by Liz Welch
“Huukaaa!” I shouted again and again, careful to keep my pony cantering in a straight line, not zigzagging, dragging the fox pelt behind me, and giving White Feathers enough space around me to make an easy, wide-open landing.
The audience was watching with bated breath, I could tell. No one was shouting, as I had worried, but instead people had their necks craned and their eyes glued to the sky. I looked back, wondering what was taking so long, just as White Feathers made her nosedive. This was our moment: I grabbed the reins and continued my canter and could feel my eagle land with a pow, followed by a tug on the rope. That was my signal to slow my pony to a trot and then walk. The entire crowd burst into applause and cheers.
White Feathers did it! She landed on the fox, and in excellent time. I was so proud of her, I had to fight back tears.
I looked at her, standing proudly on that fox pelt, then over at the judges, who already were flashing their score cards. The first ten took my breath away. Then the second. And the third. Three perfect scores. When the fourth and fifth judges flashed their final marks, both ten, the crowd went wild again. I went to pry White Feathers off the pelt and placed her on my glove.
“We did it!” I said to her as I slipped her hood back over her eyes.
My father arrived, huffing after sprinting down the hill, “That was awesome, Aisholpan!” he said. The smile on his face was bigger than any I had ever seen. “You showed them!”
Elated, we went to go have lunch and to give White Feathers some food as well. We were all famished. As I sat with other hunters inside the lunch tent, I noticed I was the only girl at the table eating. All of the other women were cooking, preparing tea, serving food to the hunters—and to me. My father was boasting, “Did you see Aisholpan out there? Did you see her eagle fly straight to that fox?”
The men around the table remained stony-faced and silent. One or two nodded. Another said, “Not all people who keep birds at home are eagle hunters.”
A few other of the older men nodded in agreement.
“Her bird flew well,” my father said. “She is a great eagle.”
“There are many great eagles here today,” another hunter said.
“Women should not be eagle hunters,” one of the elder hunters added, scowling at me. “They should stay at home.”
I rolled my eyes, listening to these men. Even after I had performed well in the morning, they were not taking me seriously. My father winked at me, as if to say, Ignore them, Aisholpan. I took another bite of fried bread and said nothing. I had to stay focused. The most important event—eagle calling—was coming up, and I could not let myself get distracted.
The sign of great hunters is how well they call to their eagle. My father and I had practiced eagle calling many times over, and both of us were happy with how quickly White Feathers came to my arm.
I did not feed her too much after she landed the pelt—I wanted to reward her but also to have her stay a little hungry for this next test.
The day had turned overcast and a bit cloudy. It was colder, which is better for both the hunter and bird, because if the sun is too bright, it can be blinding, and if it is too warm, the bird can be more sluggish. We went back up to the hill to wait for our turn.
I watched in awe as the hunters called their eagles, one after another. Once again, there were several who flew in the wrong direction. One landed on the rump of a horse, who bucked. Everyone laughed. My lungs tightened at the thought. I needed to show the doubters that not only was I good enough to be an eagle hunter, but that I had the potential to be a great one.
I counted the hunters: twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. My chest was getting tighter as my number got closer. When twenty-three mounted his horse, my dad called out, “Aisholpan! You are next!”
Before handing my father White Feathers, I said a tiny prayer that she would come quickly and deftly. And then I promised her she could eat the whole rabbit leg this time.
With that, I took another deep breath and descended the hill with my pony.
I could feel my hands trembling. I stood next to another hunter, who was probably eighteen or nineteen.
“You are up after the old man,” he said.
The eighty-year-old man who was in the ring was the oldest eagle hunter at the contest. I had heard that there were only four hundred eagle hunters left in the world—seventy of whom were competing today. I realized that I am part of a very special tribe of people—not the Tolek tribe, but of all the tribes that hunt with these majestic birds. The trembling lessened as I reflected on this, and then I quietly practiced my call to myself, not too loud so as not to confuse White Feathers, who was making her way up the hill with my father.
As I breathed in, I said, “HU,” and as I breathed out, I said, “KA!”
At that moment, my name was called.
I trotted out to the center ring and waited for the pale blue flag to be lowered.
What happened next feels more like a dream.
I saw the blue flash and then felt a fire erupting in my belly that shot through my body and out my mouth: “HUKAAA!”
My pony started to gallop into the arena. I called to White Feathers again and suddenly felt a thud on my arm.
White Feathers had landed.
My whole body felt electrified. I had no idea how long it took. I just remember hearing a small roar that grew louder as I blinked my eyes at White Feathers, who was hungrily tearing at the rabbit leg in my hand. I looked around and saw the entire crowd cheering, jumping up and down, and clapping—for me.
The judges all looked stunned.
Then one announced on the loudspeaker: “Aisholpan’s bird landed in five seconds—this is the fastest an eagle has ever done this in the history of the festival. She has broken the record!”
The audience roared even louder.
The old man who went right before me, who I realized had been the one who scowled at me during lunch, came over and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“Congratulations,” he said.
He had tears in his eyes. So did I.
And then I heard my father. “AISHOLPAN!” he was yelling, running toward me, arms outstretched. “You did it!” he said.
My whole body began to shake—not from nerves or fear but from pride and joy. I quickly put White Feathers’s hood back on, worried my emotions might overwhelm her. It was perfect timing, as we were both suddenly swarmed by people with cameras. Everyone wanted a picture of me and White Feathers and my proud father.
In those pictures, I know that both my eyes and his are glistening with happy tears.
There were still many eagle hunters to go, and I was elated but exhausted from the excitement. My father and I went to get a snack, and some rest, before the end of the contest. I had also promised White Feathers the entire rabbit leg. We found a place for her to eat in quiet, away from the crowd.
There were still quite a few non-eagle-hunting events before they announced the winners. I never thought I would be in the running, but my scores were so high, and White Feathers’s speed so fast, there was a chance I might win a prize.
That afternoon, they did the camel race and then the Kazakh game called tiyn teru, a race in which one picks up a coin on the ground while on horseback. I watched kyz kuar, or “girl chase,” which is a game in which a man chases a woman, each on his and her own horse. She has a whip that she uses to beat off the man as he chases her on his horse and tries to kiss her. If I had not been competing in the eagle hunting itself, I would have signed up for that contest. I knew I could beat off any boy from kissing me! I could also ride faster and stronger than any boy I had ever met. But when I mentioned this to my father, he shook his head at me. He did not approve. “You are too young,” he said. For kissing! But not for eagle hunting.
Once all the events were done, the judges asked the contestants to line up in front of the judges’ stand for the award presentation. There are prizes for the top three eagle hunters, each one coming with a medal and a cash prize.<
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The third prize was called first. It went to Nurbolat Tanu, the son of one of the best eagle hunters in the region. The second prize went to Orazkhan, another great hunter, and one of the oldest competing in the festival. He was so well known, the judges called him only by his first name, as everyone knew exactly who he was.
With each name called, my hopes were dashed. I thought that with my record-breaking time I might have had a chance at third place. Or even second. So, when it came time to announce the first-prize winner, I gave up any hope and began to mentally prepare myself to go home without a medal. I told myself, It’s okay, I did not come to win! I’m here to show myself, and White Feathers. To prove that I am an eagle huntress.
Then I heard the judge shout through the speaker system: “And the first prize goes to… Aisholpan!”
The crowd erupted into applause and cheers, and that shocked me out of my stupor—that was me! I had won! Like Orazkhan, the judges needed only say my first name, as I was the only girl competing. And by then, everyone at the festival at least knew my name.
I started trembling again as I rode my pony up to the judges’ table, White Feathers on my arm, and bent my head down while the governor of Ölgii placed the medal around my neck. White Feathers was chirping in my ear, her weight feeling lighter somehow. She knew.
Another judge handed me the golden trophy that comes with first prize. Sitting on my pony, I raised the trophy in the air in celebration as the crowd continued to cheer and the judges continued to congratulate me.
“May your offspring be like her!” I heard boom through the loudspeakers just as my father arrived by my side, eyes wet with proud tears.
12
How to Catch a Fox in the Winter
The rest of that day, and the days that followed, are still hazy and dreamlike. I remember being swarmed by photographers and tourists alike. The Hollywood actress Michelle Rodriguez was there. She wanted to get her picture taken with me. Otto was there as well and had captured everything on film.
My grandfather was there, too, and he was so proud of me. When I saw him after the award was announced, he, too, had tears in his eyes.
“Very good, Aisholpan,” he said in his understated way. “Very good.”
Once we got back to my uncle’s house in Ölgii that evening, we called my brother.
“You have to thank me, Aisholpan!” he joked on the phone. “If I did not ask you to take care of my eagle, this may have never happened!”
That may have been true, but I could also argue that I have to thank Asher for taking my photo, my dad for agreeing to train me, Otto for wanting to make a movie, and my mom for saying yes to it all! Or I could just thank White Feathers for trusting me. In the end, she was the one creature who deserved all my thanks and respect—and I told my brother as much on the phone.
He agreed but added, “Don’t forget about my eagle now that you are famous!”
We both laughed and I promised him I would never forget his eagle!
By the time I returned home, the news of my historic win was all over the radio and in the local and national newspapers, too. It was a big deal!
But there were naysayers as well. We started hearing the rumors almost immediately: People thought I won because I was a girl. Or that the judges gave me the prize as a publicity stunt. A lot of newspapers and magazines did write about it, but anyone who saw my eagle fly that day knew it was real. You can’t fake an eagle flying to your arm in five seconds!
But then some of the older hunters insisted that no one should call me a real eagle hunter. To get that distinction, you have to catch a fox in the dead of winter in the Altai Mountains. They said, “If she is truly an eagle huntress, and this was not just a fluke, her eagle must catch a fox in the winter.”
I understood that what I had already achieved was important. Not only was I a girl who was eagle hunting but I also had broken the record for all eagle hunters, young and old. My win would have a ripple effect. I knew that, and that was all the more reason why I wanted to do the winter hunt as soon as possible. To prove to people that it was for real—that White Feathers and I were for real.
I told my father I wanted to do this. I wanted to prove to them, and myself, that I could.
Otto was still with our family when we made that decision. He had captured everything on film thus far and wanted to film the winter hunt as well.
“So, when do we go?” he wanted to know.
“January,” my father said.
“I’ll make sure to be here with my camera crew,” Otto said. My father agreed that Otto and his two cameramen could come back to record this rite of passage.
“I just hope you can handle the cold!” my dad said, laughing.
I was not worried about the cold—I was used to the frigid temperatures. But I did wonder if White Feathers could catch a fox in the Altai Mountains. She was still a baby, and this was the real and true test of both the eagle and the hunter.
First, we had to prepare our horses. Trekking into the mountains in winter meant slippery snow and icy slopes. It meant sometimes wading through layers of snow that were three or four feet deep.
“Iron shoes help with the grip,” my father explained as he hammered the semicircular flattened rod onto my pony’s hooves.
We set out for the Altai Mountains and had already arranged to stay with my father’s friend Dalaikhan, who lived on the perimeter. As we began our three-day, over-ninety-mile journey, my father warned me it would be a kind of cold like none I had never experienced before. And, just as it would be my first hunt in the mountains, it would also be my first time to the Altai Mountains in winter. I had spent summer months there, but this was markedly different. In this kind of cold, my father said, if you spit, it would freeze before it hit the ground.
My father and Dalaikhan were good friends—he had offered his home as our base for the hunt. Otto and his crew would stay with Dalaikhan’s friend, who lived in the same village.
I was exhausted and went straight to bed after dinner. But I was still able to hear my father and Dalaikhan talking about the difficult conditions that we would face in the morning.
“This is an extreme cold that even we are not used to,” I overheard Dalaikhan say. “It will be challenging for you—as well as your daughter and her eaglet.”
White Feathers was inside with me. If we had left her outside in cold weather like this, she would have frozen to death.
The next morning, we woke up early and got dressed. I wore my tracksuit beneath a down parka, and then my cowhide pants and a black fur jacket over that.
As I walked out into the frigid morning air, the sun was just beginning to cast its pale glow over the mountains. My breath formed a halo of vapor around me, and White Feathers emitted little puffs with each chirp.
My father rode with us up into the mountains, side by side, holding his eagle as I held mine. They would show me and White Feathers how to do this. That is the rite of passage of any eagle hunter. There is an old saying in Kazakh: “What the baby sees in the nest, it then repeats when it grows up.”
I had watched my father go out in the dead of winter to hunt with his eagle. I saw the look of pride on his face when he returned home with the animals he had caught. And now he was wearing those pelts in his coat, which I knew kept him warmer than the parka that Otto and his two cameramen were wearing. This was the cycle of life for the hunter. This was also something I had witnessed my entire life. As we made our way across the snow-dusted steppes toward the totally white-capped mountains, I felt connected to that cycle. As a Kazakh. As a nomad. As an eagle huntress.
“The first snow of the season is called kahnosar,” my dad was explaining to me as we made our way. The ground beneath us shifted from snow-covered grassland to completely frozen tundra, and I felt my horse’s hooves slip out from under him, even with the iron shoes on, as we made our way across what looked like a lake that had frozen a dusty blue that matched the sky.
Otto followed behind us wit
h a translator and cameramen, stopping every once in a while to film.
“Be careful, Aisholpan,” my father was coaching me as we made our way up a particularly rocky ascent that had been layered with a sheet of ice. “Horses have fallen off these icy cliffs before. We must take extreme caution.”
As my pony slowly scrambled up the slippery hill, it felt as if my fingers were being pricked by sharp, tiny daggers. At least I could feel them. My cheeks and nose were numb. Even my father complained.
“This is the coldest winter I have ever felt,” he said to me more than once.
It was so cold that the camera batteries kept freezing. They had to stop filming twice that day to defrost the cameras over the warmth of the car engine.
I never complained. I was determined to catch a fox—not for Otto or for the film. For myself, for my father, for my grandfather, and for all the eagle hunters that had come before them. For Dauit. And Bulanby. And Bosaga. I also wanted to catch a fox to prove those eagle hunters wrong who said girls can’t do it. That they can’t handle the cold. That it is too dangerous. I would show them that they were wrong.
There were many moments when I questioned my own stubbornness, truthfully. Like when we finally made it to the top of that ridge. With those perilous cliffs behind us, I felt huge relief when I saw the pristine fluffy snow that spread out in a field in front of me. I wanted to gallop. As soon as I gave my pony a small kick to get going, she bucked a little, as if she knew what lay ahead. I urged her forward, against her will, and then felt her start to sink. She started to panic, and so did I. The snow was up to her knees, then to her shoulder, as she fought hard to scramble back to firmer ground. But there was none. My father saw what was happening and shouted, “Jump off her!”
I did and fell waist deep in the soft snow, holding White Feathers up high and grabbing my pony’s reins with my free hand to slowly coax her backward, out the same way she had sunk in. Even White Feathers seemed worried. Her chirps grew more frequent and more high-pitched as I struggled to get my pony back on solid footing. Once I did, we continued to a flat, open basin, surrounded by some low-slung rocky outcrops perfect for fox dens. My dad told me to go to the highest vantage point as he rode his horse down, zigzagging and shouting, trying to scare any potential foxes out of their dens.
