When I was a kid, I heard a lot about wolf hunting. My father lived in a forest office, among the beautiful hunting grounds. Often we had visitors from the city, and my father and his guests went hunting. In the evenings at the tea table, when the hunters returned, I listened to stories about unusual hunting adventures, and, who knows, maybe then originated in me hunting passion.
On frosty winter nights, my father used to ride on wolves with a pig. I can imagine this now-forgotten ancient hunting. In winter, a myriad of diamonds sparkles under the month of snow, tapping strong frost on the trees. Wide rolled up the road slowly moving wide resellers with a high butt of braids. Hunters in sheepskin coats in rosaries. A long rope drags behind a sled; a frozen pork requirement tied to a rope drags up on road bumps. From afar it seems that it is a little dog running after a sled.
An ordinary horse (for hunting it is chosen the most peaceful and calm one), sniffing around, slowly cowardly on the white road cut by blue shadows. There is a live pig in a bag in the hunters' legs. Occasionally they fry it behind the ear, and the piglet is filled with desperately loud sounds. It sounds strange in the deserted night silence of the pig's squeal.
Hunters drive, choosing the places where, according to their understanding, wolves should pass at night. Such hunting is not always successful. Often, having passed all the long winter night, having cooled down fairly, his father came back empty-handed.
But the hunter feels a special, unforgettable feeling when after long hours of driving on deserted winter roads in a rare forest edge flashed familiar shadows. At the first moment, it is difficult to track these moving shadows, in the wrong light of the month sliding between the trees. The cautious animals are inconspicuously and covertly chasing the trail. They run cautiously, falling in the snow, looking carefully, listening to the seductive squeal coming from the road. Many times they jump out on the road far behind the passing sleigh, greedily sniff out the tracks. The smell and the sight of a dragging pig's treasure on a rope seduce them. More and more often they appear on the road, their light shadows are getting closer and closer...
Making guns, the hunters are waiting. Shooting in deceptive light is difficult and wrong. It's hard to guess the distance, the shooter's movements are constrained by heavy winter clothes. Badly impatient, too hasty arrow: a premature shot can destroy all rare hunting. Scared of a shot is unlikely to come back, and it is doubtful that the deceptive, guessing beast will ever again be baited.
It is better to wait patiently, not moving and not talking, continuing to move on the road. If nothing interferes, the hungry animals will get closer and braver. But even at the most tempting moments, the hunter should keep his fervor. You have to wait for a minute, when some starving wolf will come very close to the sled and, as if surprised by his own impudence, will freeze in a threatening pose in the guardhouse. This is the best moment for a shot. The shooter has to remember how deceptive the objects surrounding us are at night, to aim and shoot quickly, but in no hurry. Hurry up, shoot, and you'll lose it forever.
Father often came back with prey. Of course, such a very amateur, exquisite hunting could not be very successful. Hardly, even in ancient times, when there was a lot of frightened beast, who couldn't hear a gunshot, the happiest shooter in his long life managed to kill more than a dozen wolves from under a pig. Nowadays, this ancient hunt is gone. A few years ago, living in a remote area, where we always kept a lot of wolves and where we hunted very successfully raid, I tried to hunt in the old way, with a pig. All these hunting was unsuccessful. After a long night on the field and forest roads, tortured to death almost to the death of the poor pig, we usually returned empty-handed. It is very possible that the animals were following us and even went out somewhere on the road to sniff out the tracks, but did not dare to approach: they are too familiar with the meeting with the hunter, familiar with the formidable power of the gun, which they are most afraid of. But even after such fruitless hunting we always felt great. The winter moonlit night is very beautiful, the ride among the sparkling pure snows and the excitement of waiting to meet the beast are wonderful. Full of joy, we returned late at night, and then it seemed especially pleased to have a warm and cozy home, the noise boiling on the table of a samovar, near which we were heated.
