IN THE HEART OF THE HUNTING COUNTRY. IBEX, SHEEP, AND BEAR
Our knowledge of the geography of the Tian Shan range was very hazy.
We had been unable to get any good maps, and what we could gather
from the Kazaks and Kalmuks through the medium of our shikaries, only
further confused us. Kargaitash had always been our goal for hunting
ovis karelenyi, but whether it was a nullah or a mountain we could
never make sure. The small-scale maps which we possessed showed it as
a somewhat indefinite range of mountains; but from our questionings
we gathered that that was not what the Kazaks meant when referring to
Kargaitash.
After leaving our camp in the Kooksu we headed gradually into the
hills, through pine forests where we were told the wapiti lived,
and over one or two small passes. On the crest of these barren
passes, amid the rocks and snow, wild flowers ran riot—yellow and
purple pansies, dainty primula, and many whose names we could not
approximate. It was hard to say where they were most effective—in the
glades of the pine forests or among the lonely rocks. Rahima summed
up the situation in laconic fashion when he remarked: “Here jungle
all same as garden.”
Ever since crossing the Muzart we had been doing our best to get
in touch with one or another of the natives, Kazak or Kalmuk, with
whom Rahima had hunted on his previous expeditions in the Tian Shan.
He had been here twelve years ago, and as far as we could learn
there had been no sahibs in the country since then; first there was
the war, and afterward the approach through Russia was closed. Of
his two Kalmuk friends, Namgoon had died and Nurla was away, but
eventually there turned up one Tula Bai, a Kazak, of whom Rahima
thought very highly. He was a short man and walked doubled over,
giving a gorilla-like appearance. The first few days he was our
guide, his mind, to put it kindly, seemed elsewhere, for we doubled
about every which way, much to the disgust of our head pony man, who
did not hesitate to explain to Tula Bai with some warmth the error of
his ways. Ted and I reserved judgment, which was about all we could
do; but when once we got straightened out and really in the hunting
country, we found that Rahima had not overrated the old fellow.
We stopped at a number of Kazak khourgas to bargain for horses, for
we wished to spell our riding-ponies when we started in hunting. We
also had sheep to buy for food for ourselves and the men. In one
khourga we found a large hooded eagle. Its owner told us that he
used it for coursing roe-deer and also for wapiti; but in the latter
case he can only have meant partly grown wapiti. The eagle was not
a silent bird; it called out incessantly, but the other occupants of
the khourga paid no attention to it; there was a fat baby asleep in
a cradle right beside the perch. At another halt we came on a young
bull wapiti, perhaps eighteen months old and entirely friendly with
his captors.
As we climbed, the weather became colder; the rain, which had been an
almost daily occurrence, changed to snow and sleet on the passes, and
one could imagine how bitter cold it must be in the winter months if
this was what we found in midsummer. The wandering Kazaks had come
far up the valleys with their horses and cattle and sheep to take
advantage of the summer pasturage. The cattle in particular were fine
big animals, but apparently they are rarely slaughtered for food.
The chief use made of them seemed to be for riding. In these high
pastures there is a poisonous grass to which the herds pay toll, and
more than once we came upon dead sheep.
Unexpectedly one afternoon the riddle of Kargaitash was solved for
us when Tula Bai pointed out a long, flat-topped butte crowned with
tall, irregular pencils of black rock. This was Kargaitash, the stone
trees, as the words signify in Turki. Near its base, at an altitude
of slightly more than 9,000 feet, we pitched our camp. The cold rain
and the mist-clad mountains made it evident that hunting could not be
continuous.
Rahima was greatly disappointed when we found that several bands of
Kalmuks had preceded us by ten or twelve days and were engaged in
shooting marmots. They had old single-shot rifles of the model of
1876, and though they confined their attentions to the marmots, he
was afraid that they would have disturbed the country and driven
the sheep elsewhere. Kazak and Kalmuk are in continual feud, and it
behooves the sahib to watch out that whichever is with him does not
make use of the shadow of his wing to oppress the enemy. Our Kazaks
did their utmost to persuade us to allow them to confiscate the
rifles and ponies of the Kalmuks on the plea that they had disturbed
our hunting country.
On August 15 Ted and I set out in opposite directions from camp.
Khalil and Tula Bai were with me, while Ted had Rahima and a shenzi
named Nurpay, the possessor of a remarkable pair of eyes. Our Kazaks
wore hide breeches, and many a ride in the rain had bagged them
abnormally at the knees. They reminded us of Father’s story of how on
the station platform at Medora, North Dakota, a slightly intoxicated
stranger walked round and round his ranch foreman eying his leather
trousers, and finally broke out with: “Well, if you’re going to jump,
jump, damn you!”
We rode cautiously along, dismounting below the crest of each hill
and crawling to the top, field-glasses in hand, to spy out the
country. The first wild animal to be sighted was a marmot sitting
at the mouth of its burrow. These dark-skinned little fellows are
much sought after by the Kalmuks, and we were told that at Kulja a
good hide would bring three dollars. At Ayalik, when after ibex, I
saw three of them tumbling about in the grass. One adult female I
measured was thirty inches over all.
The next game we caught sight of from a subsequent rise was
a roe-deer. Tula Bai informed me that it was a tika-illik—an
ibex-roe—that its mother had been an ibex and its father a roe; but
as a careful examination failed to show us any signs of this unusual
mésalliance in the offspring, we decided to leave it alone for fear
of disturbing any Karelini that might be within hearing.
[Illustration: LOOSE LEADING A PONY LADEN WITH PRODUCTS OF THE TIAN
SHAN]
[Illustration: TULA BAI AND KHALIL SPYING FOR OVIS KARELINI]
Not long after this Khalil made out a small ram climbing up a steep
hill. When it had topped the crest, we hurried after it. There
were a great many crows on the hillside wheeling and clustering
most agitatedly. It was evident that there were some disturbers of
the peace in the offing. As we got nearer, we found that a brown
hawk, lighter in body than any crow, was endeavoring to make a
kill. He invariably attacked the crows upon the ground; six times
I saw him swoop unsuccessfully. Half a dozen crows followed in his
wake, attempting to mob him, but he paid little attention to them,
avoiding them with the greatest of ease whenever they seemed to be
uncomfortably close. Our way led through the scene of the combat, so
we dispersed the gathering.
At the brow of the hill Khalil and I had our field-glasses ready,
and soon picked up three Karelini rams, feeding on a patch of grass
a mile or more away. Our first stalk was a failure. Verily in this
country “the wind bloweth where it listeth,” and a sudden eddy made
our quarry suspicious. They could have got only a very faint whiff,
for they trotted off slowly while we watched them from behind a rocky
ridge. We saw that in addition to the three marked down there had
been as many more hidden. One was Khalil’s small ram, and the others
were clearly big fellows; Khalil and Tula Bai estimated them as all
having horns more than fifty inches in length. Although they were
between five and six hundred yards from us, Khalil was eager for
me to open fire, insisting that I would get no second chance. His
judgment of the proper time to shoot was very often faulty. Trotting
across a narrow valley, they climbed a long, easy, sloping ridge. As
they crossed a stretch of snow their horns stood clearly outlined,
and we realized that those of the last one were larger than the
others; but it was when he clambered upon a rock on the ridge crest
and framed himself against the blue sky that we saw him in his full
glory and appreciated his true size. Khalil turned to me: “If master
get him, I give God twenty rupees at Bandipur!”
Tula Bai, although ready to go anywhere on horseback, was not of
much use on foot; in addition, he was inclined to be crotchety and
opinionated, so I sent him back to the ponies. When the sheep passed
out of sight, Khalil and I made all speed toward where we had last
seen them. We found that they had stopped seven or eight hundred
yards farther on; some were lying down, others were feeding. The only
way to get within range involved a long détour, and included some
stiff climbing. An hour’s work, the most disagreeable part of which
was the crossing of two wide and steeply inclined snow-fields where
we started a couple of small avalanches and felt in a very precarious
and uncomfortable position, brought us to a ridge running down near
where the sheep lay. Now was the time to make haste slowly, for a
misstep and a loosened boulder would give us away. All went well and
at a short 150 yards I fired.
We had picked out the old ram; he was lying down facing away from
me, and I made precisely the same shot as I had with my ibex at
Khanayalik. A bullet entering from behind and ranging forward is
almost inevitably fatal. Although he ran, I knew he could not go far,
so I turned my attention to his companions. I wanted four sheep.
They ran off quartering and then swung around, uncertain whence the
trouble came. Part of the time they were hidden in a ravine. I did
some rapid shooting, fifteen shots, and when we hurried down to take
stock we found that I had bagged five instead of four; one had
fallen in the ravine without my knowing it. Only the small one got
away. Ted said that whenever we shot at a number of animals it was,
according to our shikaries, invariably a case of “The boys with their
rakes killed twenty-five snakes, but the biggest one got away!” This
time I had made any such theory untenable.
Upon measuring the heads we found that, although the four smaller
heads were not as large as we hoped, ranging from forty-four to
forty-six inches, the large one was bigger than we had dared to
think possible. Around the curve these horns taped sixty-one inches.
More than an inch larger than any head yet recorded. There was a
great difference in coloration in these sheep. Our shikaries and the
natives had told us that the darkest sheep were the largest, but in
this case the big one had the lightest coat; three of the others were
dark, and one light-colored.
It was four o’clock by the time we began the measuring and the
skinning. We made out three Kazak herdsmen in a valley two or three
miles away. Tula Bai gathered them in and we were glad of their
help. Rain and sleet set in; skinning was bitterly cold work; but
eventually I had two entire skins and three head-skins ready, and we
packed them all over to the ponies across some very broken ground.
On the ride back to camp Tula Bai took the lion’s share of the load.
On his pony he piled the two whole skins, leg-bones and all, roping
a head on each side of the saddle, and perching himself on top. It
was quarter to seven, very dark and cold and wet, but he set out
undaunted in the lead. In places the ground was boggy and the ponies
sank and struggled; elsewhere there were only rocks and holes,
and dimly discerned precipices, along the very edges of which we
skirted, but through it all Tula Bai’s white pony, “like the crested
plume of the brave Navarre,” glimmered in our van. A white pony is
a conspicuous hunting companion, and in the morning I had looked
upon it with a very disapproving eye, but at night my feelings were
altogether reversed. Khalil sang in Kashmiri and I in English and
somehow or other the long, cold hours passed until half past nine,
when we caught the glimmer of our camp-fire, after fifteen hours’
hunting.
Ted had had a most interesting time, for although he had seen no
heads worth shooting, he had counted a great quantity of game—three
herds of Karelini ewes and young, totalling thirty-five animals,
and two herds of ibex, totalling eighty. It certainly seemed as if
we were in a country teeming with game, but the promise was not
fulfilled. We were at a loss to understand the subsequent scarcity;
the best explanation we could contrive was that the Kalmuks, coming
up from the valleys after marmot-skins, had driven the large game
to distant and unknown feeding-grounds. Ted hunted long hours every
day for the ensuing week without getting a shot at a sheep. He was
usually off twelve to fourteen hours and scoured the country in every
direction, while camp was shifted hither and yon as seemed most
likely to put us in the sheep country.
Ted never saw another herd of ewes; twice he caught sight of rams,
once of ten and once of four, but on neither occasion could he and
Rahima get within range, although using every effort and the greatest
caution in watching the treacherous air-currents.
Twice he came upon ibex, on each occasion getting three; out of the
first lot the best head measured forty-six inches, out of the second
the best was fifty-two. Ibex-hunting, unless you have the time and
inclination to wait for ideal conditions, involves an immense amount
of hard climbing with a distinct spice of danger thrown in. One day
Ted took out a pair of rubber-soled shoes to try and they proved
most unsatisfactory, almost costing him his life when he slipped and
started rolling.
These long hunting-days were not attended by ideal weather. There
was generally a potpourri of sunshine, rain, sleet, and snow, the
various elements predominating upon different days. Fords, too, were
obstacles, swelled by snow-water in the afternoon and evening, and
on a certain night Ted and Rahima were nearly washed away. The only
insect pest was a large fly, bigger than a horse-fly but with a
sting not so severe—indeed, no worse than a mosquito. It was their
multitude and their buzzing that caused most annoyance. Fortunately,
they were late to rise and early to bed. When the sun was hidden they
miraculously disappeared, but when the sun came out they equally
miraculously reappeared. If you tried to use your field-glasses, they
bustled about your face and neck and entangled themselves in your
beard. Then you would call for clouds, but when the sun was darkened
it became so cold that you felt ready again to undergo the fly pest.
Our battery consisted of two Springfields and two Hoffman .375’s.
Both were admirably suited to our work. The Hoffman is a beautifully
turned out firearm, excellently balanced and sighted. One felt that
with it there were no alibis available when one missed.
After getting the Karelini rams I turned my attention to collecting
females to complete the various groups. I was fortunate enough to
find a herd of about twenty ewes late one afternoon. There was a
long plateau skirting a river with deep ravines running down to
the valley. The sheep were moving along from one draw to another,
feeding. A long but comparatively simple stalk brought me within easy
range, and to our Karelini group was added its female.
The long day’s hunting always showed something of interest. Twice I
came upon foxes—big red fellows with white tips to their tails. The
first was hunting field-mice, and was very graceful as he pounced
upon his quarry. He was entirely unaware of us, and I could have had
an easy shot but that I was afraid of frightening some particularly
fine ibex that had been seen near by. Parenthetically, I never did
find the ibex, but had I shot the fox I would undoubtedly have laid
it to that; it was just one of those cases when you are wrong either
way. The second fox I met was stalking a covey of fourteen ramchukor,
the big mountain-grouse, larger than a pheasant; a marmot sitting at
the entrance to his burrow was an interested spectator, playing the
part of innocent bystander. This time I had no chance for a shot.
The hawks as well as the foxes must have lived largely upon mice.
Their runways were everywhere; we collected two kinds, one larger
than a common house-mouse and with a very short tail, the other only
half the size but with a tail almost as long as its body. The former
the men caught one night in camp, the latter I saw in the grass and
captured by throwing myself off my pony on top of it. It was a good
many years since I had prepared any small mammals, and Ted was vastly
amused at the pride I took in the skins when I had them stuffed and
pinned out, looking, I must own, very plethoric and misshapen.
We constantly felt the lack of a .410 shotgun. On the heights we
saw numerous ramchukor, and on the grassy uplands many a covey of
partridges. I shot one of the former with my Springfield. A .410 or
a .22 Winchester makes so little noise that there is, as a rule, no
danger of disturbing the country.
I got a female ibex for the group after a long day among the canyons
and ridges of Kargaitash. The columns of rock had been worn into
every fantastic shape. Some were like sphinxes, others like strange
birds and beasts. Often erosion had left a great rock perched
precariously upon the top of a tall, slender column. Sometimes a
solitary stem would arise like a great factory chimney. Ted described
the whole scene, as he saw it lighted by the sunset, as reminding him
of the sky-line of New York. I came upon some ibex lying on isolated
rocky pedestals just as the chamois is always shown in the school
geographies.
It is most difficult to judge at all correctly the length of the
horns of any animal. A ram’s horn with its convolutions is naturally
more difficult to estimate than that of an ibex; but even the latter
presents enough room for error. One evening when we were riding down
a deep gulch, with a female Siberian roe for the group as the day’s
contribution, we saw a herd of ibex grazing on the mountains. An hour
and a half’s stalk would have been called for to put us in range,
and by that time it would have been long after dark, so we contented
ourselves with studying them through field-glasses and telescope.
Khalil felt certain that there were no heads better than forty-five
inches in length, but we nevertheless determined next day to go
after them, for time was passing and we had the wapiti group still
unstarted. We felt that it would be a very difficult one to get and
would require as many days as we could manage to devote to it.
The following morning Ted set off with Rahima across the Kooksu in
the hope of coming on ovis karelini, while Khalil and I went to look
up these ibex. We had not been gone long when we got a glimpse of six
wild pig bustling through the undergrowth on the opposite side of the
ravine. Some hasty shots resulted mainly in misses, but the big boar
turning back and away from the rest gave us the idea that he might
be hit. The underbrush was chiefly made up of a dwarf juniper with
wide and low trailing branches. The boar disappeared into a dense,
isolated bit of jungle and, upon his failing to reappear, we started
toward the clump in which we had last seen him. The mountainside was
a maze of pig trails and up it we toiled; the going would have been
easier had we been closer to the pig in stature. At length we reached
the boar’s retreat, to find ourselves in a warren of big burrows,
down one of which our quarry had gone.
We were now well up the mountain, and decided to keep climbing and
then make our way as best we could along the ridge, for it was on
this side of the nullah that we had seen the ibex. A lammergeyer
circled above us; Khalil remarked that that “big bird” always brought
him luck; also he had dreamed propitiously during the night. All this
was encouraging, but it didn’t make our path any easier. Around
rocky peaks, over runways of slide rock, among heaped-up broken
boulders we scrambled and slid until we came to a vantage-point from
which we could see the mountainside where we believed the ibex would
go for their day’s siesta. They were so much the color of the gray
rocks that it was a long time before we could pick them out; but
gradually we discovered one after another. An ibex sleeps in the most
outlandish positions; here one was sprawled along the ledge with
his head hanging down between two rocks; there one lay flat on his
side on a sand slide so steep that he seemed through the glasses to
be standing up; you would not find more postures in a barrack-room
of sleeping soldiers. We were about 800 yards away, and examined
their heads carefully. Khalil said that there was none with horns
fifty inches in length, but I was inclined to disagree with him. The
females lay between us and the big males in such a manner as to make
stalking impossible until they moved, so there was nothing to do but
wait.
We had become very hot in the course of our three and a half hours’
climb, so of the two evils we rather preferred the flies and the sun
to shivering in the flyless cold. A marmot came out on a near-by peak
and sat up chattering and wagging his tail like an automaton. Some
ramchukor sailed whirring by, but the ibex showed no desire to move.
It started to rain, then it sleeted, then it snowed. I went a little
way down one side of the hill in order to walk up again and get
warmed. At length the ibex got up; exasperatingly slowly, with false
starts, hesitating and retracing their steps, they picked their way
down-hill. Noting their direction, we made all haste to cut them off.
We topped a ridge and saw them 250 yards away. If I had used better
judgment I could have gotten a hundred yards closer, but it is hard
for a shikarry to realize some of the difficulties of the sahib with
the rifle; he may be winded, but he needs no steady hand; and seen
with his keen eyes game looks close and a very satisfactory target.
Khalil always wanted me to shoot at longer ranges than necessary.
This time, however, I was committed; the ibex were suspicious and I
must shoot. My first bullet took effect; my second misfired and lost
me an excellent chance. There followed a fusillade as they dodged
about among the rocks. Summed up, I had wounded two, one of which I
finished with my last two cartridges. Even when he lay dead we didn’t
realize his size; I judged fifty inches, Khalil less, but the tape
showed fifty-nine and a half. This made him the largest of recorded
heads by an inch and three-quarters.
Darkness was rapidly approaching. Nurpay had heard us and followed
up the valley. We got the skin off and down the mountainside. It was
packed on Nurpay’s pony, and how, hampered by the great sweep of the
horns, he steered his way through the thickets and the boulders
in the pitchy blackness, I failed to understand. Of course it was
raining. Once more I was glad for a white hunting-pony, as I prodded
my old horse along just managing to keep in sight. At half past eight
we reached our most welcome camp-fire. Ted was not yet in, but at
nine he rode up, drenched but cheerful with a fifty-two-inch ibex.
He had been all but washed away in fording the river, and we had a
busy time drying his kodak first and then his other belongings that
required less urgent attention.
Next day camp was moved in the direction of the Kensu country. It was
not to be a long march, so Khalil, Nurpay, and I went off after the
wounded ibex. We were convinced that he had not gone far, but by the
time we had reached the mountain crest where we had last seen him
lying down, snow and hail came pelting down, washing away all tracks,
and the mist billowed up the ravines, closing in on every side. A
rumbling of avalanches and some dimly seen skipping boulders bound
toward where we had left our ponies did not add to our comfort. After
a few hopeless casts we felt forced to abandon the search, and very
wet and bedraggled we finally reached our new camping-grounds late in
the afternoon.
[Illustration: KHALIL WITH THE WORLD’S RECORD IBEX HEAD. THE HORNS
ARE 59½ INCHES IN LENGTH]
[Illustration: KHALIL WITH THE WORLD’S RECORD OVIS KARELINI. THE
LONGEST HORN MEASURED 61 INCHES]
Another short march planted us on the banks of the Kensu in what
was to be a five days’ hunting-camp. A lovely valley closed in by
high mountains, pines on the lower slopes, then junipers and low
bushes, above them the débris of landslides, broken barren boulders,
with an occasional flower in the crevices, and, crowning all, the
eternal snows. Edelweiss grew in profusion, and many other flowers
were familiar Alpine friends.
From here we had ibex, mountain-sheep, and wapiti shooting all
within reach, but it was pre-eminently ibex ground. Nomenclature of
game has always interested me. Father was keen on preserving native
names wherever possible, but pioneers and settlers are apt to call
an animal after the beast it most nearly resembles back in their
homeland. Sometimes the similarity is far from close, as with the
mighty rapier-horned antelope that the Boers christened the gemsbuck.
An _onomatopoetic_ name always pleased Father, such as quagga for
zebra in imitation of the animal’s barking cough, or bwehar for
jackal, copying its howl. Father did not at all approve of the
American wapiti being called an elk after the Norwegian moose, and
there can be no question but that his hunting-books have had a great
deal to do with fastening the native Indian name upon that handsomest
of the existing deer family.
It would have both interested and amused Father to find our native
American name bestowed upon the wapiti’s Asiatic cousin. Our Kashmiri
shikaries, getting the name from British sportsmen, referred to the
big deer as wapiti. The general native name was boogha, a slight
variation, if any, of the name for Yarkand stag. Our Kashmiris called
ibex “ibuckus,” and it was as that we usually referred to them. Their
native name in the Tian Shan is “tikka.” Siberian roe is known as
“illik,” and when Rahima first talked of it we believed that he was
Kashmirizing elk and was speaking about the wapiti.
Accompanying us we had a small flock of fat-tailed sheep, whose
number was decimated to fill the needs of ourselves and our
followers. The mutton was excellent, very different from the stringy
stuff with which we had wrestled on the trek across the plains of
Turkestan. A most agreeable addition to our larder were the mushrooms
that abounded in the valley. Ted measured one that was twelve inches
in diameter, but the little button fellows were the better eating.
There were two kinds; one pinkish beneath and seemingly identical
with our home mushroom we greatly preferred to a larger sort, white
underneath, tasting not unlike the fungus beloved of Italians.
With a lucky shot from the Springfield I knocked over a ramchukor,
but Rousslia was not much of a hand at preparing game, and the big
bird was not the success we had hoped. At all events I prepared his
skin, so we did not feel he was lost.
Each day brought its individual interest, a glimpse of some new
mammal or bird, a difficult ford to cross or crag to scale. We needed
another ibex for the group, and one day when Khalil was feeling
crocked up and needed a rest in camp, I took Nurpay with me and
started off for the ibex grounds.
As we were climbing up the mountain I twice saw ferrets, little
brown-and-white fellows, far too spry for us to catch, although we
did our best. They lived in burrows among the rocks. Farther on we
came upon several places which wolves had been using as open-air
dens. There must have been a good-sized pack, for between the
boulders we traced many hollows where they had bedded down. They had
been killing ibex and had dragged their quarry some distance down the
mountain, for we were still way beneath the ibex country. Of the ibex
heads scattered about the rocks, none were of more than thirty inches
in length. I only once heard wolves. It was early one frosty morning
when the lower hills were covered with a light snowfall. The wolves
were in full cry, a musical though sinister sound, with occasional
breaks that reminded me of a chorus of hyenas with their insane
laughter.
We did a lot of climbing before we sighted ibex, but we were well
above them and could study them at our leisure. I made up my mind
that there was no head much better than forty-five inches in length,
but there were several with fine, massive horns. Selecting the
handsomest for my target, I let drive. He went off almost as if
unhit, but Nurpay was not to be deceived and said that I had got him.
Cautiously we clambered down and found our ibex hanging by one horn
from a narrow ledge of rock. Beneath was a sheer drop of 500 feet.
The horn was jammed so hard into a crevice that it took our united
strength to free it. It had, however, not only saved us a long and
most difficult climb down and back, but almost certainly the fall
into the canyon would have hopelessly smashed the ibex, rendering
both hide and head useless to the museum. We found it no slight task
to skin the animal in the little niche into which we dragged it. One
slip nearly cost Nurpay his life.
The morning after we reached our Kensu camp Ted took the side of
the valley on which our tent was pitched, while I crossed over and
started up the mountains opposite, accompanied by Khalil and Nurpay.
We had been climbing for about an hour and a half when we came upon a
marmot burrow scored with the claws of a bear. He had slipped in his
attempt to catch the little rodent, and it was clear that the tracks
were of the night before. Hitherto we had seen a great deal of bear
sign, but nothing more recent than three or four days old. Here was
a chance for the dogs, so I sent Nurpay back to camp for them while
Khalil and I climbed on up the mountain, partly to look for game and
partly with the idea that we would be above the dogs, and able to
watch their line and get to them quicker in case they came to terms
with the bear.
While we were watching a herd of ibex—there were no good heads
among them—I thought I heard the dogs give tongue. Khalil was sure I
hadn’t, so we continued to rake the country with our field-glasses
until the time we had allotted for Nurpay’s return was almost up. We
hurried back to the vantage-point whence the marmot hole was visible;
there were Nurpay’s and Fezildin’s ponies, but neither riders nor
hounds to be seen. I had told Nurpay to put the dogs on the trail
and loose them. We called out but there was no answer; we felt sure
the hunt had gone away without us, but we had commanded one possible
direction while watching the ibex, so off we boiled in the opposite,
heeding little for falls. My bad knee was thrown out but not
seriously. Every little while we stopped to listen for the hounds,
and each ridge we topped we hoped to catch sight of the chase; but
ridge succeeded ridge and nothing could be seen. Disconsolately we
returned to the ponies. We reached them exasperated and breathless at
quarter past one, to find men and dogs asleep in the grass. Through
a misunderstanding the dogs had not been loosed and the men had not
heard our hallooing.
The trail was now far too stale to follow, for there had been a
scorching sun all morning, so after a very brief tiffin, I sent
Fezildin and the dogs back to camp, and plodded once more up the
mountain. We had moved from one ridge to another when, at four
o’clock, Khalil announced that he saw a bear. Nurpay brought the
telescope to focus on it, and at first insisted that it was a
tungus, a pig; but it only took a good look for me to feel sure he
was mistaken. It was a bear right enough, walking up a grassy nullah
far off on the opposite side of the mountain from that up which
we had climbed. There was a long stalk before us, and no time to
lose. We slithered and slipped down the bed of a ravine which was
floored with slide rock. It was almost as much work as climbing.
We had started from Srinagar outfitted with beautiful steel-shod
khud sticks, but they had all but one succumbed to the vicissitudes
of mountain-trekking, and the one remaining was sadly cracked and
weakened. We usually trusted to picking up a makeshift stick, but
to-day I had none, and badly did I miss it. There were two steep
hillsides up which to pant and struggle before we reached the nullah
in which we had seen the bear. Cautiously we pushed ourselves through
the dwarf junipers. We could see nothing, and separated to different
vantage-points. I kept a sharp eye on the other two, and soon saw
Khalil signalling. On reaching him he pointed out the bear, lying
curled up in the undergrowth a hundred and fifty yards away, on the
other slope of the nullah. As I fired, it jumped up and rolled over
and over into the bed of the ravine, shouting and howling. Khalil
said it was finished, but wishing to make certain, I fired a couple
of shots at the rolling bear but scored no hit. We launched ourselves
down into the nullah, though Nurpay kept exclaiming that there was
no way down and we would all fall. In safety we landed, but the bear
was gone. We caught a fleeting glimpse of something running through
the underbrush and once more I opened fire. Nurpay turned cautious;
he was manifestly a great respecter of bears, but he was too loyal
not to follow in our wake. Two hundred yards down the ravine we
stopped to reconnoitre, and then it was that Nurpay caught sight of
a bear’s ears well up the side down which we had come. He had some
difficulty in making Khalil and me see it, but at last I did. With
the second shot, down came the bear, shot through the heart, bounding
from rock to rock, to bring up stone-dead within thirty yards of us.
It was an old he-bear, very fat. We had no time for taking stock and
congratulating ourselves, for it was after six. I hastily jotted down
the measurements, tried a time exposure with my kodak, and we settled
down to the skinning with desperate earnest. Daylight was about gone
when we started back up the ravine, but of a sudden Nurpay stopped;
his keen eyes had picked up a blood-trail. “Yekke aya,” “two bears,”
he said. Khalil stoutly maintained that there had been but one; I
sided with Nurpay, for a number of details, hitherto unnoticed,
came back to me. First there was the color; the original bear had
seemed almost white, while the one we were carrying was dark brown.
Then thinking back over the hasty skinning, I could but recall one
bullet-hole. Last of all, I was sure that the bear could not have
been down in the nullah here and have climbed so far when I shot him.
Still, for the night it was purely an academic discussion; it was far
too late to hope to follow a trail.
[Illustration: THE RECORD KARELINI]
[Illustration: NURPAY AND THE BEAR]
We turned our attention to the serious work of getting ourselves
and the bearskin back to camp. First Nurpay and I tried to carry it
tandem, but one would slip and drag down the other, and but little
headway was made. On a perpendicular hill slope we halted and I
skinned out the head, mainly by feel. The head with the flesh on it
must have weighed twenty pounds. I hung it like a pendant round my
neck. With our mufflers we slung the skin about Nurpay, and once
more got under way. A quarter-moon appeared, but in half an hour it
was hidden by clouds. We struggled along with frequent halts. Part
of the time we walked upright, except for frequent falls among the
rocks; up the steeper bits we crawled on hands and knees. There was
no chance to pick our path; we got over or round whatever appeared
in front of us. It was after eleven before we won our way back to
the ponies, but fortunately the threatening rain had held off until
we were mounted. Still once more I had cause to see the advantages
of a white hunting-pony. Nurpay on his white mare threaded his way
down the mountainside as only a Kazak can, over country that might
well give pause in daylight. The ponies seemed by instinct to avoid
the marmot holes, and when they did step into one, they showed the
utmost calmness in extricating themselves. When we came upon small
patches of upland meadow, there were always hidden springs and the
ground was boggy; by night we could only trust to Nurpay’s instinct
and our ponies’ experience. I had a long inward debate as to whether,
if I groped around for pipe, tobacco, and matches, the discomfort of
lighting my pipe would be compensated for in the subsequent comfort
of a smoke. I made the effort and was rewarded, although my pony
all but came down when I loosened the reins to strike a match. At
half past twelve we rode into camp, and tumbled from our saddles to
thaw ourselves round a blazing fire of spruce logs, and recount our
adventures to the sleepy men who had rolled out of their blankets
when they heard us coming.
In the morning Khalil was feeling too done up to go out, so I took
two Kazaks and went off to look into the matter of the possible
second bear. Nurpay had been right; there had been two, and we
followed the one I had first wounded for three-quarters of a mile
down the ravine below where the other had fallen. The trail was most
difficult, and at length it was lost, even to Kasin’s sharp eyes. We
made futile casts in every direction, but at last we had to abandon
the chase. I had debated taking the dogs, and it would have been well
had I done so, but in the first place the existence of a second bear
was doubtful, and in the second I was afraid that a badly wounded
bear might so cut up our dogs as to destroy their further usefulness.
A few days later we both took the dogs out, thinking that if the
wounded bear were still alive we might pick up its fresh trail.
Either it or another had been working about in the nullah bottom,
for Lead immediately showed interest. He and Rollie puzzled a trail
out for a short distance, but it was evidently too stale to follow
through to a successful conclusion.