Читать книгу A Walk in the Clouds - Kev Reynolds - Страница 25

14

DEATH OF AN IZARD

Watching wildlife at ease in an untamed landscape adds a bonus to mountain days. In the Pyrenees we’d often catch sight of large birds of prey, hear the shrill whistle of marmots and see small herds of the local chamois, known here as izard, grazing a distant hillside. Only once have I had cause to regret a close encounter with a wild creature, and that came in 1982.

After several days spent crossing a high country of rocks and scant vegetation, we came down into a green valley – green of grass, moss and lichen; green of deciduous trees; and with a river running through that had side-channels enclosing deep green pools. There was also the novelty of a path to follow. True, it was narrow and faint in places, but a path all the same – not simply an animal track – and since it was aiming more or less where we wanted to go, we took it.

Locked into our own individual worlds, Alan and I had no need for conversation, and since the way was clear enough it was possible to drift through the valley and sample all it had to offer without distraction, without concentration. The warmth of Spain encouraged an unhurried pace; we didn’t fight it.

The path squeezed between stands of birch, alder and dwarf pine, then emerged to a natural meadowland, and there, just ahead, an izard slumbered beside the trail. We stopped immediately and took a couple of photographs before the animal came alert, trembling with fear. Its head swung this way and that, nostrils flaring to catch our scent.

Then it snorted, sprang to its feet, gave a frightened leap and ran across the sloping meadow. Clearly something was wrong, though, for the creature stumbled, picked itself up and turned a full circle before stumbling again and then limping towards the river.

Alan and I shrugged the rucksacks from our shoulders and took off after the izard. I reached it first, just as it fell onto a large rock wet with spray. Another step and it would have been in the water. Clutching the animal across the shoulders I eased it onto its side, felt its heart beating wildly in its chest, then noticed that its eyes were coated with a filmy membrane.

The izard was blind.

I stroked its flank, speaking softly in an attempt to calm its fears, leaned closer to see the eyes more clearly, when suddenly it jerked its head and the short scimitar-shaped horns brushed my face. At that moment I lost my grip and the izard sensed it, took advantage and leapt away. Straight into the river.

The current was strong and swept the doomed creature downstream. It bobbed like a cork, but moments later it was dashed against a semi-submerged slab of rock. The izard scrabbled and stumbled and then managed to stand upright on the rock. For a brief moment it was safe. But the slab was an island; there was no escape, and we watched as the animal faltered, panicked, and slid back into the river.

The izard lost the fight, and the green, green valley lost its appeal.