The Road to New Year's

It was New Year’s Eve. The year was 1999, and it was the first New Year’s that Igor and I would greet together as husband and wife in our village of Chukhrai.

We had spent the day in the provincial capital of Bryansk, making purchases and stocking up on food and other supplies. Packages and boxes were piled up to the canvas top in the back of our Russian UAZ “pickup” – New Year’s presents for friends and family, fruits, sausages, caviar, and spirits for the celebration ahead, plus construction materials for the work we were doing on our house. The sun had set by the time we finished our errands and driven the 100 miles to our neck of the woods. As we turned onto the forest road toward our home and crested a snowy incline, we had just six miles to go and four hours to spare before midnight and New Year’s were upon us.

Fresh snow had fallen during the day, and the narrow road stretched ahead of us like a white canvas on which to brush the swerving lines of our wheels. Seeing the first long, ice-covered trough on the road ahead, Igor shifted into low gear, checked that four-wheel drive was engaged, and urged the truck slowly forward. We looked at each other with anticipation. The ice cracked and heaved under us. The heavily-loaded truck, which has the Russian nickname golovastik (“tadpole”), for its large rounded forward cabin and skinny tail of a pickup, plowed right through, shoving huge chunks of thick ice before it. The slabs of ice collected under the bumper and, when we reached the end of the trough, they formed a veritable mountain of ice that we had to ascend. The vehicle bucked and pulled, climbing over the mountain. Igor stuck out his palm and I smacked it.

Pothole Number Two. This one engulfed a full three hundred yards of the road. We plowed through the ice, breaking it up and pushing the chunks ahead of us. In the deepest part of the depression, the water submerged the headlights, over four feet. The engine did not even sputter or gasp. But by the end of the water-filled depression, we had scooped up such a large mountain of ice slabs that even the monster truck couldn’t surmount it. The truck’s bottom became grounded on the ice and the tires spun helplessly.

We got out and walked around to the front. There was nothing to do but remove the ice. Igor broke it up with the long ice pick he always carried in the back. We grabbed hold of the huge, cold slabs and moved them to the side of the narrow road. When two mountains of ice had formed on either side of the truck and our hands had nearly frozen, we climbed back in. Igor revved up the engine and, with a roar the truck lurched over the remaining ice onto firm ground.

Another three hundred yards and we saw something on the road ahead. A tractor was stuck firmly in Giant Pothole Number Three. Apparently the driver had abandoned it that morning and now it was frozen fast in the ice, blocking the road. Igor guessed the tractor was from the electric company. They must have been checking the power line to Chukhrai. We got out to seek an alternate route. The only option was to traverse the boggy swamp that flanked the right side of the road. Igor took an axe from the back of the truck to chop down a young tree and open an entrance to the swamp. Taking a mighty swing, he slipped on the ice and missed the tree, sinking the axe firmly into his foot, protected only by a rubber boot and a thick cloth (portyanka) wrapped around a sock.

“Arrrgh!” he screamed. “My foot!”

We couldn’t see the damage in the darkness, so I helped him climb into the front seat of the truck and turned on the light. The boot had a three-inch slash just above the toe and blood was starting to seep through. I pulled off the boot and ripped the portyanka into strips. The gash was thankfully less than half an inch deep and didn’t appear to have reached bone. I wrapped the cloth strips tightly around his foot, and he kept it elevated for a few minutes.

“Under normal circumstances,” I said, “you would need stitches.”

“Yes, but we don’t live under normal circumstances,” he replied. “It’ll heal.”

He pulled the boot back on and chopped down the tree.

“That was nature’s way of punishing me for my chopping down this tree,” Igor said.

As we turned the truck into the boggy depression, I glanced at my watch. Two hours until midnight and three miles to go. We eased into the swamp, which must have had a current, as it remained unfrozen in places. The truck crawled slowly through the mire, sinking down in soft depressions. We traversed half of the swamp and the truck suddenly ground to a halt, with 20 feet remaining to the road. Once again we exited the cabin and examined the wheels. The front wheels had sunken into a soft gulley. When we tried to rock the truck slowly back and forth, the wheels skidded aimlessly on thick chunks of ice on either side. We began to break the ice, chopping with pick and axe. Slowly, we removed the ice slabs from around all four tires. Water welled up from under the ice, soaking our hands and feet. Igor resumed his place behind the wheel and rocked the truck slowly in its icy cradle, as I stood and observed the tires. I saw that an old tree stump was blocking the left front wheel, keeping it from moving up out of the depression onto solid ice.

“Stop!” I yelled, holding up my hand.

Igor got out, and I pointed to the stump blocking the wheel. He got the axe and began to chop at the stump. But his hands trembled in the cold, and the axe slipped, slicing the black tire. Hisssssss. The air blew out of the tire.

“Well, now the truck will be here until morning,” Igor said. “At least it won’t be alone,” he added, motioning to the tractor. “We might as well start walking home.”

I looked at my watch. Fifteen minutes to midnight. “Wait,” I said. “I have an idea.”

I lifted the canvas in the pickup and pulled out some packages. I handed a loaf of bread to Igor, and he sliced it with his knife. I slathered butter and caviar onto the bread and placed it on a plastic bag on a rise in the frozen swamp. Igor fetched two bottles of champagne from a box. With less than a minute remaining until midnight, Igor uncorked the bottles with loud pops, echoing through the snowy woods. Then he handed me a bottle.

“Happy New Year!” he said, his smile glowing in the moonlight.

We clinked bottles and kissed each other warmly. Then we gazed up into the bright starry sky, holding each other close.

Find out more about Igor and Laura’s adventures at www.shpilenok.com. Igor’s brother, Nikolai Shpilenok, is also a nature photographer.