My passion for mountain hunting began from Tajikistan. It wasn't my first mountain hunting , but in the fact that I read an article about two Spaniards who went to the Mountain Badakhshan for Marco Polo sheep. That article made an indelible impression – what kind of hardships and difficulties the hunters did not have to go through! I respected involuntarily those cool Spanish machos for their perseverance and perseverance.
And I got the impression that the most difficult hunting was hunting in the Pamirs. I thought so because of the long, tedious road to the hunting area, because of the small number of animals with high trophy features because of the peculiar relief: large flat spaces, where sheep preferred to stay, and that implied a long shot. A shot at 600-900 meters is not uncommon in the conditions of the Pamirs. Changeable, gusty wind does not give confidence to the shooter. The cost of Marco Polo hunting can be called the highest one but it certainly rises from year to year, as for all mountain hunts. But the above doesn't go to any comparison with the main treachery of the Pamirs called mountain sickness. The first time I experienced those indescribable sensations was in 2012, when I was hunting for ibex on the Tien Shan. I felt an awful headache to the point of unconsciousness, constant nosebleeds, vomiting, and all those symptoms were against the background of panic fear. Thanks to Alexey Podtyazhki, outfitter and founder of Ibex, who accompanied me on that hunt, everything turned out well for my health. I decided that that would not happen again after the Kyrgyz experiment, when I suffered so much and experienced. I just won't allow such a situation!
The offer to hunt in the Pamirs came unexpectedly…
I couldn't say that it was by the way – I was in not very good condition at that time both physically (a cold affected me) and morally. However, I remembered a joke about two types of gifts. The first one was not needed by anyone, and the second one was never received. I decided that my case was the second one. I was offered to ride to the Pamirs for the company almost a free and get a trophy of Marco Polo along the way. Well, I could get the trophy of an ibex at the same time - to "not get up twice" (!!!). I seemed to feel that I had hit the jackpot, because I had only allowed to dream occasionally of such a hunt until now! In general, I had trophies of Marco Polo sheep and ibexes from the Tien Shan, but I could not boast of Pamir trophies yet. It turned out at the same time that the tickets had already been purchased and we had to fly in a week. I don't even know how much I would have endured if I had been asked to agree to the count of "three", but no one was going to count down to three, and I agreed to the count of "one". The friend of mine who invited me to hunt planned to get Marco Polo sheep, an ibex and markhor.
I had to get nervous before departure. We barely managed to catch the plane though we had left for Sheremetyevo airport with a large margin of time. But that did not dampen our mood at all. The anticipation of new adventures in hitherto unknown places conjured up successful shots at animals with record trophies. We couldn’t wait when it’d start.
We took three rifles: two Blaser R8 in 7mm calibers and .300 Win Mag, as well as HS Precision Pro.338 LM on that trip.
After arrival we refreshed ourselves with a hearty pilaf and green tea, while waiting for weapons in the VIP lounge of Dushanbe airport, then loaded our simple belongings into cars and set off. The road to the hunting place was about 600 kilometers. The trip would seem hellish if not for the good cars, then after the rocky, sometimes very broken tracks. The slogan "Toyota - drive the dream" turned out to be not just a form of speech, but a real reality.
The road went along the Panj, along the border of Tajikistan and Afghanistan. We stopped a couple of times to warm up and take photos against the background of settlements. I saw Afghans on the other side of the river, they were grazing cattle, washing carpets, children were having fun and playing. But in past, those places along the border were full of danger. Tajik border patrols, which met in large numbers along our route, prompted similar thoughts.
The plan was to spend the night in a hotel in the Khorog town. However, my friend suggested to move on not to waste time, and to start hunting as soon as possible. I still offered to spend the night in a hotel for acclimatization mindful of my Kyrgyz experience, but my friend who slept most of the way in the back seat of an SUV objected that we had been drinking diacarb for a week, and nothing serious would happen.
He paid for the trip and I could accept his terms.
We reloaded our luggage and weapons into another car, they rushed on. My friend, who settled in the back seat, fell asleep safely, and I began to ask the driver about the customs and customs of the Pamirs. I knew a lot of interesting things.
We overcame the pass and managed to notice a pack of six wolves at the entrance to the base camp in pitch darkness. We chased them in the hope to get a better look at the predators and, if we were lucky, to send a couple of grey killers to the realm of eternal hunting. The wolves were huge. As one of the drivers told me later, they are called such predators "Russian wolves" there. According to him, the local wolves were mostly small, and those larger ones came from Afghanistan. But why did they call them Russians?
We carried away by the chase, and didn't notice the hole under the snow and fell straight into that trap. It took us two hours of ordeal, to freed from that trap with the help of local rangers, who came to the headlights. They watched the daring chase of wolves from the base camp.
Finally, we found ourselves pretty frozen in one of the buildings of the base camp. We were immediately offered hot tea, and a rich meat soup a little later. At dinner, as usual in all hunting companies we joked laughed, told funny stories, all kinds of stories sounded. We sat at the table and went to bed late after midnight, although the rise was scheduled for 6 in the morning.
I got up at the appointed time, took the water procedures, and decided to do some push-ups. This is a common thing for me. I did push-ups five dozen times, decided not to stop there and did push-ups for the same amount. I felt very good, it looked like the diacarb was working 100%!
Then there was a hearty breakfast and a trip to the shooting range. Everything looked good.
Then we were driving about two hours by the UAZ, looking for suitable size sheep and ibex. The number of the ibexes was quite large there, but there were few worthy individuals in the herds. Several times we watched small groups very good by the standards of Kyrgyzstan. But we were on the Roof of the World! Naturally, we were impressed by the glossy photos of hunters with their monstrous Marco Polo sheep, we did not want to compromise and continued to search fanatically for the best ones. Moreover, my fears about the harsh hunting conditions were not justified.
Telling the truth, it was hard to breathe, but the minimal movements, which consisted in leaving the UAZ and moving within five meters to the scope, made me believe naively that that was the lightest hunt I had ever participated in.
In the evening of the first day, the guides found two large groups of ibexes, in one of which three good males stood out.
One of the huntsmen asked who of us would shoot at the black ibex, which was much superior to the others. with its carcass and color. I refused resolutely to shoot the first, but to the credit of my friend, who invited me to that hunt and knew my reverent attitude to that trip, he rejected my refusal and offered to cast lots, adding that there were no generals on the hunt and in the bathhouse. It wasn't the first time I'd heard that expression from him, and it was always very funny to hear it from him. I won't say why it's funny to always hear this expression from this respected person, but those who are in the topic will understand. We began to look for coins. I tried to find iron rubles in my pockets, while the guys were looking for the local currency. The Pamir people won. Somoni was thrown, which lay down so that Fortune smiled at me.
I had to prepare. The shooting distance was 850 meters. We began to approach trying to move measured. We made a small semicircle, and reduced the distance to 482 meters under the cover of stones.
I took up a firing position and tried to calm the excitement. It was very difficult to breathe. It took a long time there in comparison with the Caucasus mountains where breathing calmed down many times faster. I looked at the ibex through an optical sight for a long time, and every minute I was growing confident that I was holding the best male from that herd in the crosshair of the optical sight. I turned to the guides. Everyone was focused and waiting for the shot. I looked around and felt like I was on another planet. No vegetation, just cold stones! And... hypoxia began to make itself felt. It was like a dream…
Meanwhile, my target at a distance of 482 meters began to worry suddenly as if it sensed something amiss with some animal instinct. The senior huntsman said that the ibex was alarmed, it was impossible to delay the shot.
I took a deep breath-exhaled, inhaled-exhaled and pulled the trigger smoothly. The usual push of the butt into the shoulder announced that the Berger bullet had left the barrel of the Blazer. After a couple of seconds, I restored the picture in the sight, having previously pulled the shutter to add, if necessary. It was obvious that the bullet had done its job. And I realized that I became the happy owner of the Pamir ibex!
The next day everything repeated. We got up in the morning, push-ups, breakfast, binoculars, and by 11 o'clock we found very good sheep. The coin decided that time that I would be a mute spectator of my friend's hunt.
A local guide said when we were ready to leave the camp, that it would be hard and suggested not to take the backpack and weapons himself, but to hand them over to the escorts. I flatly refused, and joked that I did not come there from the hospital. But I received an equally witty answer: the main thing was not to get to the hospital from there. It was said with a smile in a friendly manner.
There were 2 km to the sheep. We moved slowly, choosing the best position for approaching animals. Suddenly after I had walked 300 meters at an altitude of 4700 m, I felt uneasy. I decided that the reason was the tight straps of the backpack. But soon thoughts began to appear to give the backpack and gun to the escorts. I turned very pale after another 200-300 meters, which the guides began to talk about with alarm.
I had a feeling that my chest was crushed by a hefty log, and I couldn't throw it off. Soon all my things were taken away from me, and I lay down on my back as my friend advised. The pain became unbearable. It felt like a sharp dagger pierced the chest from the left side to the right shoulder. I rolled over on my right side, it became a little easier to breathe. I tried to breathe in more air, but began to freeze quickly at a temperature of - 18 ° C and a strong wind. Neuralgia appeared. At that moment, I didn't want anything anymore – just to get back to where I could breathe as soon as possible. The guides insisted that I return to the car. I refused to help in order not to spoil the hunt for a friend.
It was a separate story how I walked those five or six hundred meters to the car. I crawled on all fours for the last fifty meters, turning on all-wheel drive, until the driver noticed me and helped me.
They helped me undress at the base camp. I just didn't have the strength to untie my shoelaces. For the first time in my life, I understood what infirmity was in the somatic sense of the word, being a physically strong and trained man.
An hour later, a guy appeared, he said that he was a shepherd- doctor. He gave me an injection and gave me two validol tablets. It didn't get any easier, I felt a headache, the wildest weakness, and breathing became less frequent and more difficult. The doctor demanded hospitalization urgently. They put me in a car and took me to Khorog, to the Aga Khan IV Hospital, which was more than two hundred kilometers from the base camp. They found pulmonary edema there, but the prompt and professional measures of the doctors saved my life.
So, my hunt in the Pamirs ended. It confirmed the axiom once again: Pamir does not forgive mistakes! And other mountains too. I didn't get my Pamir Marco Polo. So... there's a reason to come back! The next time I'll prepare for the conquest of the Pamirs more responsibly and thoroughly, won't neglect acclimatization and bring my physical form to the right condition in advance.
But I am sincerely glad for my friend – he's realized his dream!
