The Caucasian, or, as it is also called, the Kuban tur.
Kuban Tur
Six years have passed since the time when in 1993 I came to the Caucasus for the first time. I traveled to North Ossetia, where hunted for the Dagestan tur. In October 1999, I happened to be one of the first outfitters who brought foreign hunters to Karachay-Cherkessia, on the Kuban tur. I have visited almost every gorge of this beautiful mountain republic since that time.
The population of the West Caucasian tur is widespread, from the western spurs of the Caucasus Mountains, almost to the Elbrus, where the Middle Caucasian turs are already more common. They are a hybrid of two subspecies of the Caucasian tur. I had a chance to hunt on the Kuban tur from Sochi side - on the border of the Caucasian Reserve. It happened just before the 2014 Olympics. Karachay-Cherkessia gave me the most vivid and unforgettable impressions.
... We lived on the third floor in the same house and same entrance where the famous Soviet scientist, professor of medicine Igor Petrovich Lidov. Our family was close friends with the Lidovs: my grandfather, Nikolai Vasilyevich Puchkov, a professor of physiology, was the first chairman of the cooperative of our house, and my older brother Alexander studied with Peter Lidov (now a famous sports doctor) in the same class. Igor Petrovich was a passionate hunter and I was strongly impressed by the stuffed wild animals hanging at the Lidovs' apartment. Perhaps, it was the first sign when the spark of a trophy hunter lit up in me. “I want to have same trophies!” - I said to myself.
Once, after numerous hunts for the Kuban tour, where I accompanied hunters as a tour operator and translator, I had the opportunity to go on the hunt together with a good friend from Germany, Andreas. I met him in Moscow, and we flew to Mineralnye Vody, where my old friend Mudalif was waiting for us. He was the head of the hunting area in Karachay-Cherkessia Hunting Association at that time. We got to the village of Storozhevaya by his car. It was in October 2008. I had already got my first Kuban tur 5 years before that. But it was not possible to make a stuffed animal.
...It was in the Aksaut Gorge, also in October. I and two American hunters got into bad weather: the snowfall lasted for several days. We had nothing to do but have to wait out in the loggers' trailer. On the last day (last chance!) the weather cleared up, and I, with a guide and one of the hunters, climbed through the snow above the forest. We saw a group of eight males, and I suggested the American to shoot. He turned out to be not a good shooter, but hit and got a pretty good nine-year tur after several shots at the outgoing animal from 300-400 meters. We all were Inspired by luck, took pictures and decided to roll the trophy down through the snow to the stream, so that it would be easier to pick it up later. It was difficult to determine in the snow what was ahead of us - a gentle descent or a steep rocky cliff. Therefore, I suggested that the guide and the American stay with the trophy, and I decided to check the relief myself. It wasn't so steep ahead. I had already turned back and wanted to shout for the guys to roll the trophy down. But then I caught out of the corner of my eye the tur, which stood at the very bottom. It was standing about two hundred meters away from me, right by the stream. It was great! It was the Grand Tur! I plopped down in the snow and gestured to the guide to take the gun from the American and hand it to me. Then it was a matter of technique: , it was simply impossible not to get there at such a distance, from the knee of the Remington 700, with 18x Leopold optics. We were just stunned when we came close later: it was a 16-year-old horned male! It turned out to be so old and emaciated that it would hardly had lived until next spring. It even resembled an Alpine ibex by its huge sweeping horns. Unfortunately, the second American hunter could not get anything. When he saw the tur I had got, he prayed: "Please give this trophy to me!” I had to give the trophy to the American in order not to lose face, and for the guests to go home happy. Oh, how I still regret about it!
Five years passed, and I decided to try my hunting luck again. We had completed all the necessary documents in the village of Zelenchukskaya, and spent the night at Muzdalif's house, in the village of Storozheva. There are a lot of villages and outposts in these places …
In the morning, we took the GAZ-66 and drove up into the mountains - to the Urupsky district along the Kyafar River - then we set up camp there near the mountain lake Rybnoye, where guides with horses were already waiting.
The next morning, we began to explore the surroundings. The weather was not particularly good: the first day was quite clear, but then the clouds descended, and it began to rain, and a snowball fell on the tops of the mountains, above 2500 meters.
At last, we finally stumbled upon a group of a dozen males after several unsuccessful days in search. A couple of them were pretty good turs about 9-10 years old. The whole group was grazing between the mountain peaks in a kind of "bowl". There was no way to get closer to them without giving ourselves away. All we could do was to lie down on the snow – a kind of snow puff, get ready for the shot and wait. I did not prepare the gun immediately. I set on a video camera on a tripod and decided to make video of Andreas' shot first. I had to wait quite a long time. The animals did not approach, but only moved away. Finally, when in the end, when my teeth chattered ( the snow crust served as a litter, not grass), I suggested Andreas to try his luck from a distance of 420 meters. It's a kind of critical distance for Europeans and for Germans in particular. It is not accepted to shoot further than 300 meters in Germany. There are no shooting galleries for such distances there. Therefore, it was not easy for Andreas to decide. But it was getting dark. Nobody knew if we would find those turs again tomorrow, especially if the weather deteriorated again. We could leave without any trophy… And he decided to take the chance.
Today, when I have an experience of long-distance shooting, I can say that 300 WinMag performed by Blaser R93 and 25x optics from Swarovski was quite enough to get the trophy from the first shot. But that moment I could see through the camera's viewfinder how the bullet lay right in front of the nose of the tur, which we identified as the largest. The echo was reflected from the walls of the "bowl", and the turs ran around the circle in our direction, and not from us to our amazement and joy. That gave a good chance of success despite the blunder. I hissed at Andreas: “Did it once again! Shoot!” And Andreas started shooting. But each time his bullets came down from behind the running animals (I wasn't sure if he was shooting at the same male at all). The herd had rounded the entire "bowl" in an arc, and was rapidly approaching the rocks, behind which they could hardly be reached. At that moment, one of the two guides who were with us shouted: “Max, shoot!” I grabbed my "Tikka", pressed myself against the sight, chose the last running tur, and "led" it. Then I made a small advance, and pulled the trigger on the exhale. The last thing I saw, after the shot, was the front leg of the tur soared up. At the same moment, the animals disappeared behind the rocks. Everyone started to look higher, so that we could see the running turs somewhere in the gap between the rocks. And, indeed, one by one they began to slip into a small "open spot" between the huge stones. I warned Andreas to be ready. Unfortunately, his gun was right over my head. None of us noticed in the excitement. Andreas burst from all the guns! I'd got shell-shocked and fell into the snow. I saw the happy faces of the guides and Andreas who hugged me, their mouths opened, exuding cries of joy–but I didn't hear the screams themselves. I heard only "ddddiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnggg" in my ears!
We got up and surveyed the area. The blood trail showed us the way to the tur that Andreas had got. The buzzing in my ears slowly began to subside. I asked the guides if they had seen one limping on its front leg, among the turs that had risen high. One of the guys said that he saw one, but it climbed with the others to the very top and disappeared over the pass. I didn't believe my deafened ears, left Andreas and the guys to take photos, and began to climb up in the hope to see a blood trail.
There was nothing. It couldn’t be so. I reached the very top, and found a vertical cliff, which was going to the foot of the "bowl", to the very rocks behind which the turs disappeared. And it was there, right below me, that it was, the wounded tur. It was mine, just mine! - Kuban Tur! Finally, I got it with a shot from top, then went down to the trophy, and waited for the guides who helped Andreas. We made photos in complete darkness.
The next morning, snow fell, but it didn't hurt our great mood at all!
Both Andreas and I returned home full of unforgettable impressions and proud of the magnificent trophies of the Kuban tur we had got!
I've made a stuffed animal which still pleases my eye! It hangs on the wall next to two stuffed Dagestan turs. It waits when another one from Kabardino-Balkaria would be added to their Dagestan-Kuban company. And it will definitely happen…
