As one looks across the barren stretches of the pack, it is sometimes difficult to realise what teeming life exists immediately beneath its surface. Robert Falcon Scott, British explorer
Before embarking on the trip to Yakutsk I promised myself (and others) I would play it as safe as possible. It would be a new and unique journey to me, unlike anything I've ventured into before. The novelty of the Siberian conditions for me would be risky enough to start with. The safe haven of the hotel would represent a central piece of the safety plan I had had in mind. Just like an astronaut is permanently tethered to the space station when undergoing outside missions in space, the hotel should always be within walking distance whenever I'd go explore the subarctic city. Or at least that was the initial plan.
Soon after arriving to Yakutsk, though, I acknowledged the words of the American president Dwight D. Eisenhower: "Plans are useless, but planning is indispensable." And that was because I re-assessed the risk, after gaining a better insight into the inner workings of the city and its means of transportation, coupled with the unexpectedly good performance of my gear against the relentless cold. I decided therefore to try an activity that spans beyond the "comfort zone" (if you can call the coldest city in the world a place of comfort) of the inhabited city.
I was already aware of a local tourism agency (Visit Yakutia) that offers diverse Siberian activities to foreigners, from dog sledding to ice fishing. Ice fishing sounded perfect - takes less than a day, not too far from the city, and suitable for just one tourist. Below is the approximate location of the fishing spot, about 45 km away from Yakutsk, on the very wide, very long and solidly frozen Lena river.
The whole trip and fishing would take a total of 8 hours. Two fishermen, Aleksei and Evgeny, picked me up at noon in a white Mitsubishi mini-van, and off we went, into the open vastness of Siberia.
This trip took place on Saturday, my fourth day in Yakutsk. It was my first venture outside the city, into the unfathomable expanse that dwarfed all other distances I've been accustomed to before coming to Siberia. As far-fetched as it may sound, I've awaited this experience with the same enthusiasm one would have when about to explore another planet altogether, frozen and alien, defying imagination. And the landscapes I saw came very close to such an out-of-this-world place.
Heading north, we left Yakutsk in broad daylight. Small towns and villages were sprinkled alongside the road, like dark spots on the white dunes. Horse breeding and timber industry seemed to be the main economic activities of these settlements, from what I could tell. It was also here where I got a rare treat - the fog slowly dissipated and allowed me my first glimpse of the unobstructed sun since I first arrived in Siberia. The human settlements then gave way to clusters of vegetation on hills on both sides of the road, though not quite the dense Siberian taiga specific to farther regions.
And then, suddenly nothingness... The road made a right turn into a plain, featureless expanse, reaching as far as the eye could see. We had entered the ice road traversing the Lena river. With the advent of the freezing winter, new roads and passages come into existence here. While in summer there are no bridges over the flowing water and boats are the only way to cross the river, in winter the river banks are connected by a continuous mass of frozen water. In fact, there are well-established roads crossing the frozen river, and various markers have been installed along the ephemeral path.
The most striking impression I got when I found myself travelling above the ice was that we were not just on a frozen river, but on a frozen, arctic ocean! Lena river can get remarkably wide, up to 5 kilometers. When you are in the middle of it, with everything covered in snow and ice, it seems endless in every direction.
The first stop on the road: checking the submerged traps prepared the day before. Wooden sticks act as markers for the exact location of the traps, showing the fishermen exactly where to drill a hole in the ice. One of the traps already had a catch, and Aleksei swiftly pulled out the fish from below the ice, which by my estimate was about 1.5m thick. The poor creature didn't stand a chance out of the relatively warm water, and it froze in a matter of minutes. It was a sunny afternoon, a time of the day when my portable digital thermometer indicated a few Celsius degrees below -40.
Moving on, we still had a few kilometers to cover before reaching the designated fishing spot. The sturdy Mitsubishi braved the ice road and dunes remarkably well, almost effortlessly. Half an hour later, it had brought us safely to the destination, and we proceeded to set up the fishing tent. Our camp was located between two isles that barely rose above the water level. We were not alone, though, fellow fishermen had already set up a tent in the location and they seemed to be there for a long run.
I mentioned in a previous post that one of the biggest dangers in the deadly cold is inactivity, a sedentary state. In order to keep producing the necessary heat, your body must undergo some sort of effort, like walking. By its nature, ice fishing is a sedentary activity. Being exposed while staying idle will soon make you lose heat faster than your body generates it, no matter how well-dressed you are. Therefore, ice fishermen set up a heated tent that allow comfortable fishing for several hours.
First, four holes are drilled in the ice, close to one another. For this, there is a specialized manual tool called an auger, which is a large a helical drill that quickly chews through the ice. You can see it in the photos above. Then, the tent is set up over the holes in such a way that they reside in the center. A portable stove fueled by a gas cylinder are installed inside, and in a few minutes the temperature rises to a cozy above-freezing value. Still, you slowly lose heat through your boot soles, which are most of the time in direct contact with the snow above the ice. Finally, fishing equipment is brought inside and the hooks with the bait are lowered into each of the holes.
For the next 2-3 hours, we sat in our fishing tent, with brief pauses going outside for a short while. The only moving thing besides us in the vast expanse seemed to be the sun, in its descending trajectory that culminated with the sunset. A steadily shifting gradient of orange and blue marked the onset of the evening. Although the fish were not so hungry on that particular day and the catch was not bountiful, for me the ice fishing trip and experience were not marred at all. Just like a wise man once said "it's the journey that matters, not the destination", my objective was not to come back with a bag full of fish, but rather with the imagery of the Siberian wilderness etched into my mind. And this mission was a definite success.
By 6 PM, it was entirely dark outside. Our reliable Mitsubishi, whose engine had been constantly running since at least noon, provided us with light in the pitch-black environment. It was time to pack up and head back to the city, which by comparison now seemed a sheltering oasis of human life in the middle of nowhere.
The snow dunes looked even more menacing and suspicious in the dark. Even though you still had minimal cell phone and GPS signal, you'd soon be lost without the vehicle tracks that had previously passed the area during daylight.
Before returning to Yakutsk though, there were still one or two more stops on the way. The first one, back at the fish traps. There were still a few traps left to check. Armed with the auger, Aleksei and Evgeny drilled holes at the trap markers, one by one until the very last one, where a fish as large as the one caught earlier in the day awaited. The whole operation took about 20 minutes, and it was during these minutes when I can safely say I experienced the harshest cold I can remember. I checked my thermometer: -45°C. The cold now felt like a slick serpent embracing you from within the ice and the darkness, trying to sneak in through every nook and cranny of your clothes. Going from trap to trap started to feel almost like an act of survival, and even if the warm interior of the car welcomed you nearby, I was keen on not giving up before we finish out there. I have an utmost admiration for the hard-as-nails Aleksei and Evgeny who, without flinching, were drilling through the thick ice layer in a matter of seconds, then with their bare hands lifted the submerged traps' hooks out of the water, refilled the bait, lowered it back, then put back on their gloves and repeated the process at the next trap spot. As much as I wanted to record the moments, the darkness and the cold denied me such luxuries.
Back into the car and continuing the trip back home, I needed several minutes to rewarm even with the full clothing equipment on. Before leaving the river, though, Aleksei wanted to show me one last landmark worthy of consideration. A memento of the treacherous territory we were traversing, a worthy display of men's insignificant power against the unrestrained nature. An abandoned truck blocked in the river ice, which partially collapsed under its weight. It looked like there was no chance of salvaging the truck, as the ice trapped it much like a cemented glue; with the advent of summer, when the ice melts and the river becomes a mass of flowing water, the man-made machine will inevitably sink into its depths...
Eventually, we left the truck behind to its grim fate. We had no clue what happened to the driver, presumably he made it to safety at the nearest village, about 8 km away. We took the same route, exiting the icy road of the Lena river and heading back to Yakutsk. A mix of fatigue, enthusiasm and accomplishment stayed with me for the whole return trip, and I knew what these feelings meant: the aftermath of one of the most exciting and challenging day trips of my life.
Next post: Trip to Yakutsk - Part 5: The People of Yakutsk
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