I saw it with the naked eye standing out on a ridge. A few trees hide me, a light wind in my favor that carries my scent far away. I advance slowly, cautiously thanks to this Mountain Hare that I came across half an hour before.

It was in this forest of birches with an ancient appearance, mossy, tortuous, but betrayed by the young homogeneous age of the majority of its trees. It is dominated by an intimidating cliff at the foot of which this hare started to run a few meters from me. There are only a few small patches of snow left, so its escape is unmistakable. This white patch that flees at full speed between the trunks and the rocks and disappears. I decide to find it. I move forward, measuring each step, scrutinizing each new relief of the undergrowth that is revealed. It is a game in which it is easy to lose patience, to despair, because this hare is perhaps already far away. I insist, slowly, one step after another, avoiding the branches and alternating my gaze between the binoculars and the holes hidden by the carpets of moss and clubmosses between the rocks.

A white flash jumps at the corner of my right eye, almost behind me. It was there, sheltered, completely hidden behind a rock. I immediately crouch down, stop and follow it with my eyes. It moves away, then turns towards the cliff that it runs along. It disappears intermittently between the trunks and then stops. Only his head emerges from the tangle of trees. Centimeter after centimeter I end up sitting down, not taking my eyes off the hare. A tree hides my left side where my telescope is located, the tripod of which I slowly unfold. It is still there, I know it is watching me and does not miss the slightest of my movements. I am almost there. A movement barely more abrupt than the others and it runs away. I pay the price for my slow impatience. A great chance of observation wasted that adds to this long list of “almost incredible observations” that every naturalist is unfortunately familiar with.

This time it has gone for good and it is with this same caution that I arrive at the hind. A young female all sleepy. I have barely started to observe her when she collapses at the foot of this rock, her eyes half-closed, then settles comfortably until only one of her ears is sticking out. It looks like she is there for a while. If I want to observe her I will have to get around her. I am on a semblance of a pass and on my right the sides of a small mountain rise gently. So I go around, from bush to bush, from juniper to rock. I climb gradually. At each stop I discover a little more of the animal, a little more of its face. It takes me a while before arriving at the foot of this large overhanging rock, completely exposed to have a satisfactory view. She has not noticed me and turns her head which she places on her side and falls asleep.

I start the sketch, then the watercolor. Everything is in grays, neutral, almost monochrome, of these calm colors which give the image a kind of timelessness. One could not say what time of day it is. I advance in my brushstrokes, hesitantly, because I do not practice enough lately. But the image takes shape. I must be careful to paint only what I see, without adding the details that I would like to see there but that I do not observe. Under this heavy, loaded sky, the sun still manages to break through, bursting this bubble of suspended time. The contrasts appear suddenly, violent, charging the landscape with light. The atmosphere changes completely, and all this inevitably interrupts my painting. I finish a few details, taking care not to trust all this light that now floods the deer.

After an hour or two, her slepping, me painting, she emerges once again from one of her naps and gets up as if with regret. I have the impression of seeing myself at the end of my own naps, in her all drowsy attitude, her eyelids still heavy. She grazes on a few bushes nearby without much conviction and moves away with a heavy, slow step, along the ridge before tipping over to the other side.

I pack up my brushes, paper and backpack, get up and continue on my own way.

Adrien