From North Pole to Equator: Studies of Wild Life and Scenes in Many Lands

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

The kulan is a proud, fascinating creature, full of dignity, strength, and high spirits. He stares curiously at the horseman who approaches him; and then, as if deriding the pursuer, trots off leisurely, playfully lashing his flanks with his tail. If the rider spurs his horse to full speed, the kulan takes to a gallop as easy as it is swift, which bears him like the wind over the steppes and soon carries him out of sight. But even when at full speed he now and again suddenly pulls himself up, halts for a moment, jerks round with his face to the pursuer, neighs, and then, turning, kicks his heels defiantly in the air, and bounds off with the same ease as before. A fugitive troop always orders itself in line, and it is beautiful to see them suddenly halt at a signal from the leader, face round, and again take to flight.

Fig. 18.—The Kulan (Equus hemionus).

As among all horses, each troop of kulans has a stallion for leader, and he is the absolute master of them all. He leads the troop to pasture as well as in flight, he turns boldly on carnivores which are not superior in force, he permits no quarrelling among his followers, and tolerates no rival, indeed no other adult male in the herd. In every district which the kulans frequent, solitary individuals are to be seen unaccompanied by any troop; they are stallions which have been vanquished and driven off after furious and protracted combats, and which must roam about alone until the next breeding season. In September they again approach the herds, from which the old stallion now drives off the newly-matured stallions, and a fierce battle begins when they catch sight of an opponent. For hours at this season they stand on the crests of steep ridges, with widely-open nostrils raised to the wind, with their eyes on the valley before them. As soon as the banished one sees another stallion, he rushes down at full gallop, and fights to exhaustion with both teeth and hoofs. Should he conquer the leader of a herd, he enters upon his rights, and the mares follow him as they did his predecessor. After the battles are over comes the time of wandering, for the hard winter drives the herds from one place to another, and it is only when spring has fully come that they return to their old quarters. Here, in the end of May or in the beginning of June the mare brings forth her foal, which in every respect resembles that of the domestic horse—a somewhat awkward-looking, but very nimble and lively creature. We had the good fortune to be able to make its acquaintance.

On climbing one of the elongated hillocks of these desert-steppes, we suddenly saw at a short distance three old kulans and a foal, which seemed to be only a few days old. Our Russian companion fired a shot, and away rushed the wild horses, with their hoofs scarce touching the ground, yet exerting their incomparable agility almost with the ease of play, and obviously keeping themselves in check for the sake of the foal. Down rushed all the Kirghiz and Cossacks of our company; our attendants, carried away with the general excitement, also gave chase; and down we also rushed. It was a wild chase. Still playing with their strength, the wild horses made for the distant mountains, while all the riders urged on their steeds to their utmost, till their bellies seemed almost to touch the ground. The desert resounded with the jubilant cries of the Kirghiz, the thundering of their horses at full gallop, the neighing of our slower horses which gnashed at their bridles; fluttering cloaks and kaftans and whirling clouds of dust filled and enlivened the solitudes. Further and further rushed the chase. Then the foal separated itself from its older companions and fell behind; the distance increased between it and the anxious glance which the mother repeatedly cast back; the distance between it and our horsemen decreased; and in a few minutes it was taken. Without resistance it gave itself up to its pursuers; it showed no trace of the characteristic qualities of the adults—wildness, hardly governable self-will, and inconquerable roguishness, which often degenerates into downright spite. Innocently it gazed at us with its large lively eyes, with apparent pleasure it allowed us to stroke its soft skin, without resistance it allowed itself to be led along with a halter, in child-like carelessness it lay down beside us seeking obviously much-needed rest after the heat of the chase. The charming creature at once captivated every one. But who was to find a milk-mare to be its foster-mother, who was to give it rest and care? Both were impossible, and on the second day the lovable creature was dead. With the passion of sportsmen would we have killed a full-grown kulan, but to see the foal die gave us genuine sorrow.

In vain we tried to capture one of the adults; in vain we lay in ambush beside the bound foal in hopes of inveigling its mother; in vain we tried to effect something by driving; none of us had any luck. As a sportsman, I left the dreary solitudes with regret, but as a naturalist I was in the highest degree satisfied, for there I had come to know the noblest creature of the steppes.

THE FORESTS AND SPORT OF SIBERIA.

Siberian scenery gives one an impression of uniformity and monotony, which is mainly due to the fact that the whole country consists of three zones, each more or less homogeneous within itself, though distinct from the other two. Each of these zones preserves its special character everywhere, and the same picture is repeated a hundred times, satiating and blunting the senses till one becomes almost incapable of recognizing or appreciating the charms of any scene. Thus it is that we seldom hear anyone speak with appreciation, much less with enthusiasm, of the scenery of this wide region,—although it certainly deserves both—and, thus, gradually there has become fixed in our minds an impression of Siberia which refuses correction with an obstinacy proportionate to its falseness. Siberia is thought of as a terrible ice-desert, without life, without variety, without charm, as a frozen land under the curse of heaven and of miserable exiles. But it is entirely forgotten that Siberia includes a full third of Asia, and that a region which is almost twice as large as the whole of Europe, which extends from the Ural to the Pacific Ocean, from the Arctic sea to the latitude of Palermo, cannot possibly be excessively monotonous nor uniform in all its parts. But people usually picture only one district of Siberia, and even that in a false light.

In truth the country is richer in variety than any one has hitherto described it. Mountains interrupt and bound the plains, both are brightened by flowing and standing water, the sun floods hills and valleys with shimmering light and gleaming colour, lofty trees and beautiful flowers adorn the whole land, and men live happily, joyous in their homes.

Of course there are undeniable wildernesses even now in Siberia, and these, along with the likewise real ice-deserts, the tundras, do, to a certain extent, justify the popular impression. Dreary also are the forests which lie between the tundra and the steppes, and form the third zone. In them man never ventures to establish himself; on them the industry of the settlers along their borders make relatively little impression; within them the forces of nature hold absolute sway, creating and destroying without interference. The flame of heaven sets the trees ablaze, the raging winter-storm hurls them to the ground; the forests rise and disappear without any human control, and may in the fullest sense of the word be called primeval. Full of mystery they attract, and at the same time inhospitably repel; inviting they seem to the hunter, but resistant they bar his steps; rich gain they promise the eager merchant, but postpone the fulfilment of his wishes to the future. This girdle of forest extends, as we have mentioned, between the steppes and the tundra. Here and there it encroaches on both; here and there they intrude upon it. At certain places in both the unwooded zones, a compact wood may dispute possession with the characteristic vegetation of steppes or of tundra, as the case may be, but such isolated woods are almost always like islands in the sea, for whose presence there is no obvious justification. In the steppes they are restricted to the northern slopes of the mountains and to the valleys, in the tundra to the deepest depressions. But in both cases they are unimportant in comparison with the measureless extent of the forest zone, in which it is only here and there that a stream, a lake, or a swamp interrupts the continuity of the wilderness of trees which extends on all sides. A conflagration may make a clearing, or, at the extreme fringe, man may make a gap, but otherwise there is no interruption. Whole countries, as we know them, might find space in one of these immense forest tracts; and there are kingdoms of smaller area than some of them. What the interior is like no one can tell, for not even by the streams which flow from them can one penetrate far, and even the boldest sable-hunters do not know more than a margin of at most fifty or sixty miles.