Guardians of the Cliffs: The Kashmir Markhor in Kazinag National Park

High in the rugged mountains of Kazinag National Park, camera traps have captured something remarkable — an intimate glimpse into the life of the Kashmir markhor (Capra falconeri cashmiriensis), one of the world’s rarest wild goats. These photographs, taken across seasons, reveal more than just the animal’s physical presence; they capture a rhythm of life — migration, fawning, and cohabitation — that speaks of an evolutionary ballet played out on near-vertical cliffs. With a viable but geographically confined population, the markhor of Kazinag represents both a conservation success and a fragile future. Kazinag National Park is located in the Baramulla district of Jammu and Kashmir, some 70 kilometres from Srinagar.

The story of the Kashmir markhor is not only one of biology or conservation science — it is a story of a species, a place, and the people trying to bridge that space. Over months of fieldwork, trekking through forests and ridgelines, enduring snow and steep climbs, we have come to know these goats not just as data points, but as living emblems of an ecosystem on edge. This is their story, and ours.

It was a crisp spring morning in the lower belts of Kazinag when I (Mohsin) first retrieved a camera trap from a mossy outcrop above the riverbed. Expecting the usual shadowy movements — perhaps a Himalayan langur or the occasional leopard — I wasn’t prepared for what emerged on the screen: a female markhor with a kid, standing alert, framed perfectly against the grey rock, her twisted horns forming a crown of resilience. I stared for minutes. This wasn’t just a record. It was a message. A confirmation that we had found one of the few stable populations of Kashmir markhor left in the world.

Kazinag National Park, situated in the western Himalayas along the volatile Line of Control, is home to what is arguably the only sustainable population of the Kashmir markhor in India. Hirpora Wildlife Sanctuary is also its habitat, but we didn’t have any photographs of markhors from there. However, locals revealed they are present, if only in single-digit numbers. Once ranging widely, today this subspecies is confined to a single protected area, hemmed in by human activity and political boundaries. The IUCN categorises it as Near Threatened, with regional populations even more precarious due to poaching, competition with livestock, and lack of transboundary cooperation.

But in Kazinag, something is working.

Over several seasons, our strategically placed camera traps yielded a sequence of revelations: mature males with spiralling horns migrating to higher altitudes in summer, possibly to access richer grazing or escape human disturbance; meanwhile, females, sub-adult males, and young remained loyal to the same habitat zones year-round. This suggests an age- and sex-specific seasonal migration—a behavioural trait, evidence-based reporting for the first time, that must be considered in any effective conservation or landscape planning.

Fawning, as observed from camera trap imagery and indirect signs, consistently occurs in lower-altitude meadows and forest clearings. These areas, often overlapping with paramilitary patrol routes and local grazing zones, need urgent zoning and regulation. The presence of young makes these spaces critical not just for reproduction but for the species’ future.

Living in this terrain and working closely with forest staff and community members, we came to understand that protecting markhors is not just about fences and fines. It’s about interpretation. During a debrief with a young officer from the border forces, I asked whether he’d ever seen a markhor. “Only in the emblem,” he said, referring to the force’s insignia. That moment underscored the gap between symbolism and ecological understanding. These are the men and women who conduct daily patrols, sometimes unknowingly displacing mothers with kids or interfering with breeding groups. With a bit of sensitisation and training to observe and record animal behaviour, seasonality, and habitat sensitivity, they can become the strongest stewards of this fragile landscape.

My connection to the markhor deepened one early winter morning when I spotted, through binoculars, a herd of eight individuals — an adult male leading five females and three subadults. This wasn’t just biology. This was family and intimate bonding.

Culturally, the markhor has held a mythical status in local folklore in Kashmir — sometimes seen as a vanishing ghost of the cliffs, at other times, as a spiritual animal. And yet today, few of the younger generation have seen one alive. Camera trap photographs, shared in local community meetings and schools, have become tools not just of research, but of storytelling and pride.

However, science and sentiment alone are not enough. What the Kazinag population needs is a dedicated management strategy that incorporates ecological data, local community roles, and paramilitary cooperation. Corridor mapping, seasonal habitat-use studies, and transboundary dialogues with conservationists across the LoC could allow the markhor to reclaim some of its lost range.

Moreover, the park management must be equipped with scientific tools — GIS mapping, long-term monitoring plans, and livestock exclusion strategies, during the fawning season. Grazing must be managed thoughtfully, especially in areas where markhor mothers raise their young. Community-based conservation — eco-tourism models, youth training, and conservation-linked livelihoods — can transform the locals from passive witnesses to active stakeholders.

There is hope.

In recent years, anecdotal reports and our own visual records have shown an increase in markhor group sizes, healthy litters, and territorial males — signs of a viable and breeding population. But these signs come with an expiration date if ignored. Climate change, militarisation, unregulated grazing, and infrastructure development could erase decades of ecological balance.

I often return to that first image of the female markhor with her kid. To me, it represents not just survival, but intent — the intent of a species to persist despite all odds. As a student of wildlife and a child of these mountains, I feel a personal responsibility to respond with the same clarity of purpose.

The cliffs of Kazinag whisper a story older than our borders, deeper than our politics. It’s the story of endurance. Of twisted horns catching the last light of the sun. Of a mother goat teaching her young to climb.

Let us make sure they have the space, the peace, and the time to do so.