Ascending Anik

Here I stand, on the summit of Anik Mountain, drenched to the bone amid zero visibility, driving rain, and a fierce wind. And how do I feel? Elated! I am overjoyed that my modest dream has come true. Yet I am also utterly depleted after the emotional and physical effort it took to get here.

Why would you want to put yourself through all this, you ask? Was it worth the trouble? I’ll answer those questions with more questions: Why do people venture into the wilderness? Why are people drawn to nature? And, more generally, why do they set themselves goals that are difficult to achieve? The fact is, only by stepping outside your comfort zone can you feel truly alive. Furthermore, nature is not separate from us; it is a part of us. And, living in our concrete boxes, surrounded by our own kind, we tend to forget that.

But why specifically Anik? I’ve been exploring the wilds of my native Far East for more than 13 years: the vast Ussuri taiga, the majestic summits of the Sikhote-Alin mountain range, the jagged coastline of the Sea of Japan. And I have always been driven to explore places where nature is least touched by human hands, least trodden by human feet. Anik Mountain is just such a place, one of the most inaccessible summits. About 90 kilometers of wild taiga and mountain peaks devoid of roads or trails lie between it and the closest human habitation. What’s more, it is the highest point in Primorsky Krai, and aren’t we always drawn to the biggest, the highest, the most challenging?

The first goal on my way to Anik was the summit of Ko Mountain – Witch Mountain in the vernacular. At 2,004 meters above sea level, and the second highest peak in the Sikhote-Alin chain, Ko falls within Khabarovsk Krai. The good path at my journey’s start, along with the cool weather, filled me with optimism that today (despite the fact that I had had to walk an extra ten kilometers to reach my starting point, because the car dropping me off could not make it around a deep hole in the road) I would have no trouble ascending to 1,200 meters, where hikers usually spend the night. This optimism, however, was dashed by a downpour. After several hours, the rain was still coming down in sheets, and the Ko River quickly rose into a foaming torrent. I decided to pitch camp much earlier than planned and try to make up for the time lost the following day.

The rain continued through the night. In the morning, I put my soaking clothes back on and set out. Water was everywhere: it was falling from the sky, dripping off the raspberry and wild currant bushes, pooling underfoot, and rushing through the streams I had to ford. At the final stream, I filled two 1.5-liter bottles, adding to the weight of my already sagging backpack (its starting weight had been 25 kilograms, plus I was carrying an additional five of photography equipment). From here forward, my path led relentlessly upward. Clambering to the top of Stolovaya [Table] Mountain, I hit a milky wall of fog accompanied by strong wind and rain. My further path to Ko Mountain was a difficult and notorious rocky crest nicknamed Dinozavrik – The Little Dinosaur. As I carefully navigated the sharp, narrow crest, I tried to hold my own against the crosswind buffeting me, which wasn’t easy: the lichen-covered rocks were very slippery.

When I finally reached my goal I decided to pitch my tent in a gully below the last, almost vertical climb, which lay just beyond some dwarf trees protecting me from bursts of wind. There was zero visibility from the crest, and it wasn’t until the following day, closer to lunchtime, that the clouds parted for a couple of hours, allowing me to savor the views from this spectacular summit. The bowl-like hollow separating Stolovaya and Zenit [Zenith] mountains was particularly striking, an example of what geologists refer to as a “cirque” for its amphitheater-like shape. Unfortunately, the sunshine was short-lived. And by the time I was ready to take pictures from atop the Little Dinosaur, the clouds had once again rolled in.

The following morning brought more of the same: rain, wind, and thick fog. I now faced a traverse to the summit of Sputnik Mountain, 1,805 meters above sea level. I descended to the tree line and hiked through forest and thickets of dwarf pine, where progress was slow and laborious. Occasionally, I was lucky enough to spot a bear path, which allowed me to move more quickly. Soon, my trek became easier. Following the hills’ undulating contours, I moved through tall grass.

The only disappointment was the total lack of visibility due to the relentless rain. Only once did the fog disperse, baring the mountain crests and the black storm clouds racing over them. It was a stunning sight. Lashed by rain and wind, I stood on a grassy slope with curvy-trunked Erman’s birches on either side of me, and in the distance, the mountains showed themselves one moment and hid in the clouds the next. Before I could unpack my camera, the suddenly colorful scene again dimmed.

This was also the day a hulking Ussuri black bear emerged from the fog just 20 meters in front of me. I stopped in my tracks, my hand automatically reaching for the trigger of my noisemaker. The bear looked at me and, after a few moments, turned around and calmly, leisurely lumbered back the way he’d come, into the forest. I resumed my hike.

The following three and a half days were spent hiking to Anik Mountain along the beautiful and pristine Chuken River. The rain finally ceased and the sun even showed itself from time to time. I mostly stuck to the animal trails that marked the way around huge swaths of forest windfall. But when I came closer to the river, I found myself blocked by a wall of fallen trees and so decided to head straight down into a narrow passageway. That was a mistake. I wound up caught in a thicket extending about 300 meters. I spent about an hour and a half squeezing myself and my backpack through this labyrinth of stubby pines.

For the rest of this stretch along the river I struggled to protect my gear. As if it wasn’t bad enough that moisture had been seeping into my bag, my lenses, and my camera for the past few days, now the river was raging after the heavy rains. It took me four attempts to ford the main channel, using a long stick for support and struggling against the current as I tried to remain upright. Twice, the river knocked me off my feet, and once it even dragged me a couple of meters, tossing me like a rag doll. On those rare occasions when the sun peeked out from behind the storm clouds, I tried to stop and dry off, even if only a bit. I also took consolation in the abundance of black currants growing along the Chuken’s banks.

Finally, the day arrived when I would reach the top of Anik Mountain. It was what I had been dreaming of for five years. Inspired and full of energy, I set out. I did have one regret, however: the previous day I had not made it to the headwaters of Khrebtovy Stream. Instead, I had spent a half day on a sunny spit of pebbles, trying to dry out my wet clothing and photography equipment. As a result, I would not be able to reach the summit until afternoon.

The morning started out with blue skies and pretty, white clouds, but then the weather took a turn for the worse. A grey mist rolled in and it began to drizzle. I took three liters of water from the stream, since I didn’t feel I could count on finding any sources on the summit, other than whatever rainwater had accumulated in natural depressions.

The climb to the crest and the plateau itself was not particularly difficult, and it was only at the forest’s edge that I was slowed down by a pine thicket about 2.5 meters high. I had followed a sideways path, mistakenly thinking it would help me avoid troublesome brush. As a result, I only became more bogged down and wasted a lot of energy. Eventually, I was saved by a bear path that made it easier to maneuver with my heavy backpack. Once I reached the plateau, a heavy rain began, the wind whipped, and a thick fog shrouded my surroundings. Was I about to repeat my Ko Mountain experience?

The combination of fog and my own inattentiveness led me to veer off to the right, where I again became entangled in dwarf trees. Walking grew increasingly difficult, and the slippery rocks and rain-gorged lichen drained my flagging strength. Darkness began to descend, yet I still had 300 moderately steep meters to climb. Every step took enormous effort and the temperature fell to 5° Celsius.

Whenever I paused, the wind lashing my soaking-wet clothing stripped me of any last traces of warmth. I was starving. What saved (and slowed) me was clearings filled with bilberries and sour, unripe lingonberries, as well as tiny crowberries and juicy black bearberries. They restored my strength and their tastiness brightened my mood.

Over the course of the final 100 meters, it sunk in that I had done it – my goal was already discernible through the fog. I marshaled my remaining energy to dash up the slope toward the spot where a cairn awaited. Overcome with emotion, I thought I must be experiencing what true mountain climbers feel when they reach the world’s highest peaks. I also felt a new appreciation of what it means to test one’s physical limits. Of course, Anik is no Chomolungma, but we all have our personal Everest. At that moment, my Everest was right where I stood, soaking wet and frozen through, unable to see anything but falling raindrops and a stone pyramid.

It was time to find a place to pitch camp. The wind was blowing in fierce gusts. Not far from the summit, I noticed an even, slightly sloping area carpeted in lichen and bog bilberries. There was a small hillock partly shielding it from the wind, dampening its force. So that is where I spent the night. I lay awake for a long time, falling into a deep sleep only around 3 a.m.

Then, suddenly, I was turned over and thrown aside, and something pressed up against my face. In a panic, I sat up. All my things were scattered and the right side of the tent was above me, bulging inward; the floor sheeting and ties were whipping around outside. How had I wound up on my stomach, on the opposite side of the tent from where I’d started? Suddenly the wind landed another forceful blow, and I felt as if the tent was trying to scramble downhill. I scurried outside to refasten the ties. It turned out that three ropes had been torn free by the wind. The remaining two, along with the heavy boulders I had tied them around, had moved about a half meter, dragging the tent and me with them down the wet slope. I secured things as best I could, and went to sleep to the sound of the elements’ ceaseless lashing.

At 5:30 a.m., my alarm clock went off. I had not gotten any decent sleep. My attempt to open my eyes and fumble my arms out of the sleeping bag were unsuccessful – the difficult night had taken a toll. But then thoughts of sunrise and the possibility that the fog might have lifted inspired me to crawl out of my warm sleeping bag and look outside. This brought disappointment. The weather was unchanged, although the rain had ceased. I went back to sleep, hoping that things might improve by midday. After a while, I woke up feeling hot: the sun was occasionally coming out from behind the clouds, warming everything it touched. Grabbing my camera, I clambered out of the tent and waited for breaks in the clouds. They were rare, so most of my time was spent doing macro photography, capturing high-altitude tundra flora. But when the sun managed to penetrate the fog, when the curtains parted to offer a view of blue sky with scudding cumulus clouds, my heart sang. No camera could convey what I was feeling.

I spent the morning going up and down between the plateau and my campsite. After lunch, I set out to find some water for the following day, since I would be making the 26-kilometer hike down to the Katen River. Around 1,500 meters, the plateau was speckled with pools of muddy rain water, but I hoped to find a spring. I was lucky – on the southwestern slope, a clean-water rocky stream was flowing down the mountain. For the rest of the day, I took whatever opportunities the weather offered to shoot landscapes and nature.

My final morning on the summit began like the others, although the wind had quieted a bit and changed directions, bringing in wafts of cold. Despite spending two days on top of the mountain, I hadn’t seen a single sunrise or sunset. Time was running out, along with my provisions, and I had to face the realities of the way back. Preparations for departure did not take long, and just when I was ready to pack up the tent and set out, the sun showed itself, the fog scattered, and the entire panorama surrounding Anik’s summit came into focus (photo, pages 40-41). How could I resist? I laid out my things to dry and took time to savor the views. This savoring continued for a couple of hours, even though I realized that the delay would have a negative impact on my return trip.

My descent posed no problem. I easily circumnavigated the dwarf trees, and the upward inclines along the way were not particularly steep. The only things that slowed me down were the bilberry underfoot and the spectacular views. White cumulus clouds dotted the sky, and the wind had subsided.

After climbing Mount Tabornaya, I looked down the mountain and noticed movement in a thicket. I crept a bit closer, and at first couldn’t figure out just what was rustling about. Bears? Wild boars? Only when a massive snout poked through the shrubs was my curiosity satisfied. As it turned out, the boars were feasting on pine cones from the dwarf pines and generally making themselves a nuisance to the nutcrackers, who were flying overhead protesting loudly. (Nutcrackers, kedrovki, are so named in Russian because of their fondness for the seeds of the Siberian dwarf pine – kedrovy stlanik.)

It was almost lunchtime and more than half of the day’s journey lay ahead. Gradually, the open ridges were replaced by fairly dense forest, where, so long as I kept my bearings, animal trails helped me navigate around the windfall. I moved as quickly as I could, but my late departure and various delays along the way prevented me from getting as far as planned before nightfall.

The next day I had to make up for lost time. I hurriedly descended along Perevalny Stream, which fed into the Katen River. The only problem was water. For breakfast, I had drained my remaining supplies, leaving only a couple of sips for my morning hike. It wasn’t until lunchtime that I found a spring and was finally able to quench my thirst.

The Katen is very different from the Chuken, although they are only ten kilometers apart as the crow flies. Along the Chuken, I had feasted on fragrant black currants; along the Katen sour red currants predominated. And the forest was completely different: the Katen riverbanks abounded in wild raspberry, Siberian ginseng, nettles, and networks of actinidia kolomikta vines (kishmish), with thick carpets of ferns not far off. A bit to the north, at a distance from the river, there were tangles of Linnaea borealis and glades of Canadian bunchberry (otherwise known as creeping dogwood). I was also surprised to see a huge number of giant anthills stretching from the base of the mountain all along the riverbank. I counted more than 200.

Thanks to the animal trails, I made my way through the forest rather quickly and started seeing the first signs of humans: old saws and rusted sable traps. A nice path paralleled the left bank, but the Katen was running rather high, with a swift current, so I didn’t risk going into the water, instead sticking to the right bank. I began to run into spots where there was no bank – just a sheer wall of steep rock – and, weighed down by my backpack, I had to clamber across almost vertical rock face with fallen trees making the climb even more troublesome. The relentless swarms of midges that kept getting into my eyes and mouth didn’t make things any easier – even pine oil didn’t help! I was glad to see that my map indicated I was approaching a hunter’s cabin.

The cabin turned out to be very nice, cozy, and well-built, with a separate banya and a supply of firewood. Inside, everything was neat and tidy. I decided to spend the night. The first order of business was removing the vials of ammonia from the doorways, intended for any uninvited guests of the ursine variety. I fired up the banya, fetched water from the river, and, while it was heating up, began to fix myself dinner from my remaining supplies. It turned out that I had miscalculated my portions, and, despite the fact that a day and half of hiking remained, I had almost no food left. Rummaging through the cabin’s supplies, I turned up only some unappealing salo [cured fatback] from a military ration, and a few salted rusks. Yet I was so hungry even this was a welcome find.

What an indescribable pleasure it was to bathe in hot water for the first time in 12 days. There was even soap, exuding the glorious aromas of civilization! I left the banya renewed and feeling like a human being. The following day promised to be difficult, so I got a good night’s sleep.

I rose early and quickly readied to leave. After cleaning up the cabin, I took a few rusks for the road and, in exchange, left some bandages, iodine, and other handy knickknacks – better not to violate taiga etiquette. After opening the doors and placing the ammonia vials back under the thresholds, I expressed my thanks to all those who maintain this marvelous refuge.

There was a fine path running along the Katen, which then conveniently veered off in my direction along the Yulyevsky Spring. Soon I reached a good road that offered easy progress for almost five kilometers, after which the willow and raspberry bushes made it impassable. My decision to head up the slope to my right, thinking walking along the ridge would offer an easy path to the Nenadyozhny mountain pass (altitude 1,100 meters), proved to be a mistake. The entire slope consisted of old clearings littered with felled trunks overgrown with nettles and raspberry. I lost a good bit of time getting through this and had to zigzag back and forth to make it to the top. I was near the end of my rope and ambling along at a snail’s pace, trying to maintain a constant altitude.

I had initially planned to get through the pass and reach the Ko River in a single day, so that I would not have to rush to reach the bridge over the Ko, after which it would be just 10 kilometers to where a car would be waiting for me. But time and my strength were both running out, and that final stretch had really exhausted me. I decided to spend the night in the clearing. The next day I would have to make a 15-kilometer descent to the bridge, then walk 10 kilometers along a road – all by noon. After eating my last packet of cereal, I went to sleep.

It rained that night. I woke at 4 a.m., put on a headlamp, and began my descent from the pass. There was a good animal trail the whole way, and I rather quickly reached the Ko, where a well-trodden (this time by humans) path took me to the bridge. Then the rain turned into a downpour. I was running late, so there was no time for rest. Onward!

Pack weight: 30 kilograms
Distance covered: 196 kilometers
Time: 12 days
Weight lost: 6 kilograms

When I finally reached the meeting point, there was no car. My mind fell prey to painful visions of several more hours of hiking to the village of Solontsovy. But, after just a bit more walking, I heaved a sigh of relief: the car was sitting by a bridge, and I was extremely happy to see another human being. My friend Alexei gave me some delicious tea and fed me waffle cookies. A long trip home still lay ahead: four hours by car and 15 on the Moscow-Vladivostok train.

Returning to civilization, it is the simple, everyday pleasures that give you most joy: a bar of scented soap, a bed with a pillow, a varied diet, and the ability to wash with hot water. But there’s a flip side to city comfort: stress, fumes, and anthropogenic noise, to name just a few.

City life erodes our connection with nature. And so, just a couple of weeks after this difficult expedition, I had already developed an urge to return to wild places, where I feel closest to my true self.