Caucasian Triple Impact
Chamy and both Tur in one trip. As good as it gets!
Mountain Range: Middle Caucasus (Asia)
Area: Mineralnye
Altitude: 2501 - 3000
Eduardo Martin
Departure on November 21, 2021, destination Moscow. Overnight stay at a hotel in the airport and I continue the journey to Mineralnye. After the relief of seeing my suitcase, I head out and, sure enough, my contact is there.
We eat on the way in a very strange place, wedding-style but only the two of us. He doesn't eat, just me. Soup and no meat—it was quite tough.
We continue our trip to the Mid Caucasian Tur area. After 3 hours, we reach a shelter at 2200m with a room just for me, equipped with a cot. I open the sleeping bag and go to sleep, full of anticipation for the next day.
We wake up at 3 AM to a beautiful night, full moon with snow gleaming under its light. The mountain shone in all its splendor.
Breakfast of eggs and coffee, and then we prepare our backpacks with just the essentials, since if we were to make a kill, we’d have to carry the trophy, meat, and rifle between the two of us.
We begin the ordeal, as the slope is incredible. We ascend a trail that is practically vertical. From 2200m to 3000m it takes us no less than 3 to 4 hours.
Once we reach the summit, we immediately spot some Turs in the distance. We start the hunt and begin approaching almost crawling so they won’t see us. Suddenly, the sound of rocks—two Turs run about 100m below. I’m fired up.
We keep going toward the group and suddenly another male comes toward us, a bit less than 150m away. He tells me to shoot and I do. At the shot, animals start pouring out of the ravine like crazy—more than 100. Some were much larger than the one I shot. A shame, but in the mountains you never know if you’ll hit the best one. Hopefully a fellow hunter will take advantage of that next time.
Photos with the trophy and general satisfaction. We pack up and head back to 2200m. Absolute grind—my knees are not what they used to be.
We eat at camp, pack up and decide to go back to Borisovich’s house in Mineralnye. A quick shower, trout for dinner, and straight to bed.
The next day, we wake up early and go out to hunt wild pheasants. He tells me only males, no females allowed. Unluckily, we only flush females and a long-range male we couldn’t shoot.
Tough terrain to hunt in: very thick reeds with vines that make walking difficult, plus other zones with hawthorn groves where, in theory, there could be woodcocks.
Bad luck again—we flush 7 or 8 pheasants without being able to shoot any.
Back home: shower, breakfast, and we head off toward the long-awaited Kuban Tur, number one target of the hunt.
The journey is long, around five hours, with the last 40 km being hell—mountain roads full of potholes. Exhausting.
We arrive before nightfall and I’m able to enjoy a postcard-like landscape: rugged cliffs covered mostly with fir and Scots pine.
We drop our gear, have dinner, and after planning the next day with the guides, we head to our cots. This time, I sleep with Borisovich.
In the morning, we wake up at 3:30. Breakfast and we set off—this time on horseback. A dream plan, because the trail is stunning.
Two hours of riding uphill, most of it under the moonlight. But the good part ends, and I'm already feeling the weariness from the trotting.
It starts snowing, and we keep climbing. The slope is super steep—advancing even one meter is exhausting. My guides climb like goats, under 30 years old. I tell them, “slow and steady wins the race.”
We keep climbing and from the ridge we scan several valleys without seeing anything. We continue hunting along the crests and finally find fresh Tur tracks. We follow them and—eureka!—we find a group with three males, two big ones fighting, surrounded by 8 or 10 females.
I get the rifle ready. The distance is no more than 100m. I can't believe it. I shoot quickly in case they see us. They bolt, and on the opposite slope I shoot again. After a few suspenseful seconds, we see a Tur tumbling down the ravine.
At the shot, I hear that one of the guides also fired. I thought he had doubled my shot.
Moments of uncertainty and overthinking. I missed at 100m—I can't believe it.
We head into the ravine and find a 3-year-old Tur. “What the hell is this?” I say. We keep going and then I see the real one—majestic. What had happened is the guide shot one for meat.
We reach the real trophy and I take in the grandeur of the moment—the ravine, the trophy, the view. I’m ecstatic.
The first shot, taken from above, entered the animal's face instead of the chest, exiting through the neck. The amazing thing is it still ran over 100m. The second shot had hit its leg as it was running, making it fall off the cliff.
Photos, congratulations. We drag it to a lower spot and keep taking photos. Once everything’s packed, we load all the kilos of meat on the horses. I enjoy the ride back on horseback with the mission accomplished.
We decide to return to Mineralnye the next day. Exhausting trip. Shower, dinner (chicken with vegetables), vodka, and off to bed. That night I said a little prayer for my dear Short Magnum Mario Migueláñez.
Next day, we head back to the Mid area to go for the triple crown: to get the Caucasian chamois.
We set out to hunt and from the road we already spot a group of about 12 animals, though too far to tell if they’re males, females, or young.
Still encouraged, we begin the climb along a trail that was relatively walkable. After two hours of ascent, we spot a lone male.
We try to approach, and an hour later we manage to get within 330m. The chamois lays down and I decide not to shoot since it’s not my rifle.
While scanning, we see another lone male in the opposite direction. The wind crosses us and messes up the opportunity with the first one, but we try to close in on the second one by crossing a ravine between cliffs.
The approach is brutal and a bit dangerous. As I peek over, he tells me it's about 250m away.
I peek, and suddenly the chamois we had seen earlier shows up. It catches our scent and bolts. I could’ve shot it running but, holding out for the other one, I decide not to risk it.
We go back over our steps to cross the tricky ravine and locate the other chamois.
We find it and plan the approach—this time everything is in our favor. Wind in our face, good mountain position above the animal, and a relatively accessible stalk.
We approach and find the chamois lying on a rock about 170m away. I take aim—perfect shot—and drop it on the spot. It kicks and falls down the cliff.
For safety, I let the guide go retrieve it since the terrain was pretty dangerous. We agree I go down with the rifle while he drags it to a safer place for pictures.
The trophy is gorgeous—old and couldn't be more beautiful. I was overjoyed. The triple crown complete. I got emotional realizing how well everything had gone.
A 10-year-old Mid, an 11-year-old Kuban, and a 12-year-old chamois. Glorious result.
We go back down, pack up, and return to Mineralnye. Shower, dreamy dinner—salmon, pork chop—and bed.
Next day, we go out hunting wild pheasants again and manage to bag 4 males. I’m thrilled. Some perfect shots and awesome pictures with the Turs, the chamois, and the pheasants.
Following day, no early start—we head out after breakfast to hunt woodcock and pheasants, this time on foot with English pointers.
Carbón (because he was black) and Judini (I guess for his magical moves), though I personally preferred Carbón’s hunting style—full of energy.
We go out with the intention to hunt woodcock and pheasants.
The morning wasn’t going well—over four hours walking and nothing.
We switch to a huge fallow area with borders of tall woodland and thorny shrubs with sloe berries that looked like blueberries but tasted like grapes.
These hunting strips were ideal—about 30 to 40 meters wide and several km long, allowing one person on each side with dogs hunting in between.
Suddenly I see something flying—it looks like a woodcock. It lands in the field, takes off again, and we keep hunting. The dog points it again and I finally bag my first woodcock. I’m so happy.
We keep hunting and it was like a beehive out there. Borisovich flushes a pheasant and bags it. Another woodcock appears—I get it. More photos. Another one—I get it too. More photos. We keep hunting and I get a fourth one. I can’t believe it—in half an hour, what a haul.
Photos and more photos. We go home with a smile on my face and almost in tears from happiness.
Dinner with river crayfish and quail, a cigar, vodka, laughter, and off to bed.
The next and last day, a relaxed breakfast and we go out to hunt again. Three hours and a final woodcock to wrap up the Caucasus hunt.
A funny anecdote: at the last minute, the pointer points at a huge wildcat. The Russian shoots it. I was in woodcock mode waiting for something to fly. I see it jump, wait for an opening—and we lose it. Must’ve gone into a hole. A shame—the dog got a small knock when trying to retrieve it after the shot.
Back home, shower, lunch, and for our farewell: a wonderful pheasant risotto—spectacular.
After packing our gear, we head to the airport, hugs all around, and hopeful to catch the flight back to Moscow to go home.
Flight delay. We arrive in Moscow almost at 11:30 PM. I go straight to bed, exhausted.
Set my alarm for 5:30 but get up at 5. Make it in time for my Madrid flight.
And on this flight, I’m writing this chronicle. December 1st, 2021. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
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