Chapter 9 - Meeting Edmonton in Lake Baikal, Siberia
Where I realize I really should have bought a lottery ticket. We eat the amazing fish omul and discover the ancient Lake Baikal
“You’re from Edmonton too?!”
Lake Baikal, Siberia, Monday, 03 July 2006
Let’s pick up my story where I left it two days ago.
I did, in fact, finish my train journey without reading a single page of my many books. My last full day on the train was spent talking to people—mostly the Danes, with whom I had now established an excellent rapport. We discussed anything and everything, from Scandinavian health care systems to George Bush’s “War on Terror,” to divorce and my mother’s intentions of marrying me off.
When I went to sleep, the train was carrying us through rolling hills and tight turns. The “Standard” vodka, recommended by Ilya, put me into a very deep sleep. When I awoke early in the morning, we had passed into flatlands heralding the arrival of Irkutsk. Before long, empty grasslands and taiga were replaced with industry and increasingly frequent human settlements.
I should mention that Dasha and Natasha had alighted late the previous evening in Tayshet. I helped them with their luggage and said goodbye. All our communication over three days had been in rudimentary English, Russian, and sign language. I told Dasha to email me if she wanted to practice her English. That left only Mila and me alone in the compartment. Finally, the Irkutsk train station approached, and another part of my journey was about to begin.
Before leaving Edmonton, I had arranged for a fellow named Anton to take me trekking near Lake Baikal. He had emailed, saying he would meet me at the station, and I had been wondering whether it would really happen. Before I disembarked, Elena (the Providentsia) wanted to exchange postal addresses, which we did. I’ll have to drop her a line at some point—she’s a nice girl, and I suspect it will be good for her to have an English pen pal. The Danes and I all tipped her and Roman for their excellent service, and both Elena and Roman insisted on having photos taken with me for their memories.
I needn’t have worried: Anton was waiting for me at the station. Anton runs a personal and private Baikal Trekking company and is quite the accomplished young man. At 26, he already has a medical degree from Irkutsk University, where his father is a professor of history. Anton turned to tourism as a preferred way of life—it pays better than being a doctor in Siberia. This past winter, he was roped into an expedition to cross Russia from Baikal to Moscow by dog sled with a French adventurer, Nicholas Vanier. During that journey, he met a Canadian from Whitehorse, Yukon, named Rock Boivin, who was apparently quite the character. An accomplished climber, Anton plans to do a mountain bike or mountain climbing expedition this coming winter to one of the more challenging mountains in the region through which the Baikal-Amur Mainline (BAM) Railway runs. He hopes to film the adventure, and I’ve promised him contact information for the Banff Mountain Film Festival before I leave.
Our plan for the next four days: Anton was going to take me to various spots around Lake Baikal, where we would camp and trek. Sounded great. Note that I was now heading into day five without a shower. Irkutsk itself wasn’t anything especially remarkable—somewhat industrial, filled with cheap reconditioned cars from Japan, and the streets reminded me more of Asia than Europe. Indeed, the Mongoloid faces of Buryat people were everywhere, as were Chinese people. This is quite different ethnically from the Caucasus. I suspect I won’t encounter anyone wanting a photo of “the brown guy” here!
First, we drove north in Anton’s four-wheel-drive van to a small town (Usforda) to visit an ethnographic museum, so Anton could give me a brief introduction to the local culture and history. From there, we turned onto a side road and headed toward the lake. Lake Baikal is a tectonic lake, the deepest freshwater lake in the world, reaching a maximum depth of 1.6 km. It holds about 20% of the world’s freshwater supply. Oddly, according to Anton, the locals don’t have any legends of lake monsters like Nessie.
During the drive, I remarked to Anton that I had yet to run into many Canadians—at least, not ones actually from Canada. Wouldn’t you know it: I had barely spoken those words when we stepped into a café in a remote corner of this region, and I ran into Canadians. I was outside, looking at some of Anton’s photos and noting how similar the mountains were to the Rockies in Canada, when four Quebecers overheard me and came over.
Next, we drove along forest roads to the valley of Sagan Zaba. Roads crisscrossed the hillsides in this region, and several times I thought my life was over as the van became airborne and landed several feet from where it had taken off. Anton had warned me we might encounter archaeologists in the secluded cove we were trekking to, but I was still unprepared for what happened next.
We hiked about twenty minutes to the fog-shrouded lake. I was starting to doubt this legendary lake even existed, when suddenly, to my surprise, I spotted two flags in the distance—one was a partial Canadian flag with the second red stripe torn off, and the other was Russian. WTF? As I got closer, I unfurled my own Canadian flag, which brought one of the archaeologists, Mike Metcalf, running over, as baffled as I was.
“Hi. Yes, this is a Canadian/Russian archaeology dig,” Mike said, leaning on his surveying pole.
“Where are you from?” I asked, wondering how such a dig could exist in the middle of nowhere.
“Edmonton!” he said.
I was flabbergasted and rendered speechless, losing the ability to form proper sentences.
“Hi, Edmonton!” I blurted out.
“Yes, I’m from Edmonton. Where are you from?” Mike asked, likely thinking I was a simpleton.
“No, no. I mean, I’m from Edmonton too!”
What are the odds of stumbling upon a remote cove on Lake Baikal near Irkutsk, in Siberia, with a team of archaeologists from the University of Alberta’s Department of Anthropology? I wish I could have bought a lottery ticket. I think I need to send them a new flag when I get back. The team had been digging around Baikal every summer for five years and would continue for five more. It’s an impressive project from what little I could see, though it’s still in its early stages at this site.
Anton and I set up camp and wandered around, checking out 4,000-year-old pictograms carved into the lakeside cliffs. We cooked a hearty supper and drank cedar-filtered vodka. As the cold, fresh air from the lake swirled around us, I slept like a baby, surrounded by the scent of pine.
Yummy Fish
Lake Baikal, Siberia, Tuesday, 04 July 2006
After a quick breakfast and use of the facilities created by our friendly Albertan archaeological team—in my ongoing review of outhouses, this one rates near-luxurious perfection—we hiked up the nearby hills to see limestone caves that had imploded over time. A local legend claimed that an old hidden cave somewhere held huge amounts of Chinese gold. We didn’t find such treasure on this trip either.
We trekked back to the van via a steeper alternative route and drove away from Sagan Zaba, bumping along forest roads and stopping at a warm pond for a quick swim. We then turned north toward a completely different environment. You may ask: why didn’t I swim in Lake Baikal? Because it’s bloody freezing cold. I did enter it briefly to prove a point, but it’s not a body of water suitable for extended swims.
Where we had slept next to Baikal the previous night, the landscape featured trees and limestone cliffs; now we found ourselves surrounded by the Steppe: treeless grassland stretching as far as I could see. Anton took me up one mountain, Shebete, from which we could view the mouth of the Anga (“big mouth”) River emptying into Lake Baikal. On this mountain lay the remains of fortifications apparently built by nomads in the 4th and 5th centuries AD. Do we have some part of our brains where evolution compels us to build walls spontaneously?
To cross the Anga River, we headed to the town of Yelanzi. This detour was fortuitous because it allowed us to pick up some of Baikal’s famous native fish, Omul, to barbecue. Getting hold of it turned out to be more complicated than expected. Initially, the shop girl told Anton they were out of fish. Only after he sweet-talked her did she admit they were holding some for someone else, and with a flutter of her eyelashes she sold him four fish. Anton said that if he had been a woman, securing the fish would have been impossible.
Our campsite for the night was atop a cliff called Aya, overlooking Lake Baikal. The natural fire pit was incredibly relaxing, and the fish was nothing short of amazing. Because the lake is so cold, Omul is quite fatty—reminiscent of salmon. Mmmmmm… delicious. As the sun set on serene Lake Baikal, stars began to blanket the sky.
Unfortunately, the rest of the night was less pleasant. The temperature swung between hot and cold depending on the wind, making the tent stifling at times. Neither of us got much sleep.