June 17, 2016
A dotted trail to Altay
Чемал, the name of a village, a name heard in Moscow from a member of the merry company who unfettered me from my tagged ivory tower to cheerfully release me to the noise and commotion of the city.* The mixed feelings I retained from this mildly boorish hunter, along with the lengthy detour required to visit this place, had earned it a spot on my list of “possible but improbable stops on my way to the East”.
However, the region had been mentioned many times, in most of my conversations with Russians interested in my travels. The mountains were beautiful, they all agreed on this fact, and those who had never been were adamant about it. But if the word “Altay” had been voiced multiple times, no one had been capable of giving me specifics… Until, once again, Russian ways worked their magic.
I had thought about staying a few days only in Yekaterinburg, time to quickly check out the city and spend at least one day hiking in the Oural hills where I knew was a strange rocky formation called чертово городище [Chertovo gorodiche] or “the Devil’s fort”. However, my host Masha had completely integrated me in her routine, in her family, and in the English lessons she was giving. So when the agreed three nights at her home came to an end, I still hadn’t realized my Oural dream.
As we were sharing one of our last meals together, Elena, one of Masha’s friends and coworkers (and sometimes rival I believe), joined us and offered me to stay a few more days in the region, at her place. I gladly accepted her kind offer, and found myself participating in one of her lessons, visiting the interesting Yeltsin museum and witnessing the sad city circus in her company.
I also took advantage of these few more days to reunite with the forest and the mosquitoes as I endeavored to follow the TransOural Trail… but it had changed into a river of red waters and algae whose growing depth forced me to turn around, improvise, and find my way to another village through unmarked sandy roads.
Did I disturb the devil while visiting чертово городище? Was it his work?If so, the devil ain’t so bad as he allowed me to discover a nice little lake, reminiscence of a few happy days of Canadian summer in Shuswap.
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Back in Yekaterinburg, I had the feeling that Elena had a slight preference for regaining the simplicity of her independence, while Masha desired to keep me a tad longer; a need for company, or a desire to instill regret in my heart upon leaving maybe… Whatever the reality was, it was time for me to go. I had to keep plowing eastward. Omsk was my next stop, and as usual I would reach this city by ways of the rails. In my wagon, not only one but a whole three people spoke English, and Igor kidnapped me for the remaining hours of the evening. As it was, he was renting his Yekaterinburg flat to Marie, a French woman who had visited and written a book on Altay and Baikal (respectively). He kindly introduced us to each other via texts, and some days later, on the very day I was boarding for the unknown, for a detour towards the South most likely, we were finally able to contact each other. Following our exchange I didn’t know much more, but I had a name: Itkaya in Chemal, or rather Чемал.Taking this as a sign of destiny I still don’t believe in, I decided that it would be the place.
My two trains brought me over many miles; from Tomsk to Trudarmieskaya and the white metal benches of its small train station where I dozed off a few hours, and from Trudarmieskaya to Barnaul and its coffee, too long awaited, too hot in this Siberian heat, and too sweet, as the Russian tradition calls for, despite the efforts of Peter 1st who still succeeded in throwing tooth decay out of fashion.
During these two long rides, the horizon remained mostly unaltered: Short-grassed prairies, forests of Sylvester Pines or Birch trees, and gigantic fields sectioned here and there by a line of tall trees or by a small vale, or rather a short dip in the vast flatness.
But then, a bus took me from Barnaul to Chemal, and I discovered a changing scenery. The regular Siberian ground deepened here and there, green hills formed, a river could be seen along the road, the bottom of the valley widened and grew further, and finally the magnificent Altay mountains surrounded us; a consort of orange and grey shattered rocks, blue and yellow wild flowers on a bed of fresh wild grasses, tall trees of deep greens solemnly appearing against a background of bold blue skies and the constant Russian cotton clouds.
As I was arriving where I aimed to be, the sun was about to set a second time upon this everlasting odyssey of mine. I only had a name and a phone number, and knew full well that on the other side of the line I would obtain a very broken English at best, but I had gotten used to this weeks ago.
My interlocutor met me at the bus stop, brought me to the nearby hostel, and kept me busy while a heated discussion about my future seemed to be taking place. I understood that despite my reservation all beds were taken.
As a consequence, they brought me elsewhere, out of the village and into the pools of a potholed dirt road, first in the comfort of a leather-seated car and then in the confines of a muddy 4x4. English was left behind, evening turned into night, and I wondered how much further this strange day would take me.
A few minutes later, the puddles morphed into a river which strong current ate at the slippery banks. It suddenly dawned on me that these were the unruly waters I had made a mental note about, hours and kilometers before, while quietly seated in the bus enjoying the scenery, unaware that an improbable navigation had been lying in my future.
It is with a doubtful mind that I transferred to a small motorboat, but upon seeing the pilot’s lack of hesitation I decided to entrust him with my life, if not with my state of dryness, thinking that having a waterproof bag would finally pay off.
This is more by way of drifting than advancing that he steered us to the other side, to a small arm of the river which strong flow we rode at full speed despite the darkness, the star on his left knee pointing the way. The fresh breeze of a summer night, the spray of the waves breaking against our race, the enduring golden lights of a sun almost at its solstice fighting against the night’s darkness and the growing stars, the unknown… An insane pleasure overcame me.
We landed on a small sandy shore, I was given a sleeping bag, and was led to a cabin at the end of what appeared to be a small prairie at the river’s elbow. No shower, pit toilets, no mosquito, the bells of a cow or a horse echoing nearby, suspended time holding the unvoiced promise of an uncivilized break. I was growing wings.
I lived with them, listened to their conversations, snatching here and there a known word, I hiked and played with semi-wild horses and the little girl, cute as a fresh summer breeze, I declaimed the words the tattooed man threw at me, like a clever bear delivering his tricks, I dived from the little wooden bridge into the violent current at their side and under their amused eyes. I am quite sure I even managed to wiggle my way through the heart of the stern-looking young man who saw my arrival with a weary eye.
But time ran short. Once again I had to go and leave everything behind, unable to communicate with words my thanks or my love for them and what they had offered me, incapable of saying goodbye to the little girl or to the enticing probably unsettled ex-con. A small embrace with one of the women and a few tears I attempted to hide… This was all I could express from my traveller’s heart meant to be broken at every step.
