The Romance of the Earth

Half a century ago, the profession of geologist was both popular and revered in Russia, shrouded in a halo of romance and adventure. Indeed, it was not unusual for the lives of these explorers of subterranean mysteries to be immortalized in motion pictures, or for songs to be written about them.

As a child, I devoured Ivan Yefremov’s novels about geologists and dreamed of adventure and travels to far-flung wilds. I went on to develop a fascination for mineralogy and fossil collecting, and, further down the line, I even planned to attend a geological institute. But then I was dissuaded from doing so, put off by those who claimed that geology was a “dead” profession.

And so, with that, my interest in geology faded, as the romance of geology’s noble past seemed to have disappeared from people’s memories. 

Fast forward 20 years and, through an unexpected twist of fate, my childhood dream became a reality. Through a fortuitous series of events precipitated by a friend, I was recruited to spend two months working as a geologist in the northern realms of Primorsky Krai.

The first thing that struck me was the geologists’ camp and the practicalities of their everyday life. I had the feeling that nothing had changed in half a century: canvas tents stretched over a frame of felled tree branches; heavy cotton sleeping bags that lacked the slightest water resistance; rubber boots; the white canvas sacks to hold rock samples; beds cobbled together out of boards and crates; potbelly stoves; ancient military maps. GPS and mobile phones were the only reminders that 1950 was far in the past.

And then of course there were the vehicles that drove us out to our collection sites. Our arsenal consisted of old Soviet models – the GAZ-3308 Sadko cargo truck, the UAZ 469 off-road utility vehicle, and the 452 van, nicknamed “the pill” (tabletka) and “the bread loaf” (bukhanka). Their all-terrain capabilities were offset by constant breakdowns and a complete lack of passenger comforts.

The second thing that left a lasting impression on me was the people with whom I worked. They all had their own unique paths to geology.

Mikhail was our driver, and a man who knows all there is to know about trees and the forest. At one time he worked for the regional forestry department, where he was involved in planting young saplings and restoring logged timberland. Later, however, when the economic crisis rocked the country, Mikhail was dealt a difficult hand, and so he found himself with no choice but to switch sides and start working in lumber harvesting. Listening to his stories, we were blown away by both the skill and good fortune that got him through drives over winding, treacherous mountain passes in a timber-laden truck with faulty brakes, or his skirmishes with the forest mafia. Experienced drivers who are also colorful raconteurs are a rare breed, and we felt lucky to be working with him.

Uncle Vitya was our cook and kept the camp up and running. Of short and rather wiry build, he came across as mild and meek, but his eyes and calloused hands were signs of his true, strong-willed nature. He had lived his entire life in the forest, at one with nature. His was far from an easy life. He committed a serious crime at a young age, was caught and sent to prison, and emerged a changed man, with a good head on his shoulders.

Uncle Vitya was extremely fond of animals. A pack of semi-feral dogs roamed in and around the camp, and no one would let them come anywhere close, except Uncle Vitya. They would tamely eat from his hand and even allow him to stroke them. That was when Uncle Vitya’s demeanor would soften, and the animals reciprocated. He was a man you could always count on and who could help you out of a difficult bind.  Sometimes it seemed as if he knew everyone in the nearby towns and villages from whom we might ever need some form of assistance.

And then, of course, there was our camp supervisor, Anatoly Vasilyevich Luzganov – a true geologist with a capital “G.” To him, geology was not just a job; it was his passion and reason for being. He was no spring chicken and carried great responsibility, including everything from research to ensuring that the camp had an adequate supply of provisions, equipment, and tools. And despite his advanced years, he continued to participate in expeditions, venturing into the taiga alone for days at a stretch. When he set out with a particular goal in mind, no one could keep up with him.

Working with such individuals reignited my passion for geology. Yet it definitely is not an easy profession; many end up throwing in the towel after just a few days. A friend of mine, after his first expedition into the forest for several days, returned only to pack up his things and proclaim: “I don’t need the taiga in my life,” after which he went straight home.

Outsiders may find it difficult to grasp how the northern taiga differs from its southern counterpart, aside from its lower temperatures (on a couple of occasions in July, the temperature fell below freezing at night). It is far harsher. And even though I am an experienced hiker, I had a hard time: coping with fallen trees (even on mountain ridges), areas of burnt-out forest, an absence of trails and navigable paths, tons of mosquitoes and biting insects, and frequent encounters with wild animals. On the plus side, it was an opportunity to experience the whole gamut of geological wonders found in northern Primorye. 

The government had assigned a particularly difficult type of sample collection: digging them up from riverbeds. This was part of an effort to update the geological map of Primorsky Krai. The goal was identifying reserves of gold, tin, or tungsten.

We were given a map marked with the points where samples had to be taken from each tributary. Then, after agreeing on a route and timeline, we were driven to as high an altitude as possible along the roads used by loggers. On average, this took about three hours. Then we had to get over the watershed ridge to reach the river’s uppermost tributary. Because of the amount of debris and windfalls, every hundred meters took a major effort. We might have to navigate around enormous tree trunks or walk along them, running the risk of falling onto sharp limbs. And even once we’d gotten over the ridge itself, things didn’t get any easier. The narrow crests were packed tightly with fallen trees, making it hard even for a wild animal – let alone a person with a rucksack – to squeeze between the trunks.  Areas like these are the domain of the musk deer. They feel safe there: I once happened upon a young musk deer peacefully lying between tree trunks while its mother was off finding food.

Once we reached the river, the next stage of the sample collection began at the pre-determined points. Using a sapper’s shovel, we had to dig a 20-centimeter (8-inch) hole and feel around for loam – something between clay and soil. Sometimes it proved a long, drawn-out process, since, if we were not able to find the necessary sample, we would have to keep digging holes until we did. The goal was to collect about 400 grams (nearly a pound) of material, which was then placed into sample bags. Meanwhile, the date of collection, color, a description of the loam itself and the surrounding area, and the precise coordinates all had to be recorded in a notebook.

Making our way downstream along the river was somewhat easier than clambering over the ridges, but not much faster, since there were no real paths – just dense overgrowth, brambles, Actinidia, and red and white currant bushes. Yet by far the greatest enemy was the mosquito. Surviving without mosquito nets is impossible in the taiga. Repellents simply don’t work, and in some areas you can’t sit still for one moment without being swarmed. Along the way, we were constantly enveloped in a cloud of midges, which bite incessantly. They only relent when it rains, meaning that most of the time we could only relax in the confines of our tents.

On average, we were supposed to collect 20-30 samples from each tributary, from the headwaters to the lower reaches. The paths left by animals going to and from the river made the task a bit easier, as they enabled us to collect up to 15 samples in a day. However, using them is not without risk, since they increase the likelihood of encountering wild animals. On one occasion I stumbled across a bear and her cubs. Thankfully, it was a peaceful encounter, although I did have my signal gun at the ready, just in case. In the aughts, it became illegal for geologists to carry firearms. Now, geologists have to rely on whatever they can find in a local store. Normally, this boils down to signal guns, flares, and noisemaking and gas cartridges. Over two months, I had a series of encounters with bears, wild boar, and Siberian stag and musk deer.

After we had collected all our samples, our rucksack could end up 10-12 kilograms (20-25 pounds) heavier than when we started. This burden had to be lugged back over the peak and down to the pickup point.

These hardships did nothing to dampen my sense of geology’s romance and adventure, and I still savor the memories of days spent in the camp and the taiga.

I long to return to my geologist’s life in the taiga again next year.