Plans to hunt in Kabardino-Balkaria have been ripe for a long time. From people of the older generation, who have found the times of the Soviet Union in full growth, I have heard more than once about such a tourist route: first, vacationers went to Sochi sanatoriums, then their route lay through Kabardino-Balkaria, which was famous for its mountain beauty, then vacationers moved to Georgia, closer to the beaches of Gagra and Gudauta, where the logical conclusion of the rest took place.
I received offers to hunt in Kabardino-Balkaria more than once, but every time something stopped me - either a sports injury, or doubts about the legality of the organized hunting, or the cost of the offered service.
In the end, he decided that the case should be taken seriously, and began to monitor, collect information through various channels. I studied, watched, read, communicated, but I decided the whole case - one of my friends, who is fond of trophy hunting, spoke about the High Hunt Pro campaign, which is largely focused on organizing mountain hunting, and advised me to contact them. In the process of communicating on the phone, the representative of the company made the impression of a person who was professionally versed in the issue, honestly spoke about the possibilities and prospects of hunting in the KBR.
I thought a little and decided not to look for good from good.
Together with Dmitry, accompanying from High Hunt Pro, we flew to Mineralnye Vody and, having ordered a taxi to Nalchik, passed the time on the road with a colorful driver named Magomed Gadzhi. He turned out to be a very interesting conversationalist and generally a pleasant person to talk to. What topics we just didn’t discuss, it was especially interesting to listen to him about the peoples living in the Caucasus, customs, morals, culture, traditions ...
So the road would have flown cloudlessly, if not for the incident on the administrative border of Karachay-Cherkessia with Kabardino-Balkaria, where our car was stopped for inspection. The Interior Ministry officers began to check the documents for weapons, and then one of them, having learned that we are hunters and were going to hunt tours, accused us and all trophy hunters in our person of general poaching, including foreigners coming to the North Caucasus. Our attempts to explain that we only hunt legally, as evidenced by the availability of licenses, ran into a blank wall of rejection of hunting. Finally, after a short argument, he decided to reveal to us a terrible secret, after which we will hardly be able not only to hunt, but also to live. We froze in horror. Tours of Kabardino-Balkaria, the stern policeman told us, are in the ... Red Book! Strange, but the desire to live and hunt after that for some reason did not disappear. Writing off this case to the local flavor and the absence of the Red Book on the free sale, we sincerely repented of what we were going to create, just in case, and promised to never again participate in trophy hunts, if we receive such an instruction from this policeman in writing.
The event, perceived at first as an annoying nuisance, in the course of the further journey began to be perceived as an excuse to show off our wit, and amid a cheerful discussion of the incident, we got to the hotel without incident.
We settled in a cozy room, dined in a restaurant and, when it got dark, went to rest. Unfortunately, there was no sleep. Thoughts about the upcoming hunt worried as if tomorrow was a crucial exam: will you be able to find a big tour? how far will you have to shoot? hit or miss? Every now and then a video of Maxim Vorobyov was scrolled in my head, in which a hunter without legs, on a prosthesis, hunted in Kabardino-Balkaria for a Central Caucasian tur and eventually got it.
I admire strong people, and a person who, by the will of fate, remained mutilated, did not break down and continues to live and overcome any difficulties, is doubly deserving of respect. In general, I did not notice how I fell asleep ...
In the morning I got up on the ringing of the alarm clock. We had a quick bite to eat, loaded our equipment into a waiting car and set off for the base camp. On the way, the organizer made a small detour and fulfilled my old dream - to see the famous Chegem waterfalls, a real pearl of Kabardino-Balkaria.
We got to the camp in the late afternoon, and here we learned that the guides had been monitoring the surrounding mountains for several days in search of a good trophy. Soon one of them appeared, who at first seemed not particularly talkative. Maybe because I literally pounced on him asking if he had seen a major tour. It turned out that yes, I did, but today it is too late to go to the mountains. From that moment on, the conversation at a good table with pleasant interlocutors proceeded as usual.
Time flies by unnoticed, and now at 23.00 hours, the command "hang up" sounds, the rise is scheduled at 01.30.
In the early morning (or late at night?), We quickly gathered and arrived at the foot of the mountain, where yesterday the guides saw two trophy stag beetles. We started to climb.
In my opinion, in an unfamiliar place where you hunt for the first time, moreover at night, without seeing where you are going, and not knowing how long the journey will be, it is psychologically easier to hunt than where you imagine in advance all the hardships that you will have to endure.
Conquering the next mountain route, we slowly climbed higher and higher to the black sky enveloping the peaks with incredibly close stars.
As soon as it began to dawn, they began to inspect the area. Despite all my efforts to be the first, as always, the local guys noticed the tours faster. First, along the route we saw females, who had noticed us even earlier and now closely followed us.
The guide uttered a wise thought: now the rut, and during the rut, the males should be close to the females. Quite a little time passed, and his prophetic words were confirmed. About one and a half kilometers and a little higher, we saw a large group of tours, in which two large stag bears stood out. We quickly discussed the state of affairs and rushed up to the intended goal. The conductor from a calm and very balanced person suddenly turned into a bundle of energy. On the way, he met one difficult and dangerous section, along which he ran as if he were moving along a footpath. And I was once again convinced that the ability to masterfully move on dangerous mountain slopes is in the blood of the highlanders.
In rare moments of rest, we watched the tours so as not to lose sight of them, and suddenly the guide said that the animals sensed us and were leaving behind the ridge. It sounded like a sentence! Exhausted by the ascent, it seemed to me that I simply could not go further, I had no strength left ...
In despair we looked at the hiding animals, and more and more ... we were charged with optimism! It looks like it was a different group of tours - it did not have those large stag, one of which I was hoping to get. We decided to climb higher and carefully examine the plateau. There was nothing left, but the steepness of the slope and the fact that the approaches to it were guarded by loose stones. We tried not to make noise, of course, as much as possible, but how it happened, it happened. Finally we got to the target point and began to shoot binoculars ...
Our tours were in place! From the large group, two stood out - one black, the other lighter. Without hesitation, I wanted to shoot the black one. Dmitry believed that light is better. In the end, the iron argument of the guide - the light round has longer horns - forced them to take their side.
But I still had to get closer, since the distance, by eye, was 600-700 meters, which is just a lot for me. Yes, and in my memory there was a clear picture of the animals leaving behind the ridge, which did not at all evoke in the soul those feelings that the hunter dreams of experiencing.
Where crawling, where on all fours the distance was reduced to some extent. There was no way to go further. Measurements were made: 488 meters and an angle of 26 degrees. I have to admit: I have never fired so far in the mountains. As a result, I literally began to storm before the shot.
Having made adjustments to the sight and pressed against the stones, he began to prepare for shooting. I don't know why, but I have never pulled a shot for so long. A couple of times I almost pulled the trigger, but something stopped my finger. In the end, having overcome the excitement, he balanced his breathing and fired. The roar tore through the centuries-old silence of the gorge and jumped along the slopes, moving away. The frightened herd rushed up. Dmitry pointed to the big tour, which lagged noticeably behind the group and gradually reduced the speed of movement. It took a split second to reload the rifle. Again he clung to the eyepiece of the telescopic sight. But the high magnification (24x) did not allow to quickly catch the tour in the sight. Turning the sight up to 12 times, I finally saw the wounded animal. He moved heavily, slowing down with every step, but still carried his head proudly, crowned with large horns. I caught the scapula of the tour in the crosshair of the sight and squeezed the trigger again. I heard the characteristic sound of a bullet hitting the carcass!
Dmitry and the guide simultaneously exclaimed: "There is a hit!"
Further, giving vent to emotions and feelings overwhelming me, not observing any limits of decency, I screamed with happiness. After all, at that moment on earth there was no person happier than me.
Then everything that should happen in such cases happened: photographing, cutting a trophy, taking out meat. And my soul was filled with a tremendous desire to return and do it all over again in these beautiful places of the Caucasus!
