I never kept diaries (except the period long time ago when I was professionally engaged in cycling, and it was necessary to reflect the state of the body every day after each workout). Serving in the army, I also treated with irony the guys who sent home two letters with three handwritten pages a day. What kind of events in the monotonous soldier's life can be described in such details?! Now I also ironically watch the regulars of social media who document their every step – it's funny to see how people comment on everything, up to eating in various places. I think, it's a kind of "social disease" caused by a lack of attention and a weak saturation of life with events. In my opinion, only lonely people with a fairly boring day-to-day existence can "get sick" of this…
But suddenly I decided to take up the pen myself (in a good way). Perhaps it's time to tell about my own experience. I have come to the state when the baggage of accumulated life impressions has reached a level at which it begins to spill out of memory onto paper. Let's see.
My introduction to mountain hunting began in 1993, when I was a young 23-year-old student of the Faculty of Economic Cybernetics, who knew German well. So, I was hired as the interpreter in one of the leading hunting outfitter companies at that time. The task was to accompany German-speaking clients on their hunting trips. And so, at the end of September 1993, I went to North Ossetia for the first time. That trip was remembered not only by the richness of various adventures but for the fact that tanks entered Moscow and fired at the White House. Now it all seems not too dramatic, but I was restless - until I could get to the phone and call my family, a lot of time passed, and everything was boiling inside. I was born and lived in Moscow.
The main event of the trip for me was the process of hunting for the Dagestan tour! The mesmerizing grandeur of the Caucasus mountains, led by the gray-haired Kazbek, struck to the heart. I was forever "sick" of mountains. Hunting for tur in the Caucasus had become the most beloved.
I think genes have played an important role. My uncle from my mother's side, Lev Nikolaevich Puchkov, associate professor at the Moscow Aviation Institute, was the head of the MAI Alpine Club, a master of sports, honored coach of the Russian Federation. He conquered many of the most difficult peaks of the Soviet Union. In addition, he was a keen hunter and biker. That's how, genes manifest themselves in various generic "lines" through generations. Lev Nikolaevich died on 08/03/1984 while climbing Ordzhonikidze Peak (Pamir).
24 years later, I've traveled to almost all areas both in the Russian Caucasus and in Azerbaijan, where the Caucasian tur is hunted. I hunted personally several trophies – the Dagestan Tur in the Republic of Dagestan and in Azerbaijan, as well as the Kuban Tur in Karachay–Cherkessia. I'm going to tell you about these hunts.
My first Dagestan tour
The trip to Dagestan in October 2005 somehow turned out by itself. In February, two German brothers came to me at one of the European shows. They wanted to get a Dagestan tur at a reasonable price. Just at that time, I had plans to take advantage and to test the proposal of one outfitter from Makhachkala, a scientist who offered such a "test" hunt in the Tsunta district of Dagestan. A young hunter from Moscow, Igor Grigorenko joined us in the process of preparation. The readers of the magazine know him mainly as an organizer of fishing tours in the Americas.
I had never been to Dagestan before, but I heard that there were especially large East Caucasian turs on the border with Georgia and Azerbaijan, just where the Zagatala Nature Reserve was located on the Azerbaijani side. In other words, my expectations were quite high.
I took my Tikka T3 caliber carbine, 300 WinMag equipped with a Kahles Helia ST 3-9x42 sight. It should be noted that the time was still quite alarming. The active phase of the Chechen war had only recently ended. There were quite a lot of checkpoints everywhere, even in Makhachkala with armored personnel carriers and bearded machine gunners. It was quite exciting to realize that a car inspection was possible at each of the posts. Just imagine what would they see if checked us: four hunters with four rifled carbines with optical sights… In general, we were not bored to go.
The road through the most beautiful gorges took about 4 hours. It was interesting to observe the life of the highlanders. Some houses turned out to be literally stuck to the rocks – the precipices under their walls dropped down for many meters.
Serpentine raised our UAZ-loaf higher and higher. Finally, we reached the final goal – a high-altitude village at an altitude of 2500 meters above sea level. We should move on horseback from there. But then a surprise awaited us! The horse's owner refused to give horses because of the troubles (of course financial) between him and the Makhachkala organizer. We were very offended by the Makhachkala outfitter. So, we had nothing to do but resolve the problem on the place. Green and red "friends" – banknotes of various countries helped. As a result, we got... only two horses – one for the German part of the group, the other for the Russian. I must say that horses in the mountainous villages of Dagestan are valued as much as an expensive car. There were not workhorses, as in Kyrgyzstan or Azerbaijan. The horses were lean, long-legged, frisky. If they were not quite "racing", then they were certainly "looked like Ferrari". Alas, that was not the transport at all for hunting in the mountains. As soon as the slope became a little more than 30 degrees and stones appeared, the horses were covered with sweat, and the owner said without hints that he would not let to damage the horses. So, we should drive on our foot.
The German hunters were not ready for it. Having said that horses brought them to the very top, to the ibexes where they could make a shot in Kyrgyzstan. They "cursed" a lot in the German dialect, but climbed up and were sweating like we were, at first.
It was the first day of hunting, and we were only a couple of kilometers away from the base camp. The guide who went with our part of the group, said that he had seen a group of good turs two days before. It was quite difficult to know which "not bad" ones, he meant. They called good trophy all animals with horns in these places at that time.
The ascent was very difficult for the Germans. The guys were young, but you can immediately see that they were lovers of beer and fried knuckle. Finally, the Germans were fully exhausted when we detected the herd of turs. They flatly rejected my offer to go around the animals on the rocks to the left in order to approach them from above – from where they least expect danger. I realized that there might not be another chance, and left them on the rocks at a level just below the location of the group of tours. I severely asked them to stay on the place, because the animals could move in their direction after my shot: “Nicht prosieben. Schießen!” (Don't miss - shoot!). Then I took a carbine and a walkie-talkie (I'm carrying video equipment and a tripod with me now, that time I traveled light), and moved for the animals. The ascend wasn't difficult at all. I was able to get out high enough above a group because I was moving hiding behind a ridge of rocks. I went across the stone scree (the slope with small stones), and tried not to move the stones so that they didn't fall down, and went right over the animals I had to crawl down from thereto the firing position I informed the guide, who came out through the gorge below and also watched that group, that I would prepare for the shot. It was easy to say, difficult to do. All turs were in one group and shield each other. The shooting distance was about 200 meters. The angle- 30 degrees. The biggest male was in the mid of the group. The gun was shot at a point 200 meters away. I waited if they would get up suddenly. But I was lying in a completely open place, and it was the middle of the day. I was afraid that the wind would blow from my side when they get up, and they smell me, and that they would scatter. So, I asked the guide to show himself to the turs from below. The distance to him was long, so when they saw him, they wouldn't have to run immediately. Probably, they’d stood up.
The guide moved slowly across the open space. The males stood up. Then they moved slowly. Toward to me! That's where I really fussed. I saw and led the biggest one, but I couldn't to separate it in any way from the others. They were always keeping in a bunch all the time, mixing with each other. I didn't want to make mistakes and kill a young one, or even two at once accidentally.
I didn't want to make mistakes and kill a young one, or even two at once accidentally. I exhaled and pulled the trigger. A shot echoed through the gorge. And at the same moment, the whole group, including my aim, took off. I saw clearly how the bullet flied above it. I analyzed the situation later, and realized what the mistake was. At the time when I was watching the animals, they were coming into my direction and reduced the distance to as much as 80 meters! Plus, I forgot about the 30 degrees angle. I hold the sight right on the shoulder blade, I overestimated. The problem was that I didn’t aim lower. But I understood it later. At the same time, I just turned around and quickly reloaded the gun. The group of turs rushed away in the direction opposite to the rocks behind which the Germans were sitting. There was a small ravine - fold on the way of the animals, which abound in any mountains with stone screes. I assessed the situation quickly, and realized that I could intercept the group at the exit of that fold. But it was necessary to go down to the level where the turs rested before to make a good shot. I ran down. When I reached the line, I realized that it would not work to shoot from that place. Then I got down on one knee, and substituted the second as an elbow rest. The distance was 250 meters (I measured it after). I caught the one male in sight, then the second. They jumped out one by one from the ravine. What was mine? The animals were making a couple of jumps and were disappearing after behind another ridge after they'd appeared. I decided to shoot at the one that seemed more or less normal, or I would stay without a trophy at all. My heart was trying to break out of my chest, and I was trying my best to calm down. My shooting position was uncomfortable, but the breathing wouldn't be established in any way! The thought flashed in my mind: “Keep the breath and shoot!” Space stretched out into a string, and time slowed down, as in a movie replay: an eye glued to the eyepiece of optics, I saw from aside how the tur which was jumping out of a ravine, and my finger pressing the hook. A heartbeat and then a shot. At the same second, I heard a slap, "boom-boom" and clearly saw a hit on the body of the tur. In a second, I saw the Tur which stumbled, fell on its side and rolled down the mountain. That's it – I let my heart go free! A warm wave overflowed the entire chest. I threw up my hands and made a triumphant wheeze!
Everything else was standard: a photo shoot with a trophy. I and my guided went down and butchered the trophy. We took meat and the trophy. It was an average size. My trophy became a seven years old male with 75 cm horns. We loaded everything on the horse. And went back to the camp. My German guys weren’t happy.
The next day Igor came back with two trophies of turs. One of them was a very good male, ten-year old with a good, thick base (the circumference of the horns at the base). Igor got the first trophy on the first day of hunting, and the second one the next day. According to him, these were the biggest males they had seen at that area.
The Germans flatly refused to climb on foot. They had no idea that the hunt would be so difficult. So, those guys were not ready. But, in any case, since that hunt was a test, the trip cost them quite inexpensive. What they really liked.
One of the leading taxidermists in Moscow made me a stuffed animal of my first Dagestan tur, which I admired for many years. And all the time I cherished the hope that I would eventually manage to get a tur twice as old as that one. And now such an opportunity has turned out. 12 years later.
