Sport in the Crimea and Caucasus

In Short

Clive Phillipps-Wolley’s Sport in the Crimea and Caucasus is an open-eyed, field-tested chronicle of late nineteenth-century hunting and travel across the Russian empire's southern frontier. Traversing frozen steppes, desolate post-routes, and the untamed heights of Daghestan, the author pursues wild boar, bear, and mountain sheep while recording the human landscape of Cossack foresters, Tartar boatmen, and fever-ridden peasants. Written with crisp observation, self-deprecating humor, and a naturalist's eye, it survives as a vivid snapshot of a rugged region on the cusp of imperial transformation.

The Story

The narrative follows a continuous, challenging journey through the Crimean peninsula and the Caucasian mountain range. Setting out from London equipped with an express rifle, a smoothbore, and a photographic apparatus that quickly proves useless, the narrator crosses Europe to Odessa before pushing into the harsh expanses of the east. Winter finds him sledging across the frozen Sea of Azov and traversing the muddy reaches of Taman, a degraded outpost of ancient ruins, fish oil, and vodka shops. From there, the route cuts across the bleak steppes toward the Cossack settlements along the Kuban River, where dense oak forests offer the first intense drives for wild boar and red deer alongside local beaters.

As the expedition moves deeper into the Caucasian coast, the terrain grows increasingly wild and treacherous. Reaching remote stations like Golovinsky and Heiman’s Datch, the hunter takes up residence in ruined wooden huts and turf shanties, living on black bread, raw onions, and honey robbed from wild bee trees. Days are spent tracking bears through blackberry coverts or dodging panthers, while nights bring drenching fogs and numbing tree-top watches for incoming flights of wild fowl and game. The elements prove as formidable as the quarry: hot, fever-bearing winds off the eastern hills lay both servants and guides low with severe malaria.

Undeterred by illness and lean rations, the journey continues inland toward Tiflis and the soaring peaks of Daghestan. Here, among hospitable Lesghian villagers who share native wine and rice eaten by hand, the narrator ascends into the high alpine zone. Clambering over crumbling slate and frozen snowdrifts, he hunts the elusive tûr—the wild mountain goat—amidst ruined shepherd bothies and sheer precipices.

The return leg through coastal ports like Salian exposes the absurdity and hardship of provincial imperial life, filled with official rivalries and widespread disease. The expedition culminates not in grand triumph, but in a sudden, severe bout of diphtheria contracted during a noisy wedding celebration at Duapsè. Nursed back to health by a German doctor and a kindly telegraph officer in Kertch, the narrator finally returns to England so weathered, bearded, and raggedly clad that his own family fails to recognize him on the railway platform.

How It Unfolds

The voyage begins Leaving London with a minimal hunting kit and a hard-won German map, the narrator travels by rail through Europe to Odessa. He quickly leaves urban comforts behind to cross the frozen Sea of Azov by sledge toward the desolate, mud-choked post-station of Taman.

Into the red forest The party plunges into the timberlands of Crasnoi Lais, joining Cossack beaters for midnight forest drives. Among the deep river coverts of the Kuban, they bag wild boars, face down wolves, and share harsh rations with local woodsmen.

Life in the jungle Taking shelter in a drafty shanty at Golovinsky, the narrator hires a local woodsman named Stepan and lives on black bread and wild honey. Together they track bears through dense thickets, surviving drenching mists and sudden bouts of mountain fever.

Ascent to Daghestan Pushing past the drinking dens of Tiflis, the expedition moves high into the Lesghian mountains. Hospitable hill tribes welcome the hunter to their hearths before guiding him up frozen crags in search of wild sheep and mountain turkeys.

The hard road home Decimated by illness and failing supplies, the narrator struggles back to the Black Sea coast through fever-stricken towns. A sudden attack of diphtheria nearly ends the journey at Duapsè, forcing a fortnight's recovery in Kertch before the final return to England.

The People

• Clive Phillipps-Wolley, the narrator and hunter. Driven by a desire for primitive sport and unmapped wilderness, he endures severe cold, starvation, and crippling fever without losing his practical curiosity or quiet sense of humor.
• Stepan, a woodland hermit at Golovinsky. Tall, yellowed by fever, and initially distrustful of strangers, he becomes an indispensable guide, adept at tracking wild bees across valleys and navigating dense boar runs.
• Allai, a Lesghian mountain guide. Devout in public yet pragmatic on the trail, he leads the narrator up the lethal snow-peaks of Daghestan with steady endurance and a sharp eye for mountain game.
• The Cossack Foresters, rugged border guards of the imperial frontier. Rough, hospitable, and prone to violent vodka orgies after a successful hunt, they provide the muscle and local knowledge needed to drive the deep river thickets.

In Its Own Voice

"The only complaint I ever heard from peasant lips in Russia of the Great White Czar was, he is too far off, he is deaf, our voices cannot reach him through the crowd of rascals who hedge him in."

— On the deep-seated, isolated loyalty of the Russian peasantry.

"Truly, this Caucasus must be the land of the lotus-eaters, yet what sorry beings these lotus-eaters are."

— Reflecting on the quiet apathy of rural settlers surrounded by magnificent mountain landscapes.

"No wonder that, as the water soaked through during that frosty night, the unlucky leg grew numb."

— Realizing during a silent forest night-watch that his foot is resting in a deep puddle inside a hollow trunk.

What It's Really About

Beneath its surface as a hunting log, the book explores the friction between expanding empire and unyielding wilderness. Phillipps-Wolley contrasts the vibrant, self-sufficient traditions of native mountaineers like the Lesghians with the squalid, fever-ridden failures of Russian peasant settlements planted by the state. It examines the realities of frontier travel—where bureaucratic absurdities, bad roads, and official corruption constantly collide with the silent, raw grandeur of nature. Above all, it questions the romantic myth of field sport, revealing the sheer physical labor, hunger, and vulnerability hidden behind every trophy.

Why Read It Today

Sport in the Crimea and Caucasus appeals to readers who appreciate classic travel literature stripped of romantic idealization. Phillipps-Wolley writes with direct, unpretentious prose, balancing keen observations of natural history with crisp, dry wit. His account feels grounded and authentic precisely because he records the indignities alongside the triumphs: the damp black bread, the botched photographs, the useless boots, and the agonizing bouts of malaria.

Modern readers should note period attitudes toward game hunting and local populations, as well as occasional archaic transliterations of regional names. Yet the book's enduring charm lies in its total absence of posture. It places you directly into the saddle, shivering through rolling valley fogs, listening to the sudden rush of duck wings over dark forest pools, or sitting by a Lesghian hearth after a long day on the ice. It is an ideal read for anyone drawn to wild landscapes and the unvarnished realities of nineteenth-century exploration.