Hunting in Europe is a lot different than in the US. Many years ago, while visiting in Germany, my friend took me to the Munich Hunting and Fishing Museum. Besides such interesting things such as an ancient full skeleton of an Irish elk- seven feet tall at the shoulders with an antler spread of nearly twelve feet- I noticed something unusual about the old rifles on display. Every gun was extremely ornate to the point of being more of a showpiece than a weapon. When I asked him where the “regular” old guns were, he told me that hundreds of years ago, only the very wealthy landowners or royalty could afford to hunt. There was no such thing as a regular citizen hunter, so no need for basic, plain rifles.
When later visiting Austria, another friend invited me to hunt on land that he leased. Actually, it was an entire valley and forest, all the land between the top ridges of two parallel mountains. In order to have the exclusive right to hunt in that region, he paid a five-figure amount each year and had to sign a ten-year contract! For that sum, each year he would be given a “hunting list” of all the animals that must be harvested in order to keep the wildlife in good balance. The local government would perform density surveys and determine the numbers and ages of stag and deer that must be harvested each year, as well as several other species. At the end of the hunting season, if the complete list hand not been taken, my friend had to pay a professional hunter to harvest any remaining animals. Also, should the following winter be a harsh one, he had to pay to feed the animals to ensure the numbers would not diminish due to a shortage of food.
He worked for a rifle manufacturer in Austria at the time, Steyr-Mannlicher, and one day in the summer, I received an incredible e-mail from him through his company. On the side for fun at the time, I was living in the US, but writing for a European shooting magazine. As his company was introducing a new rifle model, they had decided to invite eight or ten writers from around the world to participate in an Alpine marmot hunt. A marmot is similar to a groundhog or woodchuck, or the rockchucks that live in the Rocky Mountains out west. While we may consider them as pests and shoot them whenever given the chance, in Europe, it is a game animal, fairly rare, of which few hunters ever have an opportunity to take. He was in charge of the hunt and said his greatest challenge was to come up with an...
Alpine valley where that many marmots could even be harvested. They were inviting writers from England, France, Spain, Portugal, Belgium, and several other countries. I would be covering the new rifle for the German magazine for which wrote. When I hesitantly pressed him for more details, he indicated each writer would be able to take one marmot, and the company would provide a full body mount of the trophy for each successful hunter. My friends were jealous/happy for me, but many thought I was crazy to go 6,000 mile to only shoot one marmot!
Realizing the significance of the marmot adventure, and that I would have a full body mount sent to my home after the hunt, I inquired about the caliber we would be using, as I wanted to ensure my prize would not be damaged too much in the taking. A classic .222 Remington would be provided to each writer, and they also would supply
the ammunition. Having done a lot of pest control in Montana, I knew that the traditional 50 grain soft point would be too destructive on a furbearer only about the size of your
thigh, weighing 12 to 15 lbs. So I purchased some very frangible 40 grain bullets, and took a load right out of a manual, hoping it would be accurate in the rifle provided to me
in Austria. I loaded up 50 rounds for practice and sighting in to take with me on the plane and could hardly wait for September to come around.
Chapter 1: Alpine Adventure
By late afternoon of the first day, the writers had all showed up, and we were taken to a very nice hotel in town. Dinner that night was incredible with excellent food and all that you could drink. Our Austrian hosts really knew how to make their guests feel very special, almost like royalty. The following morning, we were taken to the factory where the new light weight mountain rifle was revealed to all. All identically set up with a straight six power scope (I would have really liked at least 12 power), we each walked up to a large table and grabbed one to be used during the hunt. We then boarded several buses and began the three hour drive to the western mountains.
...
Each writer was assigned a local guide to take him up the mountain for his trophy
Arriving at a destination at the foothills of the beautiful mountains where we would be hunting the next day, we saw they brought us to a shooting club, exclusively reserved for our group. While all of the other writers were busy sighting in each of their rifles with the supplied ammunition, I brought out the cartridges I had loaded back in the US. Soon I had it shooting under a half inch at 100 meters and hitting one inch high. Marmots live up above the trees in areas that are mostly rocks and grasses. While the gun was very accurate, I did not feel comfortable shooting much past 200 meters, as the “specialness” of the trophy required, in my mind, only taking one accurate shot to anchor my marmot. I also felt greatly handicapped by the straight 6 power scope, having fired tens of thousands of rounds through my .223 in Montana with my scope set at 12 power. Looking through the 6 power scope, everything seemed twice as far away as I was optically used to. After all rifles were sighted in to the writers' satisfaction, they drove us to the restaurant at the shooting range and again fed us like kings. I was beginning to worry that I might get too heavy to walk very far up the mountain in pursuit of my trophy. That night, we ate and drank again, far too much, and were then taken to a lovely mountain hotel in the Alps. I was starting to feel a little anxious. There was considerable pressure in my mind about having a local guide take me up in the mountains, keeping up with him, and the need to make a perfect and humane single shot to harvest my trophy. If I succeed, that is great; perform poorly, and writers from around the world will know about the “American who can’t shoot!”
Chapter 2: Morning Hunt
Each writer was assigned a local guide to take him up the mountain for his trophy. This was a real big deal; being able to harvest an Alpine marmot. Most European hunters have never had such chance in their lives. My guide’s name was Robert, and he was a physical fitness expert who looked to be part mountain goat. Looking around, all the other writers had guides who looked like “the old...
man of the mountain,” while they gave me what appeared to be an Olympic athlete to try and keep up with. Oh, and by the way, months before I left, my right knee was injured. I had torn something inside. It was not horrible bad, but bad enough to give me some troubles, as I was about to find out.
We left the hotel in the early morning while it was still dark. Each hunter got into his guide’s personal vehicle, then we headed off in procession out of town, and began a twisty drive up the mountain. Thankfully, now I am not only obsessed with making a good shot at the moment of truth. I also feared having to keep up with Robert without appearing to be a “lazy American sissy”. It actually felt better to have two things to worry about than just one! After a while all vehicles stopped by a little chalet at the end of the trail. We got out and assembled around a table by a small fire keeping a coffee pot nice and hot. They welcomed all of us, and then began to go over some safety rules.
...they give me what appears to be an Olympic athlete to try and keep up with
All rifles may be loaded, but must be carried with an empty chamber. You may only chamber a cartridge just before you are given the ok to shoot by your guide. We cannot just shoot the first marmot we see. It must be a very old one past its prime, and our guides will verify this before allowing us to shoot. You would think we were going after gold medal sheep because of the seriousness of how all of this was being handled, but that only serves to make the experience even more special. After the meeting, we all headed off in different directions with our guides. Before we left though, Robert goes in the back of his vehicle and brings out two walking sticks, one for each of us. He said we needed
them for our hike. I waved my hand away, and said that I would be just fine without one, but he insisted I take mine. We took off away from the chalet, down a walking path that looked like it would take us into a huge bowl above in the mountain, a fair ways up.
At first, I am did fine keeping up with Robert as we simply meandered along the trail that was just gently rolling hills at first. Then he turned off the path and started going right up the side of a fairly steep slope. My right knee started to really hurt. Following his lead, I placed the walking stick in my right hand, on the low side of the slope, and started...
to push off fairly hard to lessen the load on my knee, which was getting more and more painful with every step. Robert knows a fair bit of English, enough so we could communicate well enough; while I speak no German at all. After a while, he started to pull ahead of me, and I was having a hard time keeping up. Finally, I had to call out to him to please stop. He could see I was in great pain, and quickly came to see what was wrong. I explained that I injured my right knee a few months ago, and I was having a very hard time with the climb. As it turns out, he is also a physical therapist, so he asked to examine my knee, which he then carefully did. He believed I had a small tear inside and offered to turn back and end the hunt. I told him there was no way I wanted to do that, and just needed to slow the pace a bit. I thanked him profusely for making me take the walking stick. Something I initially made fun of seemed like it would save the day.
A kind soul, Robert cut our pace in half, telling me the marmots would be feeding all morning, and we had nothing to hurry about. About an hour passed, and we were making good progress up the mountain. We stopped for just a bit now and then, to give my throbbing knee a rest. He assured me we didn't have very far to go, as just over the next rise we would stop and glass the large bowl we had seen from below. We continued on again, but the pain started to get much worse; Robert was pulling away from me. “Grandfather, Grandfather!” I called out.
He stops and quickly turns around. “You know of Heidi…the story of Heidi and her Grandfather?” We both laughed.
I told him that’s what he looked like ahead of me, walking with his stick, though I am sure I looked and felt more like a grandfather at this point in time. He said we would take a rest to give my knee some time to calm down. It was only a few hundred meters more to the lower edge of the bowl, where we would be able to stop and glass for marmots. We took about fifteen minutes for me to recover, and then very slowly made our way up the last little bit. We bent over slightly as we approached the bowl, so we wouldn't stand out, and then crawled the last few yards, stopping just short of the edge...
where we lay down.
Chapter 3: One Good Shot
Robert took off his daypack and removed his binoculars to start glassing. Starting at the far right, he began to slowly scan for marmots. I was hopeful, but not expecting too much. Suddenly he spots a marmot, directly above us, slightly to the left at around the 10 o’clock position. Excitedly he said it was a very old marmot with plenty of grey in his hide; it would be an excellent trophy. He said it is almost 150 meters up the mountain, but when I looked all I saw was grey and brown rocks everywhere. So he pushed his pack over to me and told me to rest my rifle, and have a look through the scope. I still couldn’t see it, until he started to give me reference points based on distinctive looking rocks. Then I saw the marmot. He was on a very small flat rock, facing to my right, quartering in a 10 o’clock/4 o’clock orientation. Basking in the bright, warm sun, I could see that he was quite large and was definitely greying well all over.
Basking in the bright, warm sun, I can see that he is quite large and is definitely greying well all over
“When you are ready, take him in the right shoulder.”
He appeared so very far away in the only 6 power scope that I worried about being able to make a good shot. I gathered myself up, took a deep breath, and slowly squeezed the trigger. At the shot, he began to roll down the bowl, stopping motionless against a large rock, perhaps 15 paces from where he was sunning. Robert let out a hoot and a holler and grabbed my right hand for a hard congratulatory shake. He saw the whole thing through his binoculars, and said the marmot was very cleanly taken at the shot. We slowly made our way up to my trophy to examine him. He was indeed a very mature, even old, specimen. His soft fur was brown, golden brown, black and now greying heavily. We looked and looked, but couldn't find where the bullet struck him; there was no blood anywhere. Robert started parting the hair, like looking for a tick on a dog. Finally, he found just the tiniest entry hole right on the point of the right shoulder. The bullet struck exactly where aimed, and my choice of projectile was spot on, as there was no exit wound to destroy the far side of the beautiful hide. I am also proud that the animal has been taken with great respect, and looks now as if sleeping.
He was very...
pleased with my shot and how quickly the fine, old marmot was taken. He went in search of a bit of grass, which he then placed in the marmot’s mouth. It is a show of respect, and is known as the “last meal”. Robert explained that this is a long standing tradition all European hunters do for every head of game they take. Some photos are taken, the marmot is carefully placed in the daypack, and we began the trip back down to the chalet. I was smiling from ear to ear. You would have thought I had just taken a record book sheep.
Chapter 4: At The Chalet
Returning to the chalet, we were greeted by several already successful hunters. Stories are shared, and each marmot is proudly displayed on the split rail fence next to the chalet in the sun. Every writer and guide examined my trophy and asked where it was hit. Why is there not a mark on it at all that they can see? All of the other marmots had very large exit wounds on the far side. I explained that I brought along lighter, faster handloads with a very frangible bullet, to ensure full breakup inside, to preserve the appearance of my trophy.
Every writer ended up asking permission to take their magazine photographs using my marmot
Every writer ended up asking permission to take their magazine photographs using my marmot because he was in such good condition. Several of the guides shook my hand and said it was good to see the animal respected so much, by a round that allows the animal to stay intact and natural looking. Each time I am able to hunt in Europe, I am impressed with the amount of respect their hunters pay to the game they harvest. I smile and think that this is how it always should be.