Around Baikal 2003

Days 40-43

Day 40 -- July 10, 2003
Today is a special and symbolic day for us, the 40th day of the expedition. We've reached the northernmost end of Lake Baikal and our camp in the sheltering dunes of the upper Angara. The Grizzly Coast and nearly 700 miles of our journey are behind us now and tomorrow we begin the southward leg back towards where we began.

Not a minute, nor a paddle stroke has past, that we aren't grateful for what has brought us this far -- good luck and the grace of Nature and Baikal and the endless support of our families, friends, sponsors and strangers, who showered us with blessings. And, certainly our arsenal of bombproof gear. In the vast universe of outdoor equipment, we have been granted the perfect combination to explore Baikal in total and complete comfort. For that, we send our warmest thanks to our team of, "Whatever you need! Yes, is the answer! Make it happen!" - Sponsors Extraordinaire: Adventure Medical Kit Banks Fry-Bake Company Brunton Current Designs Earth Island Institute Hennessey Hammocks Kokatat Mother Lode River Center Mountain Surf Pelican Products

As a final note, though, we could never express how deep our gratitude runs. We send our special thanks to Mom and dad Nelson, Mom and dad Christensen, and the trio who tied up every loose end that we couldn't reach: Hank in BG, Sergei in Moscow, and Jack in Irkutsk, "Spafeeba ogramnoye!"

Location: North 55 degrees 41' 44.4" East 109 degrees 55' 27.9" Northeast corner of the delta on the north end of Baikal

Day 43, -- July 13, 2003
There is a habit among Baikal's coastal residents, universal among young boys and girls, store clerks, rangers, fishermen, priests... if the Pope himself were a Siberian, I'm sure his behavior would be no different.

It starts with a long, complicated statement or question in their native Russian tongue. Aside from the occasional familiar word, "baidarka" (kayak) or "riba" (fish) the message sails over our heads like the afternoon wind. " I'm sorry," I'll reply in my best phrase- book Russian, "I don't understand." And, with that, I have pulled the trigger. There is a pause. A slight but irrefutable reddening of the face while our puzzled host lifts his eyes and quickly scans the horizon.

His thoughts at this stage need no translation. "How, in the name of all that is holy, did these two ever make it this far?" At once his gaze is upon us again, piercing into our tentative eyes for a spark of intelligent life.

His hands fly out to the sides, as if they might swat his words around in front of us for a few extra seconds of comprehension. Then the message starts again. Only, not so much spoken, but shouted. It's shocking loudness surly meant to leap the language barrier with unmistakable clarity.

This time when a familiar word comes around, we grab for it, like the tail end of a rope dangling from an escaping life raft. "Riba! Riba!" we cry in unison. "Da! Da! Riba... Baikal... Mmmmmm, mmmmmmm!"

We carry on, rubbing our bellies like trained chimpanzees at feeding time. The interaction usually ends with our host slowly nodding in silent bewilderment. And Heather and I, to one another through clenched teeth, like ventriloquists, "what did he say?" "Just keep smiling!"

Fortunately for us and on the rarest of occasions, we are granted an intimate and most memorable encounter that is outside the wall of spoken word. This happened on the North end of the Grizzly Coast when an ax and rifle toting woodsman emerged from the forest just as we were landing to cook a freshly caught fish. He gave his name as Pavel... (to be continued)

Location: North 55 degrees 30' 33.1" East 109 degrees 12' 19.4 seconds, 5 miles south of Vero Baikal

Day 43 (continued) -- July 13, 2003
To a lone pair of unarmed travelers, infinitely far from home and already edgy from the four "grizzly" visits of the past week, the sight of a gun in a strangers hands is anything but comforting.

Pavel knew this and before he'd come within a kayak's length of where we stood, he laid his century-old rifle in the rocks; then came forward to shake hands. His look was timeless: aged boots, trousers, and jacket, all the same earthy colors of the forest he appeared from. Darker patches were hand-sewn over his knees and elbows, and a shapeless hat sat softly upon his head. From his belt hung a black leather sheath, with a bone handled knife. And, on his back, a narrow rug-sack -- I could imagine held some bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth, a pack of matches, and a whetstone. Last in the pack was a small crude ax.

We exchanged names, then, I offered the three or four phrases that explained our trip: where we started, where we are going, how long we've been out. To each he said nothing, and I understood his gentle smile and nod to mean that, somehow, he already knew.

Gesturing for us to continue on with our lunch, Pavel backed a few steps and squatted down. While Heather gathered some wood for a fire, I set to cleaning the fish. When I finished, Pavel held out several pieces of birch bark -- the natural lighter fluid of Siberia. Inside a minute, our small cooking fire crackled to life. By the time we looked up from the growing flames, Pavel was gliding to us over the rocks while he whittled a sapling into a perfect sharp lance.

Reaching us, he held out his hand for the fish and, with two quick cuts had halved it, and unfolded it along the spine, like a book. After he threaded it onto the stick, he spoke his second word of the entire encounter, "salt."

We spiced the fish, then watched as he planted the butt of the stick into the rocks so the meat was held just to the side of the flames. Then he slunk back a few steps and went again to his squatting stance.

And so the meeting with Pavel played on.

Without fail, as Heather and I had thought of each next step to prepare our lunch, Pavel had already done it for us. He fed the small fire so the flames were always just shy of the meat. Cooked to crispy perfection, Heather and I feasted while he sat silently by and wouldn't have a bite.

As we picked the last flakes of delicious meat from the bones, the fire flickered down into a circle of silver ashes no bigger than a dinner plate. And, with his gentle smile and the shouldering of his rifle, Pavel turned to the forest and like a myth was gone.

Location: North 55 degrees 18' 48" East 109 degrees 11' 20.5"

Read more about the journey in the introduction