Under the Ice

In over five decades of active naval service, Mikhail had weathered many a storm in his time. Once in the Atlantic, they had skirted a hurricane, and the heavy cruiser he had been commanding had almost had its spine broken by the ensuing swells, some of which swept all the way over the elevated bridge. Yet in all his years, never had he been so terrified as when he’d found himself caught up in a sudden storm alone on Lake Baikal in a small sailboat. Just as furious as those of the hurricane, the waves of the lake smashed into his sturdy wooden vessel, carrying off the mast, and half of the small cabin as well. He only kept from being washed overboard by tying himself to the helm, and even then it was a struggle merely to keep from choking to death on the solid walls of water that were being constantly swept his way. From that day onward Mikhail had a new respect for the lake that had conveyed him to the very portals of death yet had spared him to sail its waters again in the future.

A sudden cool gust of wind ruffled his thin white hair, and Mikhail decided it was time to turn for home before the squall was upon him. He followed a narrow earthen footpath that led away from the bluffs and into a section of thick primeval forest. Called taiga by the Siberians, this wood was made up of towering cedars, spruce, birch, and several varieties of larch.

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.