The harsh, resonant caw of a raven greeted him as he continued down the trail. His stride was as brisk as ever, and he was thankful for the superb health that had kept him as far away as possible from doctors and clinics.
As he climbed over a fallen birch trunk, he directed his gaze to the clearing where he had spotted a fox less than an hour ago. Of course, the elusive red-coated creature was long gone, yet this sighting only further proved that portion of taiga was as full of life as it had been a hundred years ago. Since arriving at his dacha, Mikhail had already spotted several elk, some deer, and even a pack of marauding wolves that had tried to bite its way into his supply shed only last night. Recently a large black bear was seen in the vicinity. Mikhail was content to stay as far away as possible from such a dangerous, unpredictable predator.
The crash of cascading water sounded in the distance, and he was soon standing beside the stream from which this racket eminated. Its current was swift, its meander was determined by assortments of various-sized rocks that had been swept down from the surrounding mountains. As the clear water smashed white upon the largest of these boulders, Mikhail squatted down, dipped his cupped hands into the icy current, and brought a cool, refreshing drink to his parched lips. Tastier than the costliest of bottled mineral waters, this sparkling liquid quenched his thirst perfectly.
It was as he rubbed his wet hands over his face that he spotted a series of prints etched in the moist mud of the stream bank beside him. This characteristic track belonged to a fairly small animal that left behind a series of five distinct paw prints. Mikhail couldn’t help but wonder if it didn’t belong to a Barguzin sable. Like the giant Baikal sturgeon, this animal had also been hunted to the point of extinction, and was finally being seen in good-sized numbers once again.
His wife Anna certainly had an appreciation of this weasel-like mammal. She had been after him for years to buy her a full-length sable coat. Finally, on the eve of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, he withdrew a small fortune and fulfilled her dream. As it turned out, it had been one of the best investments he had ever made. Not only was it a truly magnificent garment, it was practical as well, for the thick fur countered even the harshest of Moscow winters.
Disappointed that the tracks seemed to disappear at this point, Mikhail stood and searched the underbrush.
He had a great-uncle who was once a fur trapper, and remembered his stories about the first organized exploration of this portion of Siberia. This took place over three hundred years ago. At that time it had been the Stroganovs who sent a Cossack army, under the leadership of Yermak, to breach the Urals and search for Siberian “soft gold,” or as it was better known, sable pelts. These cossacks were a rough, brutal bunch, who often terrorized the native inhabitants of the area into paying them tributes in furs.
When the sable population was finally exhausted, the newcomers turned to Lake Baikal itself for a new source of riches. They found it in the huge herds of seals that made the lake their home, and fish such as the giant sturgeon. Barely saved from extinction, these species were only now once again flourishing, to a point where harvesting controlled numbers could finally be allowed.
Since it was apparent the animal that had left the tracks behind on the stream bank was not going to show itself, Mikhail decided to resume his hike. A series of large, flat rocks provided a convenient bridge, so the robust old-timer crossed the gurgling creek and once more found himself on the footpath.
The clean fresh air was like a tonic, and he lengthened his stride, his long legs feeling limber and fit.
Back in Moscow, he hardly ever got a chance to walk like this. Not only was his schedule a busy one, with hardly a free minute in his entire fourteen-hour day, but the city itself was hardly conducive to this type of exercise. Diesel-belching trucks and buses tainted the air, while the jostling masses that crowded the sidewalks barely gave one a meter of free space of his own. Parks such as Gorky were lovely enough places, though on a decent day, they too were crowded with families and individuals seeking a moment of pastoral peace inside the capital’s bustling confines.
Mikhail often fantasized on how it would be to live out here in the wilderness permanently. He’d fish, hike, and even clear some land to plant a vegetable garden. He’d often thought about doing such things while at sea. A career sailor spent precious few hours on solid land. This was especially the case when one’s active career spanned five decades. Thus he’d promised himself that as soon as he was given a steady desk Job, he’d look into purchasing a country dacha of his very own.
His great-uncle had suggested that he look into the Lake Baikal region. So, without even seeing the property, he bought the dacha from the family of a deceased shipmate. The house itself was only three years old, and from the very first time that he flew over the area on the way to the Irkutsk airport, he knew that he wouldn’t be disappointed.
Located outside the village of Jelancy, some sixty kilometers northeast of Irkutsk, the dacha turned out to be everything that he had dreamed about. Built entirely of local timber, the six-room cabin had all the comforts of their Moscow apartment including a fully outfitted kitchen and an indoor bathroom. What made it unique were its cathedral ceilings, massive stone fireplace, and of course the magnificent forest it was situated in.
Mikhail had discovered the trail that he was currently following by sheer accident, on the very first day of their arrival at the dacha, nearly ten years ago.
Leaving Anna to clean house, he’d struck out for the woods with his walking stick and trusty compass in hand. Since the lake was evidently some distance east of them, he’d pointed himself in that direction and had spotted the bare outline of a trail invitingly beckoning inside the adjoining tree line. Even though this path snaked through the thick taiga, its general direction remained eastward, and Mikhail was determined to follow it to the very end.
He was out on the trail for almost a half hour, when he encountered the stream that he had just crossed.
Halting briefly to admire this brook, he pushed on and soon came to the bluffs and what was to turn out to be his very own private balcony, allowing him a magnificent vista of the lake.
He was so excited with his breathtaking discovery that he dragged Anna out there that same afternoon.
She was equally enthused, and later that week they set up some deck chairs on the bluffs to admire the lake in relative comfort. And now a decade later, to find oneself every bit as inspired by this same vista only went to prove its beauty.
While wondering if he’d have the time to escort his guests to the overlook, Mikhail passed by a startled ground squirrel and climbed up a small rise that brought him to a grove of particularly ancient cedars.
Like a group of stately elders, these giant conifers were the senior statesmen of the taiga, having grown here for centuries. A good majority of the trunks were so thick it would take the combined reaches of three fully grown men to encircle one of their lower trunks.
The very character of the forest seemed to change here. Because of the lofty branches that cut out most of the direct sunlight, ground cover was almost nonexistent.
In its place was an occasional clump of giant clover or a moss-covered boulder. The very air was hushed and still as Mikhail silently cut through the grove, as reverently as one of the faithful on the way to Mass.
He was in the process of passing through a stand of young birch trees when the air filled with the alien chopping sound of an approaching helicopter. With his gaze now drawn to the heavens, he was afforded a brief view of the vehicle responsible for this noise as it zoomed over from the southwest. The dark green chopper had an elongated boxcar like fuselage that had a series of circular viewing ports cut into its sides and a bright red, five-pointed star emblazoned on its tail. Quick to identify it as a Mi-8, the veteran was suddenly conscious of the late hour.