What makes a modern resident of a megalopolis go hunting? And mountain hunting in particular? What are the reasons why, the people sacrifice a joint vacation with the family somewhere under a palm tree, and go / fly to other regions / countries to meet the mountains? Why do they step up with each step feeling the accumulated fatigue and sweating profusely? They walk and count to themselves: "Twenty-five, twenty-six...", try to agree with themselves: "I'll take a hundred steps and take a break.”
The legs tremble treacherously, the shoes slip on the icy grass under the snow. The only sounds are the tremors of blood in the ears and the creaking of snow in time with the steps: "crunch, crunch, crunch". The backpack pulls down more and more with each vertical meter, the carbine digs into the shoulder with its belt. Why does he get up before dawn and go out into the icy dark outside, which is slightly tinted with the rays of the rising sun? What drives him when he returns far after sunset to a cold tent and eat Snickers during the day? Why do we torture physically over the body, which already does not feel very well in the conditions of the highlands?
It is difficult for a person who is far from mountain hunting to understand the reasons and motivational component of these actions, and there is no need to explain it for real mountain hunter.
The forth time
I went to Dagestan for the fourth time. I really like this Caucasian republic, the open and dignified people who inhabit it, the delicious national cuisine and its the magnificent nature! The purpose of all my trips was the same - the trophy of the Dagestan tur. I couldn't say that the previous trips were unsuccessful. Everything was great: I had nice company, real mountain hunting, and the pleasure of traveling. But I was unlucky with a good trophy – I couldn't get what I wanted. Every trip I closed the license on the last day with a young male just "for meat". My companions got good trophies, and every time I looked for Mine- a big old male. So, each time I was looking for the ten-year-old male of the Dagestan tur for a long time, I searched and chose. I dreamed about the big one.
That year it was decided to go to Elson Makhmudov - the well–known outfitter in the Akhtyn district of Dagestan. I wanted to go with my life companion Asya, we both successfully visited the Altai Mountains in October. But two weeks before the flight, she injured her back while doing sports. The trip was out of the question: she could barely move across the plain. So, I invited my good friend Dmitry to hunt. He turned out to be very easy- going and agreed to a joint trip a week before the departure date. Dmitry offered to go by car, due to the deteriorating epidemiological situation with COVID-19, which excluded contacts with society at airports. At first, that idea seemed strange to me - 3000 km in one side. But the more I thought about the prospect of a car trip, the more I liked it.
At the definite time, the two of us moved towards the North Caucasus from St. Petersburg. We almost flew to Makhachkala in one breath. The average speed was 95 km/h. We drove mainly on paid sections. In general, the road is good, but in Kalmykia, in the area of Elista, when we were crossing the steppe, there are lots of dangerous turns. Why have they design such a crooked road in the steppe, where there is no need to go around mountains, rivers and lakes?! Cameras in Kalmykia are unmarked.
After arrival to Dagestan, we went to a local restaurant of national cuisine, looked at the Caspian Sea, spent the night in Makhachkala, and then in the morning we met with Elson and drove two cars to Khnov village. In the evening, upon arrival, the weapons were checked – I hit exactly the top ten at 200 meters (a carbine was shot at that distance). The altitude in the village is 1700 meters above sea level.
In the morning, we moved to the mountains on horseback. There were Elson and two guides in the company plus Dmitry and me: Zaur and Ramadan. We drove five kilometers along a picturesque mountain road, and then 7 kilometers up the mountains. It was noon, when we got to the base camp, which was a frame insulated house. The altitude was 2800 meters above sea level. We ate something. Elson offered to stay in the camp at that day and enjoy nature, while he and Ramadan would go exploring. I decided to go with them, because I had no desire to sit in the camp. I really wanted to see the area and the object of hunting if it was possible.
My attempt #2
We started climbing the ridges, watching carefully the slopes. In an hour we saw the first herd of 40-head turs that was three hundred meters away. There was one male larger than the others. Elson offered to shoot.
- Elson, I will immediately outline the goal and task. I need a big trophy. I won't shoot small and medium size males; I'd rather leave without a trophy. Sorry to be direct.
We went up. Soon after a short climb we saw a herd of a hundred heads on the opposite side of the circus that opened. The distance was 2.5 kilometers, but even at that distance, with tenfold binoculars, it was clear that two males differed favorably in the size of the horns.
– Will we have time to get to them before dark today?
- Anton, let's do this: you will look at these turs carefully through an optical sight, and if the size of the trophy satisfies you, we will try to make it today. If not, we’ll try to approach them tomorrow, - Elson replied.
I set the carbine, set the maximum multiplicity on the optics and lay down on the frozen ground to observe. I clearly outlined the criteria for the minimum trophy before the trip: the horns should make almost a full circle and both horns twist up with the ends. The two visible turs in that herd had just such horns.
- Let’s go!
- We have to make it in two hours," Elson nodded.
We went quickly, because the day had long passed the middle, and it got dark at 5 pm. The timing was critical.
The path was always up. The snow crunched under the soles of the shoes, then the autumn withered grass crumpled, then the "stone scree" rustled, and slide down sneakily. I felt that I was really tired on the next rather steep ascent along the stone scree. I sat down to rest and remembered that there were "Sneakers" in my pocket. We ate one bar each, and the strength returned again! Fast carbs are a great source of energy in the mountains!
We moved on half-bent legs running the last few hundred meters, because it was impossible to pass part of the way secretly (out of sight of animals). I looked at the altimeter - 3700. We climbed 2000 vertical meters. Then we approached from above the unsuspecting herd, which was lying on the slope. The only place where it was possible to sneak closer was a piece of rock near the ridge. I started to approach it slowly and then I saw that two very good old turs came out on the ridge where we were standing. They probably saw us, but despite that, they grazed quietly on the ridge. There was a great flat area next to me. I put the carbine on the bipod, lay down and looked at them better. They both had nice horns. The distance was 608 meters, the angle was almost zero. It was the working distance for my level of shooting training. It was possible to shoot like on a shooting range. But a man always looked for the best, and I decided to look at those two that were in the herd. I looked from behind the ridge. The rangefinder showed 386 m. But the angle! I don't like shooting down at a big angle. And I had already missed several times offensively.
– What do you think: what animals are bigger – those on the ridge, or at the bottom? - I asked guides.
- They all are nice. You need to decide and shoot, it will be dark in 15 minutes–" Elson replied.
I don't remember what thoughts flashed through my head at that moment. I began to arrange a carbine to shoot at the lower ones. Bipods didn't help even in almost horizontal position. I had nothing to do but put the carbine just on the rock. And I knew that it would negatively affect the shooting – a completely different "jump" and so on! I saw perfectly well that the carbine was "piled up" on the side, but there was no other way to put it. I took aim at the grand tur – it was much darker than the others and seemed completely black at dusk. I made sure once again that its horns met my criteria – the ends were brought together and bent up, and pulled the trigger.
The result of such careless shooting was not long in coming – all animals ran down the slope. Ramadan said that the bullet went higher. I didn't see what happened next after the shot – it was a very uncomfortable position when shooting, and the "picture left" at the moment of the shot.
I was upset. More than upset. It was a ridiculous distance for me, and such an offensive blunder. It's my own fault – I got such a result because I prepared (put up a rifle) so. Why? The reason maybe in fatigue, or in a certain haste... Now I understand that it was necessary to shoot at those two who were standing on the ridge. It was much easier to shoot them despite the distance. Eh! What I was thinking about?!
Ramadan and Elson saw my condition, and began to cheer me up:
- Don't worry, we'll find others tomorrow. It’s just the first day!
Thank you very much to them for that support. I was uncomfortable in front of them: so much effort was spent on that rapid ascent, and I let them down at the last moment.
We went down to the camp. We walked almost all the way back in the dark. We had a wonderful dinner waiting for us in the camp - Zaur cooked a great soup!
Attempt #2
In the morning we got up early and moved up together along the already familiar route. After climbing the ridge, we began to notice small groups of turs on opposite slopes. The guides offered to try to approach them, but I refused – there were no decent ones.
Then we reached the herd with males, which I refused to shoot yesterday. Dmitry looked at it through binoculars and expressed a desire to get it. Zaur found a good, level place to shoot. The animals were downhill at a distance of 250 meters. The three of us crawled to the edge of the ridge. I set the carbine, adjusted the bipod so that there was no blockage, rebuilt the parallax, put the rifle conveniently. Dmitry lay down, took aim and pulled the trigger.
The tur jerked and ran. I shouted to shoot more. The second shot didn’t reach the aim. After 30 meters of running, the tur stopped and fell on its side. We congratulated Dmitry on his first mountain trophy!
Ramazan and Dmitry stayed to do a photo session and butcher the trophy, and Zaur, Elson and I continued on our way.
We climbed to the crest of the circus, where I shot yesterday. There was a fairly large herd of 150 heads of turs almost in the same place as last night. There were two old males among them.
We started climbing up the route already familiar from the previous day.
It was a little less than a kilometer left, when it became clear that it would be difficult to approach the herd unnoticed, as yesterday. There were many of them, and the herd occupied almost the entire slope - from top to bottom. 150 pairs of eyes monitored the surroundings.
Part of the way, where there was no opportunity to hide behind the terrain, we overcame by running on our haunches. No matter how funny and strange it may sound. At last, we got to the ridge from which I shot yesterday. There were two huge old turs, they stood on the opposite side of the ridge, to the bottom left, almost in the valley. They stayed separate, grazed, then lay down in the snow.
- Can we approach them? - I asked.
- No chances. It’s the northern slope. It's not even worth trying without crampons. If you try, you'll slide along snow, and stop in down near the river. We can pick you up from there in the spring.
I examined carefully the slope at the bottom of which those two beautiful males were standing: the snow covered it all, the wind filled a thick layer of crust, the angle of inclination throughout was very steep. But these two handsome males beckoned me!
So, we sat in the snow and thought: how to approach the herd? It was impossible to go out on the right side of the slope – they would notice us immediately; it was impossible to go along the ridge for the same reason. The left side was steep, covered with a meter layer of bright white snow. Elson and Zaur told me that there were a lot of stones under the snow, which were in ice, and it was dangerous to walk on them. How I regretted that I hadn't brought crampons with me!
There was the only possible option - and I insisted on it - to go along the northern left slope. The guides were against it - they feared for my safety. The guys had sticks with hooks on the end with which they clung to the slope deftly when moving, and the guys did not believe in my carbon poles. I managed to convince them that I could do it.
We started a cautious approach down the slope. Zaur was walking below me all the time - to insured me in case I was carried down. We could walk only 100 meters with a straight back, then we had to sit down in the snow and move on our ass. Elson crawled first, then I, Zaur brought up the rear. We were pushing a huge snowdrift in front of us, the guys got their clothes wet immediately . So, we had to move in such way for about 200 meters.
When we looked out carefully from behind the ridge, it was 250 meters to the nearest turs. Elson suggested to shoot a good male in the nearest group. I refused – because there was another one, which lay higher and was bigger than the offered one.
- What can I do with you? - said Elson and signed.
We continued to move in the snowdrifts. We over crossed another 50 meters floundering in the snow, it became clear that it was not possible to crawl closer unnoticed – the turs would detect us.
I began to study the herd carefully through binoculars. The folds of the terrain hided the biggest male, which lay on the slope. The shooting position wasn't comfortable. Then I spotted a good trophy, which was downstairs, in one of the groups. Apparently, it was the second big one that we saw initially. I decided to fire it.
The distance is 356 meters, the angle is minus 20-25 degrees (I don't remember exactly). The bipods had to be pushed out completely - so that they reached the icy ground under the snow because we were lying in deep snow. I checked all the calculations on the calculator several times, got into position as far as the terrain allowed, and looked at the trophy through the optics.
The animals were feeding and moving all the time. The Grand Tur was hide behind the bodies of its companions. I was lying, waiting for the opportunity to shoot, and various doubts crept into my head: "It flew higher yesterday. Why? Maybe the pressure is lower because of the altitude, and the calculator is wrong? Maybe I should take the aiming point below to level this error? OK. I’ll take it lower”.
Suddenly, the male moved slightly away from the group, and its left shoulder blade opened. I aimed the crosshairs just above the knee and pulled the trigger. The sound of a gunshot rang out, and the turs ran. There were so many of them there! Where was "mine" among that stream of brown backs?! I was trying to identify the one the shot was fired at. When the frightened herd ran 500 meters away, I saw it. Elson and Zaur said that it limped on its right front leg. The turs ran 700-800 meters and stood in the valley. I found "my trophy" and began to watch it. Indeed, the tur was limping on the right leg, but I was shooting at the left! A few minutes late, the male began to... feed. It meant that I missed. AGAIN! On the one hand, it was good that I didn't wound it, but on the other... I felt how apathy came over me.
The guys got wet during our horizontal approach and froze. They offered to drink tea and return to the camp. I didn't care. I was depressed. How could it be? What's happened? What was the reason of such offensive blunders?
The third one, and it was the final.
I put the carbine on the bipod and went to boil water for tea. We drank tea in the silence. I took the AlpenPod and went for the carbine. When there were about 10 meters to the weapon left, I raised my head and saw the head of a tur with huge, powerful horns, which was peeking out on the ridge adjacent to the left. I fell on my back immediately and crawled up to the weapon. The shooting distance was 424 meters.
That was one of those two old males that grazed at the bottom of the northern slope, they came to the ridge to us. Why did it decide to get up 15 minutes after the shot was fired? What made it to do it? I didn’t know. Providence?
- Shoot from here, - whispered Elson.
I didn't like the position at all: there was a lot of snow on the slope going down in the place where the carbine was set on. I looked around and saw a great platform further along the ridge: it was flat, without snow. I grabbed a carbine and crawled half-bent from the ridge to the right side so as to remain invisible to the eyes of the tur. I was well aware that the animal saw us and could take a step back, hiding behind the rocks at any moment. But I decided to risk. So, I ran about 20 meters behind the ridge, and crawled out to the intended position. It stood on the rock. Only its huge horns and chest were visible. There was no doubt about its trophy features! The distance was 391 meters, the angle was almost zero.
I wound up the drums, aimed at the base of the neck and fired. I saw a hit clearly in place, and a somersault back, which the beast did after. How could I convey the emotions that had flared up inside me? Everything came back to me: many trips, kilometers of travel, liters of sweat, failures and burst out of my chest with a victory cry. The mountains were silent, and I was ready to jump with happiness and awareness of the completed goal.
The guys came up with smiles on their faces, began to congratulate and hug emotionally. It was real emotions! I am very grateful to them for the opportunity to take this trophy!
One thing bothered us at that moment – how far had the male roll down? We went to look, hoping that it caught on the shelf on which it stood before. The miracle did not happen – the body rolled down a steep shallow slope. We reached the defeated beast, did photos and butchered the trophy. It was not an easy matter due to the fact that the powerful carcass was always trying to roll down.
The next day we were removing meat and descending to the village. Everything passed without incidents.
We spent the night at Elson's house, got into the car and rushed to St. Petersburg. The trip went in normal mode on the already familiar road, if we do not take into account the fact that we got into a real winter with frost, heavy snow and ice on the way back.
I can safely say that an excellent hunting outfitter has appeared in Dagestan! Everything was at the highest level: food, horses, guides, attitude to the client, the presence of an animal in the grounds, understanding of the principles of trophy hunting. There is nothing to find fault with! Elson, thank you very much for hunting! My personal thanks to Zaur and Ramazan! The guys worked well. I hope that the hunting fate will bring us more than once on the way!
About the trophy: the length of the left horn is 103 cm, the right one is 101 cm, the base is 36 cm, 13 years old. Weapon - Blaser R93, caliber.300WinMag, Hornady ELD-M bullet 225 gr.
