Chamois Hunting in the Carpathians: there are places that reveal themselves slowly, like a wild animal that watches before showing itself.
Romania is like that: it doesn’t open up at first glance, but when it does, it leaves a lasting impression. For the hunter, this land is much more than just a destination. It’s a return to essence. It’s hunting as it was meant to be: real, demanding, profound. A journey that begins in primordial forests and climbs the ridges of the Carpathians, where man is only a guest and silence has a voice.
Among the most coveted game stands one in particular: the Carpathian chamois, Rupicapra rupicapra carpatica, a subspecies of the Alpine chamois. At first glance, it may seem similar, but there are important differences. The Romanian chamois is larger and bulkier, often with longer, more massive horns that curve gracefully — trophies that often exceed 110 CIC points. Its winter coat is darker and denser, adapted to harsh climates and demanding altitudes. It lives in remote areas, far from human presence, where the rocks become vertical and the wind sings ancient tales.
The History of Romanian Hunting
Talking about hunting in Romania without mentioning its past means overlooking a crucial part. During the communist regime, Nicolae Ceaușescu, dictator of Romania from 1965 to 1989, turned hunting into a personal and political matter. An avid hunter, he reserved the best areas of the country for himself, guarded by foresters and guides who often risked their lives to fulfill his wishes. Ceaușescu’s trophies still fill entire pavilions in hunting museums. Some of the largest bears and chamois ever taken in Europe were harvested under his regime. But that era, dark in many ways, left one positive legacy: a rigorous wildlife management system that has allowed Romania to preserve a unique biodiversity, especially in its mountain ecosystems.
Where to Hunt Chamois in Romania
The most fascinating areas for chamois hunting are found throughout the Carpathian range, which runs through the heart of Romania like a spine of stone. Montefeltro offers several selected areas, all managed with modern and sustainable criteria. Among the best:
-
The Făgăraș Mountains, in eastern Transylvania: tall, steep, wild mountains with breathtaking landscapes and a well-structured chamois population.
-
The Bucegi Mountains, further south, where rocky cliffs alternate with high-altitude meadows and where it’s possible to spot extraordinary animals, often adapted to extremely vertical terrain.
-
The Rodna Mountains, to the north near the Ukrainian border, where the landscape takes on boreal features. Here, the chamois shares its territory with lynxes, bears, and golden eagles.
-
The Bicaz Gorges and Ceahlău Mountains, lesser-known but equally fascinating for those seeking a hunt immersed in the purest solitude.
Each territory has its own characteristics, each valley its own microclimate, each guide their own story. And with Montefeltro, nothing is left to chance: every outing is carefully prepared, each hunt the result of study and respect.
A Hunt That Tests You
Chamois hunting in the Carpathians is not for everyone. It’s a test of endurance, observation, and humility. There are no easy rests or well-marked paths. You start before dawn, backpack on your shoulders, hiking for hours through larch and beech trees, up exposed slopes where the only sound is the wind. Glassing takes time, shooting distances are often long, and the animals are wary.
But when at last you spot him — that solitary male, still on the ridge with his gaze turned toward the valley — everything stops. Your breath, time, thoughts. That’s when Romania gets into your blood: in the sudden beauty, the pure emotion, the awareness of being small but part of something immense.
The Privilege of Choice
Many hunters choose Romania for the chance to find great trophies, but they return for what cannot be hung on a wall: the atmosphere, the authenticity, the human quality of the guides, the traditional meals shared around the fire, the sunrises in surreal colors.
And there are those who, at the moment of the shot, choose to hold back. Because that chamois, up there, is too perfect to become a trophy. Because in that moment, the hunter doesn’t feel the need to pull the trigger — only to observe. And perhaps, this is the greatest lesson of the Carpathians.
In the Fog of the Bucegi: The Slow Pace of a Chamois Hunt
Some hunts are remembered for the trophy. Others etch themselves into your soul, not ending with the shot but beginning long before — when the sun is still hidden behind the ridges and your breath becomes steam in the dawn cold. Chamois hunting in Romania’s Bucegi Mountains is one of those.
The alarm rings while it’s still dark outside. In the small cabin, the smell of coffee mixes with the dampness of the night just past. The local guide — a quiet, smiling man who knows every wrinkle of the land like his pockets — checks the backpack one last time: binoculars, thermal imager, rangefinder, a few snacks, a thermos of hot tea. We climb silently into the pickup and begin the ascent along a dirt track that drops us at 1,400 meters, where the forest begins to thin.
This is where the real hunt starts. On foot, in single file, along a trail as narrow as a thought. The Bucegi Mountains give nothing away: the slopes are steep, the terrain a mix of limestone, dry grass, and low shrubs. Every step must be considered. The guide signals us to crouch, then points to a distant cliff: a female with two young watches us from afar. We’re not interested in her. The male, if he’s there, will be higher up, where the rock climbs toward the sky.
The silence is muffled, broken only by the rustle of wind and the rhythmic sound of our steps. Occasionally, we stop to scan the rock walls lit by the golden reflections of morning. Then finally, a signal. Our chamois is there.
He stands on a distant ridge, still as if carved in stone. The binoculars confirm what the guide already knew: a fine mature male, alone, in observation posture. He hasn’t noticed us. The wind is in our favor. The stalk begins.
We move close to the wall, using a small gully covered with low juniper. Every movement is slow, calculated. We reach a natural spur that puts us within shooting distance — just over 200 meters. The chamois is still there. The heart races. The guide whispers, “Acum” – now.
The shot rings out, clean and decisive. The animal collapses with a single twitch. Silence. No cheers, no celebration. Just a long breath. The guide looks at me and nods. It went well.
The Moment of Respect
We reach the animal slowly, crossing a steep stretch that forces us to use both hands and feet. When we arrive, the chamois lies on a bed of moss. Beautiful. Curved horns, thick glossy fur, eyes still glinting in their final reflection. We set down the rifle. No one speaks. We take a moment. To give thanks. To honor.
The guide prepares a small fir branch and lays it on the body. Then, with the thin blade of his knife, he carves a cross on a nearby stone. It’s an ancient gesture — of someone who knows hunting is never just about taking, but an encounter between life and death, between respect and necessity.
The return is slow. We carry the animal with us — but also much more. The mountain cold on our cheeks, the smell of resin on our hands, and in our eyes the sudden vision of that male, silhouetted against the sky.
Hunting in the Bucegi Mountains means confronting a harsh and authentic terrain. Altitudes vary between 1,000 and 2,500 meters, among ancient forests, vertical cliffs, and high pastures. Here the chamois lives undisturbed, far from tourist paths — and for that, is more wild, more unpredictable, more real. The hunt is never trivial, never guaranteed. It demands stamina, patience, observational skill — and above all, spirit. But precisely for that reason, when success comes, it is complete. Deserved.
