Pursuing The Alpine Ibex

 

A once-in-a-lifetime hunt amid the lofty peaks of the Swiss Alps.

Nearly a decade ago, I stayed in an Austrian castle, its walls adorned with architectural-looking alpine animal skulls. Perhaps the most intriguing of those was a goat-like creature, its crescent-shaped horns stretching far back, the ridges heavy and defined like knuckles on a clenched fist. It was the most noble of all European game—a steinbock, also known as an alpine ibex. Its sheer magnificence sparked my imagination. This, surely, was the Marco Polo sheep of Europe.

That these wild and majestic creatures inhabit the high slopes of the Alps seemed extraordinary to me, and I knew then that this was one beast I wanted to hunt in my lifetime. Due in large part to that first experience, mountains and their goats and sheep have gotten under my skin. Indeed, in the intervening years I have been privileged to hunt many other goat and sheep species including the mid-Asian ibex in Kyrgyzstan and the Beceite ibex in Spain, but my dream of hunting an alpine ibex persisted.

Finally, in 2017, in a system unique to Switzerland, I drew a tag to shoot an alpine ibex in the Valais Canton area of the Swiss Alps. A tag for one of these remarkable creatures is as rare as hens’ teeth and a literally once-in-a-lifetime chance. Many foreign and local hunters alike enter the state-run lottery, most for more than 10 years before being rewarded with an opportunity.

Each year some 200 ibex are taken in the French-speaking region, just 30 of which are mature males. Many of them are shot by foreign hunters like myself, each of us paying a hefty price for the opportunity.

Here’s the tricky bit for the greenies: The income generated from these animals funds the management of all wildlife in the Valais, as well as the rangers who perform this task.

Christian Bornet, my guide, has been a ranger in the Valais for 30 years, and it was clear that he knew not only every crag and crevice, but also all the locals—human and animal. Being born and bred there, he explained, is vital to his job.

“Locals would not respect someone who wasn’t from the Valais,” Christain said. “I know them, and they know me. They call me if an animal has been hit by a car or there is a problem.”

As for the animal population, Christian and his fellow rangers perform a census in the autumn and another count in the spring of all species found in the area, which decides their cull numbers for the year. There tends to be little variation, Christian says, “although if the winter has been very hard, it may have killed some animals, so we might shoot a few less.”

Older animals are selected for culling because, as Christian puts it, “it’s better to allow a 12- or 13-year-old bouquetin to be hunted, which will bring money into the community, than to allow it to die on the mountain of old age or starvation. Sometimes they get too cold and weak and are eaten alive by foxes.”

Bouquetin, if you haven’t already guessed, is the French word for male ibex.

We spent our first night at altitude in Christian’s rustic cabin, warmed by a log burner, speculating what the next day would bring and talking about hunting in the Valais. Heading out at daybreak, we started our ascent on foot, soon leaving the rusty-colored larches behind as we passed the treeline. Christian was as nimble as the quarry we were pursuing, but the conditions were tough. We were dealt fog, bad visibility and heavy rain as we climbed higher, aiming to get to the high altitude where we’d find our quarry.

“We have to get above the weather system,” Christian said as he kept up his unrelenting pace. “There is the mer de brouillard today.”

The mer de brouillard, meaning “sea of fog,” rolled in and out of the mountains, governed by miniscule changes in temperature and living up to its name.

Forced ever upward by the weather, we passed an alpine lake, the Lac du Cleuson. Then, finally, the sky cleared, revealing the snowline at higher altitude. With shards of sunlight now breaking through, we found ourselves in splendid isolation, the humdrum of the civilized world below hidden in swirling fog and mist.

“There, you see that peak?” Christian asked as we paused for breath. “That is the Bec des Étagnes, the highest mountain in the region. Étagnes is the female ibex.”

At 10,603 feet, the peak towered high above the mist, the snowpack white against the bright blue of the sky. The weather was certainly improving, as was my fortune.

We continued our climb, hitting the snowline, the altitude and frigid mountain winds now catching my breath. The snow was crusty and treacherously icy underfoot, having melted then refrozen multiple times, creating a polished surface with zero friction. I was incredibly grateful for the crampons I’d fixed to my boots, which gouged into this impossible surface. In a month this area would be impassable for all except those on skis, Christian told me, and they’d be going downhill—a much easier prospect than climbing the sheer slopes ahead of us.

It was then that we spotted a group of male ibex, eight in all.

Christian sighed.

“There is an easy side of this valley and a hard side. We have to go along the hard side if we want to get to them.”

 

He estimated it would be four or five hours before we could get within sensible shooting range, from 200 to 300 yards. We’d also need to gain some altitude—in between our position and that of the ibex was an icefall, crevices and a boulder field to negotiate. Climbing higher and higher, we often paused to check on the ibex and to rest, not only our legs but also our minds—climbing these mountains requires absolute concentration.

There were a few times when I lost my footing, setting my heart to pounding. A fall here would be lethal, with no trees to stop you tumbling down to rocks below.

“Slow motion whenever you move,” Christian advised. “That way you will not make a mistake.”

I took his words literally, putting each foot in front of the other with the stealth of a woodland stalker. Progress, though slow, was less perilous.

As the hours passed, we made headway, taking advantage of dead ground where we could and moving around the mountain face to keep downwind of the animals. Coming into the boulder field, we had to slow down even more because of deep crevices, and if the snowy slopes had been treacherous before, now every step could result in a limb-breaking fall.

Soon, however, we hit a plateau, giving us a breather from the hard work of mountaineering. Stopping to look at the ibex, which were now 400 yards away— still too far for a shot—we planned our final approach.

There was dead ground between us and the ibex that we could use to our advantage, but I’d have to make the shot at a steep upward angle if we were to avoid being seen or scented. Christian led the way, clearly considering each step to ensure we remained undetected. Finally, he stopped and signaled for me to set up for the shot. A huge boulder made the perfect rest—not only stable, but also hiding our forms from the animals above us.

I checked the distance with my Geovids: We’d made it to within 157 yards and an angle of roughly 45 degrees. Christian pointed out a huge male that he wanted me to shoot. Its horns measured between 35 and 37 inches in length, which matched the license I had drawn in the lottery based on the animal criteria.

The big ibex was scraping away the snow to feed on tufts of grass while slowly making his way toward us, stopping every few paces to scrape and nibble. We waited, the chill now seeping into layers I had removed, then put back on after four hours of sweaty toil. Then the ibex turned broadside to me, lifting his head to look out over his domain. Putting the crosshairs low on his chest to compensate for the angle, I breathed out shortly and fired.

The sound from the muzzle blast echoed around the mountain, completely disguising the thud of a bullet strike. The ibex ran forward a few paces before dropping dramatically, spraying snow high into the air as he fell more than 100 yards, careening down the ice, and reminding me of my plight should I lose my own footing.

“Perfect shot,” Christian said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Now the work begins.”

It took another 30 minutes before we finally reached the carcass. What a creature! His majestic horns, 37 inches in length, bore the signs of age and the life he had enjoyed in his mountain kingdom. As I touched the gnarled tips, a wave of gratitude for having been granted this privilege swept over me.

Christian calculated the animal’s age, counting not the knuckles but the inner ridges of the horn, and proclaiming him to be 12 years old. This larger-than-average beast weighed 220 pounds.

“The ibex are at their heaviest at this time of year, as they need to store as much energy as possible for the winter,” Christian explained.

It would be impossible to carry the carcass back down the mountain—and far too dangerous to attempt to drag the beast. We caped it, though, for this was surely one for the taxidermist. Then, we quartered the meat, dividing the joints between us so it could be delivered to a local restaurant, Le Mont Rouge.

That night, as we dined on the backstraps of another mature ibex male expertly prepared by Loris Lathion, chef at Le Mont Rouge, I reflected on the day—on a hunt I’d always dreamed of, one I’d imagined so many times. The danger with a dream that comes true is that the reality often doesn’t live up to it, or once it’s realized, a sense of deflation kicks in from the knowledge that this was it.

This time, however, the reality more than surpassed the expectations formed when I’d first seen that ibex on the wall of the Austrian castle, and though I may never shoot another alpine ibex, the memory of this spectacular hunt, in these majestic surroundings, was enough to sustain me for a lifetime.