The Blue Pearl of Siberia

In this, the third installment (see March and April 1997 issues of Russian Life for the first two installments) chronicling Gary and Monica Wescott’s trans-Russia expedition, the authors pause in the Lake Baikal region of Siberia to take a deep breath and watch spring unfold. They intended, Gary said, «to explore every mile of shoreline we could reach by road, and perhaps a few by foot.» By Gary Wescott. Photos by Gary & Monika Wescott

We headed northeast from Irkutsk (called by some the «Paris of Siberia,» though we failed to see the resemblance) to Bayanday, where we cut southeast on dirt roads over the Primorskiy Mountains to the village of Sarma on the river of the same name. About six miles up the coast we found a rocky peninsula where we made our first camp. In front of us, some five miles distant, was the southwestern shore of Olkhon Island, stretching about sixty miles up the lake. Native Buryats call the inner bay «the Little Baikal», and it is considered the most sacred part of the «Holy Sea.»

The size and magnitude of Lake Baikal is astounding. Containing one fifth of all the fresh water on earth, (more than all five Great Lakes of North America combined), it is 400 miles long, with its greatest depth 5,750 feet (1.1 miles). Below that, there are four additional miles of sediment, making the Great Baikal Rift seven times as deep as the Grand Canyon. If all its 334 tributaries dried up, and its single outlet, the Angara River, were to drain it, it would take 400 years. All the rivers and streams on earth would need over a year to refill it.

Lake Baikal is also the oldest lake in the world. Sediment has been dated at about twenty-five million years. The second oldest lake in the world, Africa’s Lake Tanganyika, is a mere two million years old. Most lakes seldom get beyond 50,000 years.

Much like the Galapagos Islands, Baikal’s isolated ecosystem has evolved independently for millennia. Of some 2,000 aquatic life forms, 1,200 are endemic, including the Nerpa fresh water seal, the only example of its type on earth. The nearest relative of the Nerpa is the Arctic ringed seal, nearly 2,000 miles away.

The scourge of Baikal are its winds. It is one of the stormiest lakes in the world.  Fierce gales build out of nowhere and race down canyons. The worst are given names; the Sarma, the Angara, the Verkhovik, the Barguzin. The wicked Sarma, or «Black Wind» as it is known, is perhaps the most feared. A saying goes, «It is only upon Baikal in autumn that a man learns to pray from his heart.»

For us, spring was in the air. Buds were bursting into green leaves on the birch and willow trees, and the first anemones were poking their colorful pedals out of the moist soil, but Lake Baikal was still locked in winter. Frozen to a depth of several feet in places, it more resembled one of its favored names, «The Blue Pearl of Siberia». Huge blocks of ice had been pushed up on shore by wind and tides. In shallow bays, where break-up was already underway, the crust of rotten ice would splinter into foot-long icicles the moment we touched its fragile edge.

Lake Without Stewards

As we worked our way up the beautiful coast, we sometimes shared camps with Russian ice fishermen. Each morning — and in some cases all night — they would sit by their 10’’ ice holes and jig for the prized fish of the lake, the delicate omul, relative of the salmon and trout. We joined them to learn their techniques. The shoreline was breaking up, causing long fissures. Driftwood planks or poles were used to span the shifting cracks. It was an unnerving experience to stand some twenty yards from shore, with fifty feet of dark 40°F water under you, and watch the slab beneath your boots move along the beach. We were cautioned not to walk on sections of gray dead ice.

Often the best fishing was half a mile or more out, and when it was good, it was excellent. A man might hook 50 to 100 omul in a morning. These were gutted, salted, and packed in metal or wooden barrels and tubs, as the Russians much prefer raw fish over cooked. We had our own preferences. In the nine to twelve inch range, they just fit a frying pan, and saute≈ed in a little butter, their trout-like flavor offered us a delicious nightly feast.

Fishermen complained that the omul were fewer and smaller than ever this year, but they didn’t seem to relate this to the fact that there is no limit on the catch, or if there is, it is completely ignored.

If indeed Lake Baikal, the «Sacred Sea of Siberia», is one of the world’s most beautiful natural wonders and one of Russia’s most prized treasures, (recently designated as a World Heritage Site), then one can only gasp in amazement at the total disregard locals, both Russians and Buryats, have for the fragile Baikal environment.

The piles of trash campers and fishermen leave in their wake are shocking. Campfires left unattended start raging grass and forest fires. We saw a dozen such blazes during our exploration of the west shore. There is no equipment or manpower to fight them, so they are left to burn, out of control. Piles of tin cans, plastic bags, vodka bottles and general rubbish lie in scattered heaps at every established campsite. Live trees are hacked at for firewood. Human waste is indiscriminately disposed of. «Tread Lightly» and «Leave No Trace» camping are not even a concept here.

East into Summer

Day by day, the ice was slowly thinning. At night, we could hear the tinkle of edges breaking off into the water, and we were often serenaded by the capercaille, a huge black Turkey-sized grouse whose courtship song echoed through the forest.

By following trails marked on our ONC (Operational Navigation Chart) maps, we found numerous sideroads to explore. One led us east of Irkutsk over dusty washboard to Bolshoye Goloustnoye. Its 600 inhabitants fish, tend their backyard vegetable patches, and herd sheep in a peaceful atmosphere that comes from not having phones or electricity. The village is encompassed by the Pribaykalskiy National Park.

This far south, the ice pack had all but vanished from the shoreline, giving us our first glimpse into the crystal clear viridescent depths for which Baikal is renowned. It is one of the purest lakes in the world, thanks both to its volume and to the small crustacean, Baikal epishura, whose main diet of algaes, plankton and bacteria results in a continuous filtering of the water.

After restocking our pantry in the fabulous open market of Irkutsk, we started around the east side of the lake. Spring had moved to summer almost overnight. The ice of the previous month was gone, and wild flowers flooded green meadows. There were many beautiful campsites to tempt us, but more often, we would follow side trails up streams to camp in the forest, away from the threat of towns and their accompanying drunks and delinquent teenagers.

Near the town of Tataurova we crossed the Selenga River by barge, a side-loader on which both truck and trailer hung precariously over the water. Searching for a place to stop for the night, we spotted a beautiful point of land jutting out into the lake. An overgrown two-track ended in front of a small dilapidated cottage inhabited by an 84-year old babushka. Realizing how perfect the little peninsula was, protected from prevailing winds by a thick forest of Siberian cedar and birch, and contained on the leeward side by an arch of coarse golden sand, we asked permission to camp for a couple of days. She was happy for the company. We were the first foreigners she had ever met.

A tangerine sun dipped behind a cloud bank on the distant shore, sending mauve ripples across the calm iridescent water and staining the summer sky with streaks of rose and violet. The old woman fished for dinner with a unique hand-line connected to a little wooden catamaran float. As she pulled it up and down the beach, by adjusting the angle of the pull line, the float would take her hooks — actually little hand-made flies — twenty-five or thirty yards off shore. In an hour she had caught enough omul to supply both herself and us. Her low-tech system was considerably more productive than my Sage graphite fly rod with its Ultra 2 Scientific Anglers 6 lb floating line and a gray mosquito.

Proceeding northeast to Ust’-Barguzin, we crossed the Barguzin river by barge and continued to the entrance of the Zabaikalsky National Park. An old sand trail crossed a low sand spit for fifteen miles, reaching the Holy Nose Peninsula (Poluostrov Svyatoy Nos), which otherwise would have been a mountainous island with peaks over 5,000 feet.

Still Better Fishing

To the northeast, a vast marsh stretched to the edge of the Bay of Chivyrkuyskiy. The wetlands were the nesting grounds for many types of waterfowl. To the southwest, often no more than a stone’s throw away from the two-track we followed, a long strand of protected sandy beach arched gracefully around Barguzinskiy Bay.

Reaching the anvil-shaped headland of the peninsula, we followed a muddy track northeast up the coast for sixteen miles to Kurbulik. Tire burn marks and deep ruts indicated where two-wheel drive vehicles had made repeated attempts to ascend the steep hills. The pine forests were not remarkable, but the wild flowers — roses, columbines and Asian globe flowers among others — were spectacular.

Arriving in the sleepy fishing village of Kurbulik, we could not help notice several small boys carrying huge pike draped over their shoulders. Inquiring with sign language and a limited vocabulary, we assembled a small parade back to their source, and, armed with our heaviest Shimano pole and reel, we wasted no time filling our freezer with fat, eight-pounders reaching almost three feet in length.

Locals say one gains an extra 25 years by swimming in Lake Baikal, but that is only if you survive the icy water. Back on the babushka’s little peninsula, we took advantage of a warm sun to thaw out after a quick plunge, feeling younger already.

It was the Fourth of July, so we invited our new friend for hot buttered popcorn, (her first & she loved it!), and fresh omul, (from her troll line), rice and a mixed salad for dinner. With a red, white and blue bouquet picked from the peninsula’s lush meadow, and a small American flag waving, a chilled bottle of Moldovan white wine was ceremoniously opened while Whitney Houston sang the Star Spangled Banner.

Simple things become special on a secluded beach next to a 25-million year old lake containing one-fifth of all the fresh water on earth, however inconveniently located in the middle of Siberia.