Russian Logistics

Yesterday I was wondering how the logistics of our trek to Lake Frolika would work. We had planned a 4 day outting through Rashit but then he told us that another travelers, a German, was en-route to Severobaikalsk who might join us - could we wait a day.

The German was arriving on the 7:25am train. How was he going to meet Rashit (for the first time), learn about the trip, get the required park permit, buy food for the trip and be ready to go at 9:00am when Rachit said we would be picked up by a car. "This is no problem," Rachit assured me on the phone. But still I asked if the German had a tent, sleeping bag, food. "Yes, yes, you worry only about yourselves," Rachit said. "Bring only what you will need. Do not be bothered by anything." So, everything was all set....why was I bothering with details?

Of course no one did bother with the details. Rashit did not inform the German that we would be out for four days, didn't bother to tell him to bring any food, didn't tell him the cost of the trip, the itinerary. Consequently the German (Reiner) was ill-prepared. But then, I do lay some blame with Reiner. Anyone who is about to embark on a trek into the Siberian wilderness and who leaves 80% of his camping gear at Rashit's house isn't too swift. On the boat trip to the start of our trek, Reiner asked me if he could borrow some soap, some dishes, he'd left his water filter behind and his water bottles, could he have one of ours, and, oh by the way, "I brought no food," he said.

So, we've learned a thing or two about Russian logistics. Namely there aren't any. So John and I decided to just do as the Russians do, enjoy the trip and not worry about the details. Somehow this German man would survive.

Survivor - Russian Style

Everyone at some point or another has seen one of those documentaries where explorers venture into the forests or jungle and become covered in bugs, their heads surrounded by swarming masses of blood-thirsty insects. Now, keep that picture in mind and double the number of mosquittos and black flies, add ticks, spiders, and ants and you have a general idea of what we were up against.

Siberia is loaded with mosquitos. I've never seen so many in my life. As proof my notebook has about two dozen dead mosquitos squished between the pages. If in the middle of the night one of thought we had to go to relieve ourselves in the woods...well..we were wrong...we didn't. There was no way in hell that we were going to unzip that tent.

I spent most of my time at our camps sitting directly in the path of the smoke from the fires. When the wind shifted the smoke, I shifted with it. I stunk like camp fire, but at least I got some relief from the bugs.

The entourage for this adventure included John and me; the German; our 46-year old guide and boat owner, Victor (one of the most energetic, enthusiastic, fun people we have ever met); The 27-year old captain of the boat, Valodia; and two native Evenki men, 43-year-old, Leonit, who would tend to the reindeer, and his 70-year-old father, Arkad, who looked like a 90-year old and chopped wood like a 30-year-old. (He lifted a log to use as a seat and later it took both John and I to move it.) And of course there were the reindeer, three of which we used on the trek. Two and a baby stayed behind at base camp.

The reindeer were already loaded on the boat when we arrived at the dock and we headed off on our four hour journey across the top of the lake. We spent most of the time huddled in the small room behind the steering room - for warmth mostly and to stay dry. Victor bounced between the steering wheel and us to babble on in Russian, show us photos, go over the route, and tell us about his boat named Jeanne. Everywhere there were postcards of Boston. He'd named the boat after Jeanne who lived in Boston (Brookline). She'd been the first tourist several years ago that he'd taken on the boat.

At our destination, we anchored off shore and were row-boated to land. The reindeer were pushed over the edge to swim. Getting underway on our journey entailed assessing the weight of everyone's gear, choosing a suitable reindeer to haul it, packing our gear into special reindeer saddle bags and strapping them to the small wooden saddles. And, of course before we could start, there was a pre-requisite of tea.

We were rowed back to the boat where Victor had set up a make-shift tea room (turned halves of wooden crates upright as benches and up-righted a table). The spread was a true Rusian fisherman's feast - loaves of bread (tossed uncovered in the boat's hold), cabbage salad that looked like it had been fermenting for days, salsa, fish (pulled from the lake and sliced raw on the table) and of course pots and pots of tea.

It was a double-dipping nightmare as everyone delved into everything. The sugar spoon (2 heaping ladels per cup for each Russian) was licked clean and then dipped into the coleslaw, then into the salsa and then used to scoop up another blood-red helping of fish. (To spare our more delicate tummies, John and I stuck to dry bread.)

We eventually boated back to shore and began a true Siberian adventure. With 3 saddled reindeer we set off on what Russians refer to as a 'normal' trail, but what John and prefer to call a buch-wack -namely whacking our way through branches and leaves; picking our way through marshes; and defending our faces from all that sprang before them.

The reindeer and Leonit marched onward with Victor not far behind at a pace that quickly left us far behind and the German man lost in the thicket.

"I see it," John yelled. "I see the trail." It was an enthusiastic hollar and I rushed to his side. I saw knee-high underbrush, limbs reaching at me from every direction and no sign of a path. "Really?" I said. John looked stricken. I quickly changed my tune. "Ok, Let's go!" I shouted. If John wanted to believe he had found the trail, who was I to deny him his fantasy.

After 45 minutes of crunching down brush, we emerged onto something less spongy - a real trail of sorts. Apparently we had been walking through a bog to avoid a water-logged trail.

Two more hours of walking brought us to the edge of Lake Froilika. It was beautiful. It seemed untouched by man. High mountains bordered the far side and a hill of grasses dipped down to the water's edge in front of it. There was a small camp area with a fire circle and a tree across it from which to suspend a pot.

While the reindeer were unsaddled, Victor got a pot of rice boiling above a fire. There we were, five survivors, eating our over-cooked glutanous rice, drinking our tea from dented tin cups and contemplating the days ahead.

I was also contemplating who would be the first to be booted off the island. The 49-year old German man had become a problem. He complained about the food, he complained about the bugs, he complained about his feet, the trail, the number of days we were going to camp. He had seen enough. He wanted to go home. "But we just got here," I said.

It didn't help his disposition that in the morning it was raining. To him that meant we would surely head for home. He took two hours to get his gear together, complain about his noodle breakfast, and decide that, after we had saddled the reindeer, he would need his rain jacket afterall.

"No, I think we should not go forward," he said pointedly. "It is raining." There ensued a tantrum of child-like proportions as he insisted we turn back. John and I watched stunned as a grown man threw his arms about, shouted and swore at us. Eventually we threw up our own arms in disgust and headed further down the trail.

We did end up turning back after the rain increased, deciding instead of an alternate plan, to camp back at the shore and head around to a hot spring in the morning - much to the German's dismay.

The hike back through the bog was extrememly wet. The reindeer were ahead of us and mostly likely already back at the shore an hour before we were. Victor pointed out bear tracks in the mud as we hiked and patted his semi-automatic Russian rifle which he wore flung over his back. "Protection," he told us. But when John and I heard a large animal cracking a tree in the woods, Victor and that rifle were way too far ahead to do us any good.

By time we arrives at the shore, we were wet and tired of waving our arms in front of our faces against the bugs. The German man pointed to his feet and complained, "My boots are wet. I'll get jungle-rot." He might have thought that we were going home that day, but the shore had been converted to a full base camp that didn't look like it would be torn down anytime soon. "Refuge," John yelled. The German man only moaned.