Roe deer hunting in Rivergaro, among silent hills and suspended landscapes, becomes experience, listening, emotion.
When the first sun kisses the hills of Rivergaro, the world seems to stand still.
The mist rises slowly, like a silk veil torn away from a lover’s fingers. The trees, still numb from the night, stretch toward the light, while the air fills with that damp scent of earth and leaves, moss and dew. It is at this moment, when the sky is still a blend of violet and gold, that the forest begins to speak.
The Piacenza hills, soft and undulating like a caress, gradually reveal their secret soul. It’s not a striking beauty, but a discreet one, to be discovered step by step, breath by breath. Here, in Rivergaro, nature does not impose itself but offers itself with grace. Every valley holds a story, every curve of the landscape conceals a secret: an old forgotten path, a stone farmhouse, a dry stone wall that defies time.
The silence is deep, but never empty. It is filled with the sudden beat of a pheasant’s wings, the discreet rustle of the roe deer brushing through the undergrowth, the distant call of a bird of prey circling in the clear sky. And it is right here, in this lovingly crafted reserve among the hills of Piacenza, that hunting transforms into something more: an ancient dialogue between man and earth, a conscious return to the rhythm of the seasons, the steps, the waiting.
Rivergaro is a place that speaks to those who know how to listen. Not only to the hunter, but to anyone seeking an authentic connection with nature, a moment of truth. When the first light of day filters through the branches and breath turns to mist, you realize you are no longer alone, but part of something greater, deeper, eternal.
And I, hunter and wanderer of these lands, pause to listen.
My rifle is still resting, because here, in the lower Trebbia valley, hunting is not just pursuit, it is poetry. It is the silent dialogue between man and nature, between the soft step of the roe deer and the rustle of tall grass caressing its belly.
The call of the forest
I walk along the paths climbing between poplars and oaks, where roots surface like veins of the earth. Here, every stone has a story, every broken branch a message. The roe deer, shy and regal, is the guardian of these silences.
This morning, the wind blows from the northeast, perfect to hide my scent. I move cautiously, step by step, hearing beneath my boots the faint crunch of dry leaves. I stop often, listening. The forest has its own language: the squirrel snapping a twig, the woodpecker drumming in the distance, the sudden rustle of a bird taking flight.
And then, there it is.
A movement among the shadows. Just a tremble in the grass, almost imperceptible. I hold my breath.
It emerges like a ghost, muzzle lifted toward the air, ears pricked and turning like radar. It’s a young buck, glossy fur, black deep eyes. It moves with infinite grace, each step calculated, each glance a map of dangers.
My heart beats fast, but it’s not fear, not just excitement. It’s respect.
I slowly lower my hand toward the rifle, unhurried, without sudden movements. He still hasn’t seen me. One last step, one last held breath.
Then, he lifts his head.
Our eyes meet for an infinite moment.
The moment of truth
In hunting, everything can change in a second.
The roe deer trembles, its nostrils flaring. It knows something is wrong. A moment of hesitation, and it’s already too late.
My finger presses the trigger with the delicacy of a painter completing a canvas. The shot breaks the silence, an echo bouncing between the hills.
For a moment, the world seems to stop.
Then, the dull thud of the body falling on the grass.
I approach with slow steps, my heart still pounding in my throat. He is there, motionless, his eyes still open, as if gazing toward a distant horizon. I kneel beside him, placing a hand on his still warm side. I feel under my fingers the soft fur, the breath fading away.
There is no triumph in this moment, only a strange peace.
I silently give thanks, as my grandfather taught me. For his life, for his sacrifice, for the gift he gives me and the earth.
The dance of the seasons
Rivergaro is a place that changes its skin with the seasons. In spring, the meadows explode in a whirlwind of wildflowers, and the air sings with buzzing bees and bird calls. Summer wraps everything in a warm, golden embrace, and the Trebbia River flows slowly, inviting one to bathe in its clear waters.
But autumn is the most magical time.
When the leaves turn to fire and the wind carries the scent of must from the nearby vineyards, the forest transforms into a theater of colors and movement. The roe deer grow bolder, the wild boars dig among the roots, and the stags send out their love calls into the starry nights.
And I, with my rifle as a faithful companion, lose myself in this dance. Not to dominate, but to be part of it. Because hunting, when done with respect, is not violence—it is participation. It is the ancient instinct that binds us to the earth, reminding us who we were and, perhaps, who we might still become.
The twilight and the return
When the sun begins to fall behind the hills, painting the sky in pink and purple, I know it’s time to return. My steps are slow, heavy with emotion. I carry with me not only the prey but also the memories: the flight of a hawk, the scent of wild mint, the sound of the wind through the reeds.
Rivergaro has given me another day of life, another fragment of beauty. And as the night wraps the valley in its embrace, I know I will return tomorrow. Because here, where the roe deer speaks with the tall grass, every moment is a story worth living.
“And so, hunter and poet, I walk away from the forest. But the forest never leaves me.”
