Fatigue sets in. My breath, at an altitude of almost 3,000 metres, becomes short as I climb, but the evening is fantastic. It could be expected as early as late afternoon when large, fluffy clouds floated in the sky, lazily hovering above the mighty rocky peaks and icy tongues of the distant glacier.
The sky to the west is mostly clear, the air crystal-clear and now, towards sunset, a beautiful warm light envelops the rocky landscape of the moraine. Just a gust of wind moves the crisp evening air, the atmosphere is perfect, the best I could hope for.
Only they are missing, the ptarmigans – white and grey daughters of the cold -, certainly sheltering in some little valley, in the ravines of the rocky masses, but who knows where.
I advance slowly, I look right and left in the barren landscape, I search for them eagerly in silence, I want to seek them out but in no way scare them away.
Time passes, precious minutes go by, I am afraid of never meeting them again and of missing the light of the sunset when, as happens on the best of occasions, I suddenly see them appear. There are four of them, moving calmly as I advance, pecking here and there at the sparse vegetation. I keep my distance, watching them carefully until one of them climbs to the top of a rock. It is the long-awaited moment: the partridge is bathed in the last, most beautiful light. But its back is turned. At a certain point, however, it decides to turn towards me and I don’t hesitate: I frame and shoot.
Just in time. Just a few moments and the partridge disappears from view on the other side of the rock.