Who didn’t know the Kurdish hunter Davot in the villages scattered along the southern slope of Alagez, like an oak ridge, strong as an eagle, sharp-eyed, like an old lion, with a powerful head and heroic chest!

Half a century ago, he fled here from the spurs of the Turkish Mount Artos, made his way through the Cossack border outpost at the foot of Ararat and settled in one of the mountain villages.

A custom was established: whoever comes to hunt in these places must enter Davot's house, break bread with him and ask him where to go and how to hunt, so as not to return home empty-handed. And after the hunt, according to the same custom, he must become Davot’s guest, spend the night under his roof and listen to his stories about bygone times.

The fame of the old hunter reached our distant Kazakh, and I really wanted to see him and listen to his stories.