaks snow-bannered, frigid and 
austere. 
Passing between the rows of gabled 
chalets, I soon began climbing the steep, 
stone-studded road which wound up 
through the pine-forests. I drew in the 
crisp, pure mountain air with eager 
breath and as I gazed at the three lofty 
peaks of the Dents Blanches, which 
loomed beyond, my heart was light with- 
in me. I had been scouting up there 
several days before, had seen signs of a 
herd of chamois and now felt confident. 
Half way through the woods, at the 
edge of a little pasture stood Victor’s hut. 
There he was, smoking his eternal pipe 
and leaning on the door. “You start al- 
ready? Eh bien, bonne chance!” he 
greeted cheerily. But when he noticed 
my foot-gear his demeanor drooped. “Mon 
Dieu! Where go you like that?” he 
queried, shaking his grizzled head por- 
tentously. He had made many climbs, in 
his day, and had seen many cracked 
skulls around the rocky base of the Dents 
Blanches. “Don’t quarrel with the 
chamois because he doesn’t go by the 
mule-path” I retorted, continuing my 
way up tht tortuous, stony road. The old 
veteran stood long at his threshold watch- 
ing me and puffing nervously at his pipe. 
Presently he was joined by his wife, with 
a milk-bucket over her arm, and half of 
his numerous progeny. Suddenly their 
view was eclipsed by a pine-clump. 
In about twenty minutes of steady go- 
ing the road dwindled to a mere trail. 
Here it zigzagged up a steep bank of 
shale, then cut into the side of a preci- 
pice above. Finally it emerged into a 
high verdant meadow stretching beneath 
the formidable ramparts of the three 
peaks, with their black walls of rock and 
gullies of snow. Surrounded by a lawn 
so thick and even and matted with alpine 
flowers that the foot sprang up at the 
tread, stood the little mountain hamlet of 
Barmaz. Here, at the main chalet, J 
Contents Copyrighted, 1920, by Forest and Stream Publishing 
