Tony Pletts eagle hunting

EAGLE HUNTING

Bruce Parry, I am not. I feed the foxes in my urban garden, have a revulsion of animals being used in circuses (let alone hunted for sport) and cannot tell one end of a fishing rod from the other. However, I was looking for an experience to mark my son’s transition from childhood to becoming a man, something that would be the absolute antithesis of his computer games centred universe. When a friend told me about eagle hunting in Mongolia something deep and contrary within me stirred and preparations for our adventure got under way.

Initially I got everything wrong. I planned a trip in the summer, only to find out there was a definite ‘season’ from October to March. I tried an American tour operator who refused my bespoke suggestions and a local agent who was unconvinced he could help. Eventually I ended up with Canat’s ‘Blue Wolf Travel’ on the basis that he was the only person who replied to my e-mails. And his replies could be less than scant and take up to six weeks to materialise.

My wife, 14 year-old son and I arrived in Ulgii in the far west of Mongolia full of trepidation, unsure of exactly what we were supposed to be doing, or of who we had transferred our money to. We needn’t have worried. On the ground Blue Wolf were amazingly efficient. Our $75 a day each turned out to cover a translator, a driver, a van, even a cook who proved to be adept, much to my wife’s delight, at knocking up delicious vegetarian faire.

Immediately we were bundled into a battered camper van and told to prepare for a six hour drive out to a stunningly beautiful valley in the Altai Mountains, where Kazakh hospitality awaited us. Our host, Bakit, had been crowned eagle hunter number two at the recent Eagle Festival and was a new contact for Blue Wolf. We were only the third foreigners to stay in his home and initially his whole family acted shy at our presence. There appeared to be some embarrassment about the basic conditions of the wooden hut and long drop toilet (Kazakhs only live in gers in the summer, survival during fierce winters demands solid walls). After a comedy misconception involving everyone thinking my wife was 7 months pregnant due to the amount of clothes she was wearing, a common vein of humour was established. Soon we were exchanging stories of our respective cultures over temperate measures of vodka and looking forward to a few days in the mountains.

Bakit greeted us the next morning fully dressed up in his fur hat, embroidered long coat and thick gloves whilst supporting a magnificent hooded golden eagle on his right arm. He embodied nomadic splendour while we looked like something out of a Thelwell cartoon in our brand new jodhpurs, chaps and riding hats. This was to be our first experience of riding a horse in a straight line, having spent the previous weeks taking lessons in a training ring.

Before setting out we were warned that catching anything during our four days was more unlikely than likely. My wife was relieved, yet before we had even got to the top of a nearby mountain the eagle was un-hooded and swooping down on a darting fox that it then bowled down the cliff face. In hot pursuit the hunter recovered his stunned prey, forced open its mouth and, with brutal ritual, let the eagle rip out its tongue. It was not something I had been prepared for (some travellers choose to remain distant from the kill), though in that instant I was also aware that my son was both turning into an adult before my eyes and utterly absorbed in the intensity of the moment. It should be added that nothing of the fox was wasted. The meat was fed to the eagle and the pelt was sold for a handsome reward, essential for a family living off the land on the very fringes of human survival.

While the hunting was unforgettable, it was the eagle that captured our hearts. There is nothing to compare to the feeling of being on top of the world with a golden eagle perched on your arm. To feel her warm appreciation as you stroke her feathers and marvel at the unique bond shared between hunter and eagle. As Bakit commented, “my wife says I am married twice, once to her and once to the eagle!”

For a trip that seemed so unfathomable and mysterious in preparation I was surprised to find myself feeling so at home and relaxed during its duration. My son was temporarily lifted out of his virtual world of computer games and even said that he believed part of him has always been and always would be an eagle hunter. And this before a little leaving ceremony, where Bakit presented us with secret keepsakes and told us we were now part of his extended family. My wife had a tear in her eye, though since our return she has been making karmic donations to the National Fox Welfare Society. And me, I may have fallen short of being Bruce Parry, but I did get to be the best dad in the world, if only for a few fleeting seconds.

.

©Tony Pletts 2007

Bruce Parry, I am not. I feed the foxes in my urban garden, have a revulsion of animals being used in circuses (let alone hunted for sport) and cannot tell one end of a fishing rod from the other. However, I was looking for an experience to mark my son’s transition from childhood to becoming a man, something that would be the absolute antithesis of his computer games centred universe. When a friend told me about eagle hunting in Mongolia something deep and contrary within me stirred and preparations for our adventure got under way.

Initially I got everything wrong. I planned a trip in the summer, only to find out there was a definite ‘season’ from October to March. I tried an American tour operator who refused my bespoke suggestions and a local agent who was unconvinced he could help. Eventually I ended up with Canat’s ‘Blue Wolf Travel’ on the basis that he was the only person who replied to my e-mails. And his replies could be less than scant and take up to six weeks to materialise.

My wife, 14 year-old son and I arrived in Ulgii in the far west of Mongolia full of trepidation, unsure of exactly what we were supposed to be doing, or of who we had transferred our money to. We needn’t have worried. On the ground Blue Wolf were amazingly efficient. Our $75 a day each turned out to cover a translator, a driver, a van, even a cook who proved to be adept, much to my wife’s delight, at knocking up delicious vegetarian faire.

Immediately we were bundled into a battered camper van and told to prepare for a six hour drive out to a stunningly beautiful valley in the Altai Mountains, where Kazakh hospitality awaited us. Our host, Bakit, had been crowned eagle hunter number two at the recent Eagle Festival and was a new contact for Blue Wolf. We were only the third foreigners to stay in his home and initially his whole family acted shy at our presence. There appeared to be some embarrassment about the basic conditions of the wooden hut and long drop toilet (Kazakhs only live in gers in the summer, survival during fierce winters demands solid walls). After a comedy misconception involving everyone thinking my wife was 7 months pregnant due to the amount of clothes she was wearing, a common vein of humour was established. Soon we were exchanging stories of our respective cultures over temperate measures of vodka and looking forward to a few days in the mountains.

Bakit greeted us the next morning fully dressed up in his fur hat, embroidered long coat and thick gloves whilst supporting a magnificent hooded golden eagle on his right arm. He embodied nomadic splendour while we looked like something out of a Thelwell cartoon in our brand new jodhpurs, chaps and riding hats. This was to be our first experience of riding a horse in a straight line, having spent the previous weeks taking lessons in a training ring.

Before setting out we were warned that catching anything during our four days was more unlikely than likely. My wife was relieved, yet before we had even got to the top of a nearby mountain the eagle was un-hooded and swooping down on a darting fox that it then bowled down the cliff face. In hot pursuit the hunter recovered his stunned prey, forced open its mouth and, with brutal ritual, let the eagle rip out its tongue. It was not something I had been prepared for (some travellers choose to remain distant from the kill), though in that instant I was also aware that my son was both turning into an adult before my eyes and utterly absorbed in the intensity of the moment. It should be added that nothing of the fox was wasted. The meat was fed to the eagle and the pelt was sold for a handsome reward, essential for a family living off the land on the very fringes of human survival.

While the hunting was unforgettable, it was the eagle that captured our hearts. There is nothing to compare to the feeling of being on top of the world with a golden eagle perched on your arm. To feel her warm appreciation as you stroke her feathers and marvel at the unique bond shared between hunter and eagle. As Bakit commented, “my wife says I am married twice, once to her and once to the eagle!”

For a trip that seemed so unfathomable and mysterious in preparation I was surprised to find myself feeling so at home and relaxed during its duration. My son was temporarily lifted out of his virtual world of computer games and even said that he believed part of him has always been and always would be an eagle hunter. And this before a little leaving ceremony, where Bakit presented us with secret keepsakes and told us we were now part of his extended family. My wife had a tear in her eye, though since our return she has been making karmic donations to the National Fox Welfare Society. And me, I may have fallen short of being Bruce Parry, but I did get to be the best dad in the world, if only for a few fleeting seconds.

.