TYROL: The hunter came down from the icy ridge. He greeted me and unslung his heavy rifle and put his pack down with a grunt. He took a bottle of red wine from a side pocket and drank deeply. Wiping the neck carefully, he handed the bottle over and I readily participated. From the pack he took a large, bulging bag and weighed it in his hands. “Four kilos,” he said and insisted on my assessment. I agreed and noticed something furry in the bag. I held the handles apart while he gently lifted out his quarry. Flat nose, curved top teeth, small tough paws, light blue fur, short tail. He laid the marmot out and showed me the neat holes in the neck where his bullet had entered. A fine shot, I gathered, though I know nothing of hunting. He caressed the fur. From his action, it was evidently a good specimen. “Is the fur valuable?” I asked. He shook his head. It was the lard that was wanted. It had healing properties. He pointed to the great bruise on his cheekbone.

Fortunately, this was not to be my only sight of the elusive alpine rodent. The very next day, crunching over the fresh snow on the same rock basin, I suddenly heard two piercing whistles, a sound I had never heard before, a thrilling echo in the deserted wilderness. Then I saw the marmot sitting on a flat rock by a tumbling stream, sitting up as if to beg, alert to danger. I’m glad I was no hunter. I was happy just to gaze across the crisp silence. When I eventually moved, the marmot dived under the rocks and disappeared.