Large I killed one of these black grouse myself — Sharp-Eyed Hunter that I am.
Large Between me and belyh is Denis, the Perm Krai region’s chief nationalist. He very kindly lent me a shotgun so I wouldn’t have to haul my own on the plane. In the end, the only weapon he got to use was a piercing stare, with which he tried to bring down the game.
Large On the left is an absolutely amazing guy — the local gamekeeper. He could give any environmentalist a run for their money: before belyh got into position, a black grouse landed nearby, and he forbade him from shooting it — said it was displaying at the lek, and if it was killed the lek would break up and the other grouse would suffer terribly. And when, in my innocence, I suggested shooting one extra bird and filing the permit afterward, he nearly devoured me alive. I honestly thought he was going to shoot me or beat me to death with the butt of his gun. It felt as if I’d suggested shooting people and selling their organs. But Slava (far right) got it worst of all. With a single shot he killed two black grouse — completely by accident. For the next eight hours, everyone called him nothing but a pathetic poacher who had shown his disrespect for beasts, birds, hunting, and hunters. Slava, by the way, turned out to be some kind of RoboCop. During the hunt he fired three shots and brought down four birds: two black grouse and two woodcocks.
Large Naturally, we had to arrange an artistic photo shoot with the trophies.
Large One of the woodcocks is mine. I brought it back to Moscow. Supposedly to cook it. It’s still sitting in the freezer — my wife refuses to pluck it. I’m going to dress it myself today. Interestingly, one reason I brought it was to show my daughter — Dad’s trophy. Everyone told me not to: she’d get scared and cry. But after looking at the dead woodcock, Dasha immediately demanded to be taken hunting, where she plans to kill a fox and a bear. The next generation is coming along.