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The sixth of November, the twenty-first day of fishing. Started sharing the products.

Come fatigue and apathy, want normal walls, electric light and comfort. The radio is silent. Hollowed, boiled the batteries — useless. NZ is just for the flashlight. Stick to see the weather for the next day. Bad. Rights old grandfather Efim Shmakov: “Taiga-Oh how the power of human sucks!”

Eager to get to the heart of the hunt, to feel its authenticity, but nahodishsya, SIP of marzouki and want to civilization. And you live a month or two in the city — and back into the woods. What nature?!

By the time of the fishery with seasonal snow in the woods on the knee, and in open places up to mid-thigh. The snow loose, to walk, but to travel long distances hard: each step, a resistance, an additional, exhausting monotony the load on leg muscles. Taiga fitness, one word.
Fatigue accumulates and dense taiga. This is fatigue of accommodation. To his eyes rested unconsciously choose prohladnyi place. That’s why the end of the season my legs turn to where there is room for eyes.

The completion of forest Affairs — laborious work on preservation of food and ammunition in the cabin and on the trees of belongings accumulated during his hunts, so as not spoiled mouse, spring water and mold. The bear there is no salvation. If a bear wanders, I am sure all will scatter, tear, but this is rare. Written detailed list of what how much is left, what you first need to enter the following year that pass with the occasion and deliver as close as possible to the area in a jeep. The simple truth is that each kilogram of cargo behind the end of the day turns to two. Backpack with Fig, and shed seven pots.

On the day of release early, food from the belly, fast charges. Furs, flashlight, spare gloves and socks, a jar of condensed milk and an axe in the backpack. Two fresh bullet cartridge — guns. All.
By the end of one of the seasons, on the border of Krasnoyarsk region and the Tomsk region, frost was fifty-three degrees. In my cabin the thermometer was not, the temperature of the learned, when they reached the hut of a neighbor. The transition was about twenty-eight miles.

Two dogs went with me, both Scotia. With a grin he remembered the stories of the notorious writer, in which the brave American boys in the cold under sixty degrees, “flying” on a dog sled. His books are more hands do not take.

Went out early, just beginning to dawn. Frost is terrible. Cloth jacket, sweater, three wool yarns, the shirt was frozen; pain and watery eyes. To move fast it was impossible — had to catch my breath. Helped mounting the liner, put on a stocking cap. It covered most of my face and saved from frostbite. But constantly grew the beard of kuraca and freeze


Black-and-white memories of past hunts.

Eight kilometers tormented on the skis (wide skis, not lined with kamus. — V. M.), gouged, and bent in advance, while one ski is not caught between balerinami and not break. Leaned against the wreckage to the tree. Ski stood all my years of hunting, only rawhide straps wxow (ski bindings Siberian hunters. — V. M.) ate the mouse.
For a walk died away a short winter day. The full moon rose. Snow postretrieval green-blue light. Occasionally shots of booze, crackle, trees. Only that broke the silence, frozen, as in the fantasy film, woods. Went down to the log. From the cold and monotonous walk was drowsy state. A little to the side and saw the stump, like a rearing bear. Suddenly, behind the loud barking dogs. In a moment sent the trunks in the direction of the sound. The hair on his head moved. The dog took the stump for the beast than me, somewhat amused. Scolded pseudo-mediatic, and in single file we moved on.

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Trail sable, damn it! Suchonka, worked all season in a pair, was so reckless and professional that the animal was driven to patusco height of three feet. Have snow, swam with barking and squealing, but driven. In the moonlight, sparkling with frost, sable was great. Shoot from a distance with a gun — it means to spoil the skin for sure. Broke off a few lower branches, optopt the snow and kicked the trunk. The top swung sable slipped and landed right in the teeth of dogs. They grabbed him and pulled in different directions. Tear-o-o-t! Unbuttoned his jacket and covered the head with huskies floors, cried sharply: “Come on!”. This is the most efficient team in the forest. The dog let go of sable and bounced, because disobedience is always followed by physical punishment. Sable took a SIP of air and dug through the glove into the flesh of my right hand, near the pinky. Crunch. But pain is not felt. Squeezed the animal’s chest, stopped heart. Teeth pried open with a knife. Procus through, and no blood. It is necessary to warm the hands. Started a small fire.

As joins throbbing pain in the fingers! Howling, rolling on the snow. Of the wounds started bleeding. Well. Opened a can of condensed milk. From cold, it became thick, like boiled. Ate on pieces of bark gave dogs.
To the hut of a neighbor reached by midnight. Smoke from chimney no. There is no trace. The door backed. In the hut, it seems, a long time no one slept. An experienced hunter always leaves either in the oven or near it to dry wood and bark. Fingers again refused to obey. Teeth pulled mittens and hardly lit the match. Brought water from the pit, carefully sheltered in case of frost. The wood broke, and I’m under the sound of a pigeon curled up on the bunk and fell asleep.

Ice boards rosaspata not given, but the fingers moved away, was sick only bite. The kettle is still warm. Drank Cup by Cup. To shiver in his stomach was hungry. In the cabin there was soup sachets, delicious even dry. Sachet poured dogs.

There was a shard of mirror. Looked at the oil lamp. The bridge of the nose, brow, bridge of the nose, frozen, swollen, bluish-brown color. Melted the oven, stuffed her syracom. Began to remove the pelt with melted sable.

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The next day, warmed up to minus thirty. Came the hunters, they brought food. The owner of the hut. Decided to wait and then to leave…
Pasha, a staff hunter promkhoz, lean, tall man of Slavic type, showed up later in the evening. All frosty beard in icicles, kuriake, eyes can not see. Relied on the fry — homemade crutch: I twisted my ankle on putice. Turned out today he was thirty-seven years. And so all the way: a little snack and drink, and a piece of fresh moose. The cabin was hot check point heated, we quickly pulled off Pasha frozen through clothes. Poured, congratulated, wished good luck and good hunting, but Pasha was asked to postpone: “Let the insides warm up”. Smoked, incessantly lamenting that the carcass after freezing you will have to cut off with the skin and the parts to melt and tear in the cabin. Today only extracted the moose gutted, took the tongue, liver, heart and sternum. One good thing — hands in the womb warmed to fame.

The dog the Signal that came with the hunter, was leaked to the hut and crawled under the stove. The smell of singed hair. To crunch the vertebrae is just not turning the stove, pulled the dog’s tail. Pasha wings Signal worth and along the way talked about the reason for his anger.

— Shoot the moose, and the cartridges in the cold oecause one after the other. Wounded, and get nothing.
Get an ax. And this guy sits and watches from the sidelines as I sneak up to the elk, instead of to divert the attention of a wounded animal.
Drink and decided that the dog was acting so surprised: never seen anything like it in my life. And Pasha forgave him, leaving him under the bunks along with my dogs.
Dawn laid in the sled and backpacks, sheathed the gun and just started Snowmobiling as a Signal popped out of the hut, jumped on the seat, dug her claws in leatherette and melancholy howling. Translation into human language was clear, “home, Home! By any means, but just go home!” The usual objective took the dog out for season, need it was not, therefore, the Signal come with us. My dogs pushed the front of the box sleds. Even if someone snapped! These intelligent dogs — no sound from afar.

Constant jerks and bumps on uneven burnice. Snow dust from the exhaust gasoline. The road was finished loading the elk and empty cans. Comfort ended, I had the rest of the way to stiffening on the back of the box, back to the wind, wrapped in a piece of tarpaulin.

Here and the lights of the village, house hunters. Wife and two little girls chirping around the father. Traditionally we heat a bath. On the bench stood a three-liter jar of foamy mash and white bread, freshly baked on birch wood and bread. And then the sleep of the just warmed up to the latest boards bath.

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