Nina

The Caucasian State Reserve occupies the central part of the main Caucasian ridge. The northern borders of the reserve pass along the line of wild rocky mountains, descend along the Kishe River and the Belaya River, which originate in glacial mountains. On the southern slope, facing the Black Sea, the border of the reserve passes near the village of Krasnaya Polyana, where - in the past - for the imperial hunting was built a palace and laid in the mountains a large road. This road was built by hand, breaking through rocks with crowbars...

Which one of you who's been in the woods hasn't seen this light and nimble animal? You walk along the forest path, gather mushrooms in the body and suddenly you hear a sharp, loud sound. It is played, funny and agile squirrels play on the tree. You can admire for a long time how they chase each other, running on the branches and the trunk of the tree, sometimes head down. Squirrels do not harm anyone. In winter and summer, squirrels live in coniferous forests. In winter they carefully store food in hollows...

There are a lot of ants in our forest, but one anthill is particularly tall, bigger than my six-year-old granddaughter Sasha. Walking in the woods, we go to him to observe the life of ants. A quiet, even rustle comes from the anthill on a nice day. Hundreds of thousands of insects are digging on the surface of its dome, dragging twigs somewhere, plugging and corking out their numerous moves, pulling out the white larvae testicles to warm up in the sun. Sasha tears off the bylinka and sticks it into an anthill...

In winter and summer, in autumn and spring, the Russian forest is good. On a quiet winter day you go out, sometimes, in the forest on skis, breathe and do not breathe. Deep, pure snowdrifts lie under the trees. Over the forest paths, the lace white arches bent under the weight of frosty trunks of young birches. Heavy white snow caps cover the dark green branches of tall and small firs. The high tops of the firs are covered with a necklace of purple cones. With a cheerful whistle fly from spruce to spruce, swinging on the cones of a flock of red-breasted pincers...

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...