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Sunday May 04, 2003 - Brandon

Let's get back to some adventure, shall we?

Nearly two years ago, I stumbled across the name of a lake in Siberia, Russia. Lake Baikal. (“Buy Call”). A half-hour of research was all it took to know that this lake demanded an expedition.

Baikal is filled with the clearest water on the planet, with visibility over 150 feet.

It hosts more endemic species of wildlife than the Galapagos Islands, including a colony of 60,000 nerpa seals, the only freshwater species in existence.

Most lakes have a life-span of 10-20 thousand years. Baikal has been around for 25 MILLION years!

The lake sits in the junction of three tectonic plates that are slowly spreading, and it will eventually become the world's fifth ocean.

The list goes on and on and on. It's a sacred place, Baikal, “The Sacred Sea.” And this May, after a year and a half of planning, researching, boat building, training and dreaming, Heather and I head to Siberia.

Our local team-member there, Hank Birnbaum, will host us in his village of Bolshoye Goloustnoye, where we'll assemble the boats, learn a bit about how to behave in Russia, and absorb his family's grace and hospitality. And on June 1 we set out. For the next three months, we'll make our way clockwise around the lake, exploring its every inch of coastline, its wildlife and mountainous shores, its fury and infectious magic, one stroke at a time. If all goes well, by the end of August we'll return to Hank's village from the opposite end, and we'll celebrate!

Over the next couple months as we continue preparing we'll fill you in on more of what we know about Baikal. Of course, we're hard at work arranging a way to transmit updates – and pictures – from the heart of Siberia. We want to share this expedition more than any other!

In the meantime, check out our brand new website at www.chargelife.com!

For now, I’ll leave you with these last two points…

1) This expedition to circumnavigate Lake Baikal has never before been done.

2) Lake Baikal is, far and away, the largest lake on Earth!!!

Brandon and Heather

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Sunday May 04, 2003 - Brandon

It’s easy, when we’re spending all our free time researching and pouring over maps and pictures of Lake Baikal, to overlook the world-class lake in our own backyard. So this past weekend, in need of a few days of training and solitude—-as well as a shakedown of our Baikal readiness—-Heather and I set out to circumnavigate our local freshwater gem: Lake Tahoe!

Measuring 72 miles around, Tahoe is a fraction of the size of Baikal. But it sits at about 6200 feet elevation and is surrounded by the steep–and still snow-covered–Sierra Nevada mountains. This makes it a sure bet for some of the rocky coast and blown-up conditions we’ll see on Baikal… and we weren’t let down.

Day 1 kept us on the lake for only an hour or so—the time it takes to paddle from our friends Bill and Laney Green’s house in Tahoe Keys to Emerald Bay. We had the place to ourselves, and spent the afternoon hiking around the campground where Heather spent months with her family during her childhood summers.

Day 2 was the long day, and we were on the water from 7:30am ‘til just after 5. The wind never even puffed, and we rode across clear, perfect glass the entire time. Air temps must’ve hit 70 degrees, and we both burned off our skins’ winter whiteness quicker than we could say “sunscreen!”

The second night was a flashback to the Blair Witch Deer days, only this time the lead role was a thieving pack of ‘coons!

“BABY!” Heather’s voice jolted me from the dreamiest sleep possible. I couldn’t imagine what was going on, as we were camped on the most deserted of tucked-away beaches. I rubbed my eyes into focus in time to see two furry, masked banditos carrying away our supplies! “Baby, get ‘em!” Heather cried. I tossed the token pebble, or two even, while I struggled to recall the plot of my lost dream. I’m the worst at these nighttime animal emergencies, I know.

Naturally, after I returned to my bag and lay hidden and snoring like a buzzsaw, Heather was hard at work hunting, chasing, dragging and tarping our boats.

”BABY!” I woke again to her sharp command, only this time I knew I had to pull some weight, and was much quicker to spring up. I actually made it to my feet and fired off a couple golf-ball sized boulders at the rabid robbers. I’m sure I shuffled some gear around, too, to let Heather know I wanted to take part in our defensive strategies. Thirty seconds later I was back asleep.

“BABY!” A third time. Rocks thrown. Sleep.

“BABY!” Four. Stick thrown. Rocks gone. Must sleep.

“BABY!” For the love… Headlamp on. Eyes seen glowing. Rock found and thrown. Please…let me sleep.

Finally daylight arrives. After a careful inventory we realize the pilfering pests have made off with an entire drybag full of food. No drag marks are to be seen, and an hour of scouring the near-vertical, forested cliff behind our camp turns up nothing. My only concern, however, is whether I’d lost face with Heather. She seems pleased, though, at my efforts through the interminable night, and I secretly sigh in relief. Take the food, take the drybag you fiends. But spare me some dignity and we’re pals forever!

The third day of paddling was punctuated by photography stops at island boulder fields among the Caribbean-blue water Tahoe is renowned for. The lake’s surface was like glass again, and we could look down to the sandy bottom at our shadows paddling along next to us. But then we were given an intimate look at just how rapidly mountain weather can deteriorate.

Still in the morning hours, a breeze from the south found its grip on the smooth lake surface, and the tiniest ripples-—or cat’s paws—-formed miniature patterns of criss-crossing lines around us. The “texture” measured an inch tall at most. Within ten minutes, though, we were beating into four foot waves and were blasted by icy gusts hitting 25 knots. We spent the final six hours of the journey launching off oncoming swells and testing the waterproofness of our latest gear, and wondering if this would be par for the course on Baikal. By early evening, having come full circle, we finished the circumnavigation back at Tahoe Keys, and declared the shakedown a success!

Baikal Fun Fact: Lake Tahoe's volume measures 156 cubic kilometers. Lake Baikal's volume measures 23,000 cubic kilometers.

Check this out: The easiest way to support 'Around Baikal 2003' is to ORDER YOUR OFFICIAL 'AROUND BAIKAL 2003' T-SHIRT TODAY! Just drop us an e-mail for instructions, or visit our website: www.chargelife.com!

HUGE Thanks, Brandon and Heather

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Sunday May 04, 2003 - Heather

In October of 2002 81 teams from 23 countries began the Eco Challenge Fiji. Only 10 teams completed the grueling course. Team Subaru USA, consisting of Dan Rathbun, Roy Malone, Dan Barger and myself finished 9th in just under 10 days. USA Network will be airing a mini series on the trials and triumphs, and the heartache as 4-person co-ed teams jungle trek, sea kayak, whitewater kayak, swim, mountain bike, build native “bili bili” rafts out of bamboo, ascend and rappel on fixed ropes, navigate, and give until they have nothing left attempting to complete the World’s Toughest Expedition Race.

Eco Challenge Fiji on USA Network (Eastern Time)

May 5-7: 10-11pm May 8: 9-11pm

It repeats at midnight each night.

As for Around Baikal 2003, we are 16 days from take off!

Baikal Fun Fact:

The most common fish in Lake Baikal is the golomyanka. It is a pink, translucent oil fish with large pectoral fins. The golomyanka has no scales and is viviparous, meaning it gives birth to live young; about 2,000 at a time!

Check this out: The easiest way to support 'Around Baikal 2003' is to ORDER YOUR OFFICIAL 'AROUND BAIKAL 2003' T-SHIRT TODAY! We are also accepting donations. Just drop us an e-mail for instructions, or visit our website: www.chargelife.com!

Thank you all for your overwhelming support.

Heather Nelson

~All Glory Comes From Daring to Begin~

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Sunday May 04, 2003 - Heather

S.O.S

We are in search of an affordable small-sized or mini laptop to complete our satellite communication set-up. Requirements are CD ROM drive, serial port, and windows 95 or later. If you know of any used ones out there, please let us know! We leave in 13 days, so we need this by the end of the week! Yikes!

Baikal Fun Fact: When our flight lands in Moscow, we will be closer to Maine, U.S.A., than to our final destination of Lake Baikal. (From Moscow we’ll spend 88-hours on the Trans Siberian Railway).

~In the Spirit of Adventure~

Heather and Brandon

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Monday May 12, 2003 - Brandon

I once heard of a street performer who could juggle a running chainsaw, a marble, and a tic-tac. If you run into this guy, please put him in touch with us. We could use his skills these next few weeks!

We're both through with work; we got 90% of our non-expedition belongings tucked away in a storage unit today; Heather sold her car and our bed (our biggest piece of furniture) this afternoon; we scored the perfect laptop to complete our sat. com. rig (THANKS to EVERYONE who rallied!); and the kayaks are in the kitchen for some late-night outfitting. My heart's been skipping beats like crazy every time I remember: We're going to RUSSIA on Friday!!!

And Friday is when the juggling act really begins. At the advice of my buddy, Scott, we're bringing our 17-foot-long sea kayaks, along with the other 120 pounds of gear, to the airport where we'll demand they be checked as regular luggage. (Scott: “Dude, I've checked two Chevy Avalanches to Tibet! I just checked a Honda Element! I've checked 13 whitewater kayaks on my ticket alone…granted, I paid four thousand dollars in excess baggage fees…You just can't take 'NO' for an answer!”) So that's what we're doing. (“And don't waste your time trying to call ahead,” warned Scott. “It allllll comes down to the person you check in with!”) ……um

Assuming that goes well, the next hurdle is to clear customs in Moscow. It happens that the particular “system” we'll use to stay connected from the wilderness coast of the biggest lake in the world…isn't actually “licensed” for use in Russia. Details…details…

Next, our man Sergey will be in charge of getting us and our gear out of the airport and to a bed for the night, just blocks from Red Square we're told, then back the next day to the Trans-Siberian Rail station. There is the slight issue that “cargo” (read: kayaks) can't be checked on Sundays–our day–so will remain with Sergey until Monday when he puts them on the slow train to Irkutsk, near Baikal. Nevermind that we've not actually met Sergey. (Keep your eye on the tic-tac, saw, marble, tic-tac…)

Roughly 90 hours later when we arrive in Irkutsk, we'll be met by our man Hank! Hank we have met, (shared Thai food and ice cream last spring in California), and have worked with for over a year putting 'Around Baikal' together. Which is grand, since Hank will fearlessly lead us through another pre-paddling crux. See, the longest visas we could get are for one month. Our return flight is on September 5. (Saw, marble, tic-tac, saw…)

After a few extra days in the city we'll travel with Hank to his lakeside town of Bolshoye Goloustnoye, our starting point of the actual expedition. I've said this a hundred times in the past few weeks: If we make it to BG with our boats and gear, and on June 1 slip them into the sacred waters of Baikal and take the first few strokes north, I will consider 'Around Baikal 2003' a success. Anything beyond that is pure gravy.

Five days out… Heather and Brandon

www.chargelife.com

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Sunday May 18, 2003-Brandon

We made it, boats included, to Moscow. A hefty fee in San Francisco, as promised, got the kayaks on board and they were waiting for us when we cleared immigration. Problem is, one of our three 30kg gear bags has vanished. It contains our clothes and the laptop, among other things. If it's gone for good, we DO have the gear we would need to complete the expedition, with a shopping spree thrown in before we hit the water. We'll keep you posted on it.

For now, we're happy and healthy and just hours from boarding the train to Irkutsk, near Baikal.

Gotta run, lots of love, Brandon and Heather

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Thursday May 22, 2003-Brandon

10 p.m. Moscow time, our first night in Russia. After Sergey left us at the Chkalova Hotel just down the street from Red Square, we watched our car-top kayaks disappear into a whirlwind of traffic, en route to somewhere Sergey promised, “Don’t worry…secure for night.”

Half hour later, Russian MTV is blaring Ricky Martin, Heather’s composing a list of everything we think we lost with the missing bag, and I’m craned half out the window on a satellite call to her parents to see if they can help track it down. I nearly lose the phone when I hear Heather add to the list, “Oh, both boat’s rudders.”

Back in the airport after we’d shuffled off the Boeing triple-7 with 200-some-odd other folks, we faced an hour and a half wait to get our passports checked and stamped. Just beyond the plexi-glass barricade that kept us all corralled like goats, everyone’s luggage was sprawled out over the floor for quick grab-&-go. By the time we made it through, only half a dozen pieces remained, including three giant, black duffles. Only two were ours, and after we’d spent an hour filling out lost luggage forms, the third mystery bag was still unclaimed. A classic switch-a-roo, we were sure, but there was nothing to do but move on.

Ignorance blissfully blessed us at customs, though, when we accidentally waltzed through the ‘Green Line’ without so much as a “Privyet, comrade!” Contrabanditos are we! And by dark we were at the hotel…

By the time I finished with Heather’s folks, the gear list was complete: rudders, sleeping bag, laptop, all on-water warm gear, all off-water casual wear, tripod, waterproof camera housing, half our drybags, sunscreen, bug spray… In a race, purely extra weight. On a 3-month expedition, well…the occasional change of clothes is rather nice.

The next morning we toured the Kremlin and its grounds on foot: Fascinating and unlike anything American. A fortress unmatched. Sergey joined us and extended our tour to some of Moscow’s finest shopping malls: VERY American. And by early afternoon he was dropping us at the train station, still without our lost bag, without our boats, (“I send tomorrow…is only way!”), and with a flat-out refusal to accept even a dime in payment for all his help.

Next update: 88 hours in a 5’x6’ dorm-on-rails…

Heather and Brandon

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Friday May 23, 2003-Brandon

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At the train station, Sergey was like a hesitant father, sending his pair of 5-year-olds away on the cross-town bus for their first day of school. Though I couldn’t translate what was being said between the conductor and him, it wasn’t hard to figure out: Conductor: “So, these wide-eyed American tourists speak Russian, right?” Sergey: “Not a word.” Conductor: “But sir, they do know it’s a freekin’ jungle out there, and no one else speaks English, right?” Sergey: “They seek adventure.” Conductor: “Dear God.”

With that, we bounced aboard, shouted Bon Voyage as the whistle blew and settled in for the longest stint of public transportation hygienically allowed.

Our quarters for the trek would be a four-bunk “kupe” or cabin we’d share with two other wander-lusting souls, Gregory and Pazha. (Actually, they were military boys with a week off, and so were racing home to their wives in middle-Siberia. Hand-signs, pictures and patience got that story across).

It was awkward at best, though, playing musical beds as Heather’s and my internal clocks were 12 hours opposite theirs. Our lower berths were their seats by day, so after the first night we cut a deal with the conductor to rent his personal space for the duration: a 5’x6’, two-bunk suite with a locking door and end-of-the-car privacy. (It took about $13 to close the deal–a bargain by any measure!). With the move complete, we got down to some serious shut-eye. Nothing promotes hardcore sleep like the endless metronome clack-clack…hummmmmmm…clack-clack of a train at speed. We each pulled a couple 18-hour “naps” in between devouring three different novels and most of the Lonely Planet Trans-Siberian guidebook.

Every six hours or so, the train would reach a station where for 20 minutes we could step outside and from “babushkas” (grandmothers) buy our next round of sustenance. Breads of all kinds are the staple, and cost on average about 25 cents a loaf. Near the journey’s end we discovered pirozhkis–vegetable-filled, fried bread rolls so tasty you could eat them by the dozen. They’re the size of a hamburger bun, are served hot, and sell for about 10 cents.

Towns and villages along the Trans-Siberian are humble, not clean by our standards, but are inundated with gardens. Every yard is tilled and ready for planting, and greenhouses are seen everywhere, too. Ornamental woodwork is common on many houses, usually in the form of fancy door and window trim, and eaves. In between the towns are endless forests of birch. You can watch the birch trees whiz by for an hour straight, go to sleep for 12 hours, look outside, and it’s like you never closed your eyes. Truly a frontier.

The train is without means to bathe, and with our one set of clothes, we were ripe as old compost as we closed in on Irkutsk. Russians are as fashionable and proudly dressed a people as any I’ve seen, and it’s not hard to feel totally self-conscious before their scrutinizing stares.

When we reached Irkutsk this morning, we were met by our friends Jack and Hank, both honorary members of the expedition for their logistical help over the past year. After the round of hugs, they shared the news that our missing bag was found and was already delivered for us to the Irkutsk airport. I had said that arriving to Baikal with our gear in order would equal success, and we are now one step closer. Now, we wait up to a week for the kayaks…

Heather and Brandon

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Saturday May 24, 2003-Heather

“We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Tour masters, schedules, reservations, brass-bound and inevitable, dash themselves to wreckage on the personality of the trip. Only when this is recognized can the blown-in-the-glass bum relax and go along with it. Only then do the frustrations fall away. In this a journey is like a marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it. I feel better now, having said this, although only those who have experienced it will understand it.” –John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley

The Expedition life often is akin to a hurricane…spinning and spinning…sucking in facts, information, moving forward at lightning speed, and during brief moments when the dust settles can we assess the information.

Planning AB’03 took on this form. Assembling gear, sponsorship, grant applications, visas, planes, trains, researching the Lake, seeking out the wisdom of those who had been there, those who could help us, marketing ourselves, pre-selling the story, and all the while working full time, remembering to appreciate our friends and family and keep our heads! Now, as the dust settles in a place far from home, the trip has really begun to take on a life of its own.

Drifting into the past two months, in the middle of the hurricane, Brandon and I received an e-mail. “You will not be the first,” the subject read. The author of the e-mail, a man named Detlev from Germany, was referring to a ship-supported expedition of Lake Baikal in 1992. Already aware of the trip, and knowing that the Russian-American team did not circumnavigate the Lake by sea kayak, we briskly responded correcting their misunderstanding. Then, we realized, Detlev and his Swedish teammate, Magnus, were also planning to circumnavigate Lake Baikal. 25 million years of existence, and the Europeans’ start date was the same as ours, June 1. Their starting point was a mere 40 miles down the coast. The reaction, to all who heard the news, was always this: “Ahh…a RACE!”

And our reply, as well as the other team’s, was always this: “No.” To invest so much energy, so much time and money, to travel so far from home with gear so difficult to obtain and hard to transport, only to make haste around the ancient and magical Sacred Sea…it seemed rather, well, dumb. If there should be a competition, victory would go to the team who stayed “Out” longest.

With everything already swirling in our private storm, another piece was thrown into the mix: an e-mail from Magnus: “You will not be seeing me on Lake Baikal this summer.” Whether he was going solo for the love of pushing his pace, or not coming at all, we did not know, and we let the e-mail get sucked into the information vortex to be thought about later.

Now, here we sit in Irkutsk, Siberia. The power of the Lake humbles us, and as the burden of a year’s planning settles around us, we find ourselves having tea with Alexey and Olga. The young couple from Siberia is sharing their map and photos with us from their circumnavigation of Lake Baikal in 2001. To top it off, they tell us of a Russian from Moscow who rode his bike to Baikal, then kayaked around the lake in 40 days, then RODE HOME!

As the hurricane settles and the air clears, we realize we could not have created a more desirable experience for ourselves. Our true passion, and the force that drives us to have spent every spare hour planning this “next expedition,” is the love of being out there, experiencing the world in its rawest form and embracing nature, the local culture and the simplicity of the life. Looking into Alexey’s eyes as he answered my question, “Where next?” reminded me what it is all about. “The World,” he answered simply as his gaze fell to the map on the wall in front of us.

The World, indeed. But first, Lake Baikal…

Heather and Brandon

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Thursday May 29, 2003-Brandon

Subject: Around Baikal: Bolshoye Goloustnoye

With all but one of our city chores behind us, we loaded our gear into a van and plunged into the Taiga - the Siberian Forest. For 2.5 hours we bounced along a winding gravel road. Crossing still ice bound creeks and several small settlements, and, at long last the valley before us opened to a view of Lake Baikal.

As legend promised, it stole our breaths away. Staring out at it now, I'm at a loss to describe it. An ocean, I would wager; by it's rhythm, it's wind, it's swells, and stormy skies – hardly a lake.

For every wave of excitement and nervousness that Baikal inspires, our host village Bolshoye Goloustnoye reciprocates with a simplicity and kindness of the rarest order.

We stand out in this village of 600 like a neon sign. As we walk down any of it's dirt roads lined with small wooden houses, children's' laughter spills out from behind fences and trees. The brave ones peak their heads out long enough for Heather to lift her camera. Then they run screaming and laughing, back to their hide outs.

Once a day we trek to one of several wells to refill our water supply. We are met by an army of young helpers who handle the work for us. Tiny hands glide expertly on the heavy wooden wheel, to slow the bucket's decent until “splash.”

Then, arms blur as they crank 40' of chain up thru icy walls to where we wait with our containers. Running water was never such fun.

One half of B G's population is Buryat, the regions indigenous Mongol people. On my happiest day, I wouldn't match the radiance that glows in them.

We've shared many meals with Luva, Pavalee, Gugoree and Olga. A Buryat family whose cleverly painted home has won “Best in Town” more than once.

Like everyone we've met here, they honor Baikal with fearsome respect and they've honored us by responding to our expedition with curiosity and tales of Baikal legends.

We are ready to start seeing it from the seats of our kayaks.

One piece of unfinished business remains – our visas. Hank has been in Irkutsk all week working to extend them from one month to four. With that resolved, we will start paddling.

Heather & Brandon

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Day 1 - Wednesday June 04, 2003 - Brandon

Subject: Around Baikal - Day 1 – June 1, 2003

We paddled out of Bolshoye Goloustnoye this morning around 8 o'clock. A small party of our new friends gathered at the beach to see us off and wish us well and, to repeat once more, the warnings about the wind. (Yesterday afternoon, Heather and I walked down to the beach where we were to launch. Loose clothes whipping our skin - we recorded the speed at 36 miles per hour.

Nonetheless, we paddled across glass for the first 3 hours today; away from any cabins and roads – into what we came for – the Siberian wilderness. Despite our original plan of traveling clockwise around the lake, we learned since arriving here that winds favor the opposite. We are now south of where we started. About half way through the mouth of the Angara - Baikal's only out flowing river. This change benefits us in several ways, aside from keeping predominate winds at our backs. First, the North end of the lake still has ice (water temperatures even this far south is sub-forty). Second, we will be near civilization for the first couple weeks, so there is less pressure to have our food supply nailed down. Lastly, it gives us more time to get in shape for what we've learned is the crux: the cliff just north of B.G. Stretching north to Olkhon Island.

We are sticking to our plan of a conservative approach early on, by following closely to contours of the mountainous shoreline. And, staying ready to be off the water instantly if the need arises. Today it builds “gradually” – by 11 a.m. a north wind began churning up swells and within 15 minutes we were surfing 2 foot waves. After 13 miles we called it a day – on the water – but, not in the water: Heather “broke the ice” and paid homage to Baikal with a baptismal plunge! (Shouting all the way, “this one's for Kelly!”)

Around Baikal Expedition has officially begun!!

Heather & Brandon

Location: N 51 degrees, 54.661' E 105 degrees, 11.169'

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Day 3 - Saturday June 07, 2003 - Brandon

Each day Baikal has been like a mirror, the dips of our paddles and our trailing wakes the only signs of activity. And each day a wind, either ice cold from across the water or warm from the bordering mountains, has torn Baikal into chaos. In the course of an hour both may come and go 6 times and from all directions. From our camp last night we watched a north wind push waves like a river from left to right. Half hour later, waves just as fierce flowed from right to left as far as the eye could see. “Dynamic” doesn't begin to describe this landscape.

In spite of the rapid changes, we've made a steady 20 miles or so each day, and have found beautiful, private camps. Private, that is, if the roar of a passing train in the night doesn't count as an intrusion. This entire section of Baikal is bordered by railroads with countless tunnels run through the steep, forested mountains. We've taken to after-dinner treks along the rails and into the long, cave-like corridors. (I think we're already looking back on our Trans-Siberian Rail journey with fond memories.)

As I finish writing this now, a train is rumbling by just behind us, and there's a 100 meter strip of glassy water running along the rocky shore in front. Beyond that, a wind is starting to churn up some action!

Location: N 51 degrees 44' 28.3“ E 104 degrees 16' 59.1” Halfway between the Angara and Baikal's southern end.

Brandon and Heather

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Day 6 Tuesday June 10, 2003 - Heather

Around Baikal – Day 6, June

On Day 5 we hit our first major milestone – the southern most point of Baikal. After a food buy in the town of Sludyanka, photos and high fives, we headed north to our next milestone…the Baikalsk Pulp and Paper Mill.

For over a year I have been seeing pictures of the mill in Baikalsk. It was created during World War II to create “super cellulose” for aircraft tires. Sixty years later it is still active, though now it produces rayon for clothing.

We paddled quickly past Baikalsk, hungry for the solitude of the North. But, on our way out of town, we were bombarded by Louis Armstrong, signing “What a Wonderful World,” to a techno-beat. We couldn't resist meeting the Russians whose car it was blaring from. So, we pulled to the side and shouted, “Strasvitye.” “Hello” a voice called back. Four Russians came to greet us - two of them speaking English – a rare treat out here – and, one wearing a Tahoe recycling shirt. He turned out to be a good friend of our man Hank from BG. Hank, greetings to you from Zhenya in Baikal.

Heather and Brandon

Location: N 51 degrees, 29' 57.5“ E 104 degrees, 14' 51.1” (just East of Baikal)

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Bugs - Brandon

June 10, 2003

Anyone who has traveled to northern latitudes and spent time near the water, be it lake, river or swamp, has some story or another about bugs.

Black flies, mosquitoes, noseums, sand flies, gnats, call them what you will, they invade, swarm, crawl, sting, bite, suck and infect. And, at least in legend, make grown men sob like babies.

Having now spent 10 days living on the beaches and traveling the waters of Lake Baikal, my days of doubting or disbelieving such tales are now over.

There are literally blankets of bugs here and, in fact, it might do better to say there is one blanket and it has stretched continuously for the last week and a half. These voracious insects, crawl upon and cling to everything – solid, liquid or gas.

The lakes surface is alive with skittering, swimming, twitching, critters. Every rock and bit of wood along the beach is a cavern, a condo, for not dozens, but hundreds of vibrating vermin who skull or flitter away when we walk by. Within 60 seconds of landing on shore and climbing from our kayaks, one thousand new residents move in, on, and under the boats and their payload.

To take 3 steps, is to squash perhaps a hundred lives. But, never mind. These corpses are at once carted off and composted to strengthen the herd.

To inhale is to take in a cocktail of one part air and 2 parts airborne bugs and, then hack, cough and spit them clear for the next round. This thick of an insect population, I never dreamed possible. And, we have only just begun our journey northward.

Heather and Brandon

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Day 12 Thursday June 12, 2003 - Brandon

Around Baikal, Day 12, June 12, 2003

For the past 24 hours we've been camped out on a spit of sand 75 yards wide by 5 miles long. Baikal is to our west and an inland lake 3 miles wide lies to our east.

A settlement lines the smaller lake's Eastern shore, though it can't be seen from here. In fact, nothing can be seen beyond a quarter mile radius as the sky is thick with a lead gray haze.

The sun, a dark red orb, just like the one we cycled under while Montana burned during the 2000 summer, appears for a few hours in the afternoon. By 6 p.m., about 4 hours before it actually sets, it is gone again.

Local fishermen have told us that forests on both sides of Baikal are on fire and we have no way of knowing exactly from where this haze has drifted.

Our last clear day, the last day we were able to solar charge our batteries, and, let the sun warm us after our post paddle swim, was day 5 (June 5, 2003.)

Tomorrow we head north into the Selenga River Delta, Baikal's largest tributary – delivering 40% of the lake's inflowing water.

The Selenga is a 30 mile wide maze of swamps and meandering waterways. With no landing along its foggy outer edge, our plan is to paddle upstream far enough to reach the main fork, then turn, and ride the current out to it's Northern exit. With luck we will be on the lake again in 2 days.

Heather & Brandon

Location: N 51 degrees, 54' 41.2“ E 106 degrees, 06' 23.9'

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Day 16 Monday June 16, 2003 - Heather

Around Baikal, Day 16, June 16, 2003

Ivan the Buryat fisherman, massaged Brandon's back with such vigor I thought surely he would draw blood. I sat nearby cleaning the last remnants of our 7 fish feast from my bowl. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Sergei, the master chef of our feast, watching me and laughing as I licked my fingers clean, rubbed my belly, and announced, “Kusna” (delicious).

The two fishermen had mysteriously appeared at our camp two hours earlier and had been fussing over us ever since. They retreated precisely at 8 P.M. As we stood in our deserted camp at the mouth of the Selenga River Delta, their presence hung as heavy as the haze and their words rang in my ears, “do not try the inside passage,” they warned us in their native tongue.

Brandon and I were convinced, if these angels disguised as fishermen, said go outside, we would surely abide.

6:45 A.M. the following morning we paddled out into a haze so thick you could reach out and touch it. Within 3 minutes of shoving off, every argument we had made against traversing the outside of the delta stood up and screamed, 'You should've gone the other way, fools.'

We kayaked in water so shallow, our paddles scraped the bottom with every stroke. When water gave way to a sand bar we dragged our boats. We headed straight out to sea using our compass for guidance until not even a shadow of land was visible – yet the shallows persisted. Winds were building from the west, my barometer was dropping and, in my mind I was remembering the promises I'd made to my parents, “Of course we will be careful.” “Yes, we will hug the shore” and “No, we won't take any unnecessary risks.”

Three miles into the 35-40 mile paddle, Brandon's voice snapped me out of my trance. “We need to rethink this,” he shouted over the wind. I made my way over to his boat and as we sat side by side on the outskirts of the largest Delta, of the largest lake in the world, we came up with a plan…

Heather and Brandon

Location: N 52 degrees, 35' 09.1“ E 107 degrees, 14' 41.9” (approx. 30 miles North of Selenga River Delta)

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Day 17 Tuesday June 17, 2003 - Heather

June 17, 2003

Fortunately we stored the coordinates of our previous camp in the GPS before we set out. So, we U-turned and an hour of paddling later we glided back into the muddy shallows where the morning had begun.

The new plan was to do what we had originally intended: head into the swamp against the current; taking every right turn we could find, until we reached a point as vague in our minds as it was on our map. There, we would take our first, and only, left turn and, theoretically, it would be all down stream from there. Turning too soon would shoot us out to the no man's from which we had just escaped.

The entire traverse would have been a no-brainer if the cold war era charts had included some form of coordinates. But, these, we learned, had been left out for “strategic” reasons.

At any rate, as the morning wind gained strength and, my mind raced with warnings about being lost in the swampy maze before us. We uttered our final prayers to Burkhan, pointed our bows upstream and paddled in…

Heather and Brandon

Day 17 - Location: N 52 degrees, 42' 33.8“ E 107 degrees, 32' 35.2” (approx. 50 miles North of the Selenga River Delta)

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Day 17 Wednesday June 18, 2003 - Heather&Brandon

Around Baikal - Selenga, Part III Day 17, June 17, 2003

Brandon: To me the Selenga Delta is the crux of this entire expedition. I've been stressing about it every day since we started. Cursed with no landing, fine! Storm force winds and twenty-foot swells, bring it on. But, a giant swamp with one thousand twists, turns and outlets leading thru the dreaded mud-flats – this is nightmare material.

Heather: To be honest, I hadn't given much thought to the Selenga until Alexey and Olga sat down with us over a map and showed us the inside route. I loved the challenge immediately - an expedition within an expedition! Besides, I've made sure we have a ton of food, we can't possibly run out of water and, if we make a wrong turn we just backtrack upriver.

Brandon: All right, here's the deal, we need to go out at race pace and crank hard for 8 hours straight. If you get tired, tell me and I'll clip a tow line to your boat. If we give this all we've got, chances are good that we can get thru this God forsaken mess by nightfall.

Heather: It's quite peaceful out here. Why isn't Brandon talking to me? There was a beautiful bird back there I wanted to show him. Why does he insist on paddling 200 feet ahead of me? I've got so much to talk about.

Brandon: Let's see, if my calculations are accurate, that last mile took 1,810 strokes and 33 minutes. At this pace it'll be close to midnight before we are safe on the Lake again, unless of course, the tail wind dies down. Where's Heather? Damn it girl, don't you know we are racing for our lives?

Heather: What a jerk, we've been paddling upstream for 9 hours and he hasn't let me rest since noon. Look at him snacking up there! If I could just get a little closer. Damn, there he goes again. Does he think we are in a race or something? Well, I have the food and the maps, he can't get too far.

Brandon: This isn't in my plan, but this looks like a nice camp. I wonder if Heather would mind pulling over for the night.

Heather: Arms tired, need food, need sleep!

Brandon: Nice of Heather to be so flexible. Now, while she builds a fire, prepares dinner, and pitches the tent, I'll see if I can create some sort of equation to pinpoint our exact position. Curses, I can't believe I left home without my divider and slide rule.

Heather: What a great day. I'd say we are within an hour of our big turn; I feel it. Look at him over there, what a freak! He's been bent over those maps for an hour and a half. Looks like he's whittled a ruler. What's with the laptop and, why is he sweating like a pig?

Brandon: All right, today is our day. If we don't make it to our down stream turn and start heading out of this place by 10 a.m I'll have to consider a satellite relay SOS to the American embassy.

Heather: Wa hoo! Down river! Now I can stop paddling and still go 4 miles per hour. At this rate we will reach the Lake by noon. Piroshki’s and smoked omur by 1:00 P.M.

Brandon: Is that…? Oh, can it be? Oh, thank you God, praise Burkham, we've reached the Lake! We're saved! Good riddance Selenga!

Heather: Gosh, I wonder if we finish the expedition around Baikal early if we could come back here to explore for a week or two!? I think Brandon really enjoyed it.

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Day 21 Monday June 23, 2003-Brandon

Around Baikal - Day 21, June 21, 2003

Day 21 was a layover day. The 3rd day of bright clear skies and a blazing warm sun since the gray curtain of haze finally lifted. My arms needed a rest and our camp, on a mile long sandy beach, backed by dunes and dotted with lush pulpy pines, made it easy for Heather to agree.

We soaked up the much needed sunlight as we explored the dunes, built forts of driftwood and talked to local fishermen about their hand built wooden row boats.

Throughout the day, one or the other of us would duck into the tent and check the barometer. Hanging from a loop inside the simple nylon and screen shelter is a small weather instrument called the Brunton Sherpa. About the size of a cigarette lighter, the Sherpa keeps track of air temperature, elevation, barometric pressure and with a tiny prop it measures wind speed. The function we are most concerned with is the barometer; for, when it starts dropping we know to look for incoming weather.

On this day, despite the early clear skies and rejuvenating warmth, the barometer was on a steady plummet. By 6 P.M. a light rain had started and the sky was back to it's leaden gray color.

Heather and I were both holed up in the tent, engrossed in our books but, checking the Sherpa regularly. Amazed to see it was still dropping out, like there was no bottom. “We better move the boats in and tie down the tent,” I said. The tent was in a lee of a large pine, but I didn't know what to expect. According to the numbers, we were practically in a vacuum.

Fifteen minutes later a loaded kayak sat on either side of the tent and ropes ran to 3 points on each side to help anchor them.

At 8 P.M., though the rain hadn't let up, Heather went out to cook dinner. She had stored a stack of firewood under a tarp and soon had her cooking fire going and a pot of noodles boiling away. Then a small gust passed over the tent. It rattled the rain-fly for maybe 2 seconds but otherwise it was totally benign. I hollered outside to Heather, “just checking, is everything OK?” “Yeah,” she called back, “no problem.” Three more minutes passed. The rain was pelting away on the tent fabric, like a dull drum. And then it hit…

Heather and Brandon

Location: North 53 degrees, 09' 43.8“ East 108 degrees, 24' 45.1” About 30 miles North of Turka

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Day 25 Wednesday June 25, 2003 - Brandon

One can’t read a paragraph about Baikal, or meet one of its coastal residents, without being dealt a sermon of its stormy character. At the center of those warnings are a band of 30-some winds with a list of names like outlaw gunfighters: Gornaya, Kultuk, Verhovik, Barguzin, Berezhnik, and baddest of them all, the 100mph Sarma. This beast, born in a canyon of the same name directly opposite our camp on the eastern shore, tears roofs off houses, capsizes boats and throws livestock from the coastal cliffs down to an icy, watery grave below.

Exactly which of this brotherhood of winds came calling on the 20th day of the expedition I can’t be sure, but in an instant it was like every engine in the Trans-Siberian Rail system was racing by our camp at full throttle. The windward side of the tent didn’t collapse, it slammed into me like it’d been struck by a wrecking ball. Outside, the fire was torn from beneath the pot of noodles, whirled like a tornado and then shot away as fast as light.

I immediately sprung to my knees to brace the tent, and leaned my shoulder into it as if it were a parked car threatening to roll down an embankment. With my right hand I unclipped the Sherpa from its lanyard, then unzipped the tent door and thrust my arm outside to measure the wind. My unsleeved skin was blasted by a sonic slurry of sand, rain and pine needles. After 2 or 3 seconds I reached out and traded the Sherpa to my left hand, and with my right arm held open the door to see outside.

“Holy #@%*!” Lake Baikal, its water black as oil and deathly white as ice, had exploded. What once were waves were sheared off and vaporized into a spume of ballistic spray a meter high. The air between the tent and the lake was thick with a blur of debris and sand, a million million launched missiles whistling and stinging. The roar was maddening.

Suddenly, in the midst of the tempest, in a low crouch with her back to the lake, it was Heather. With one hand she held her raincoat up like a shield; in the other hand was her camera aiming right at me. It flashed once, twice, and my jaw went limp that she was photographing this fury. Then she raced toward the tent, stuffed the camera in with the one-word command, “Film!” and was off again. As I raced to load her a new roll of film, I glanced at the Sherpa for the wind speed. From 2 feet above ground, with a tree as partial shelter, it read 51 mph. Then Heather was back, this time shoving the pot of cooked noodles inside before grabbing the camera and heading back out.

10 minutes later the blow was done and left our camp as fast as it had come. Down the beach the nearest rowboat was flung from its rack and sat upright, slowly filling with the still-steady rain. Miraculously, the tent with its kayak anchorage sat completely intact. Holed up in its shelter once again, as Heather finished wiping down her camera with loving care, we opened the pot of steaming noodles and found not a single grain of sand. The feast that followed was heavenly!

Brandon and Heather from the town of Ust Barguzin

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Day 26 Ust Barguzin Thursday June 26, 2003 - Heather

If the Selenga was the gateway into a beautiful, wild, untamed Baikal, then Ust Barguzin has been the gateway to luxury. We arrived in the village around 10:30 A.M. Monday morning. I stood guard by the boats while Brandon searched for our contact, Vera. As we had pulled up beside a busy ferry terminal, I became a sideshow to lift the boredom of Russians of all shapes and sizes stuck in line, waiting their turn to board the small ferry boat. Our canary-yellow and sky-blue kayaks, mango life vests and orange sun hats and splash jackets that would make any highway worker proud drew people like seagulls to a bucket full of fish guts.

First the curious Siberians would approach slowly, not looking directly at me as not to give away their interest. Then a bold group nonchalantly moves in: a dignified woman with her grandchildren. They touch our gear gingerly, smile for a photo, but are quickly shoved out of the way by a boisterous gang of men who bang on the boat and appear to discuss how seaworthy these long, skinny craft could possibly be. The door has been opened…now they come in flocks. Five rescue workers offering their card, a fisherman selling smoked omul, a traveler biologist toting a large backpack and hiking the lakeshore, and a young girl eating sunflower seeds. But finally, the alpha moves in and everyone else scatters. This comes in the form of two 12-year-old boys who try on every piece of gear, touch, knock, yank and switch on everything they can get their hands on. But before the boys destroy anything, Brandon arrives on his white horse – a cargo truck driven by our new host, Sergei.

By 1:30 p.m., Sergei had our boats stored in his garage, had given us a room for the night with a queen-size bed, 2 easy chairs and a telescope by the window, he’d heated up the bana and fed us soup with veggies fresh from the garden, homemade bread, crepes, tea and sweets. It has been pure luxury, after 23 days “at sea” to be fed, pampered, bathed, and did I mention fed?

We could not resist a second night, for when we leave Ust Barguzin we head out around the Holy Nose Peninsula, an exposed section of cliffs that appears to be an island, if not for the sandbar connecting it to mainland Siberia. From there it’s into Chivyrkuisky Bay, home of hot springs, nerpa seals and small bays where the water is warmed by the summer sun to nearly 70 degrees. Then it’s up the Grizzly coast, aptly named for the giant bears who reside there. We will have no stores, no villages, until we reach Severobaikalsk, 280 miles to the north.

Heather and Brandon

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Day 28 Sunday June 29, 2003 - Brandon

Around Baikal, Day 28

Twenty miles we paddled today, in all to camp not an inch from where we slept last night. The fact is we were on a mission to visit the true mascot of Baikal if ever there was one, the Nerpa seal. Set out six and one half miles from the Holy Nose Peninsula, are four islands called Ushkaniy. They are zapovednik, a protected wildlife preserve, as they are home and playground to the bulk of Baikal's 60,000 endemic Nerpas.

We started early, on the 2 hour crossing, and were granted a glassy passage. Within 3 minutes of landing, a motorboat full of rangers swooped in and, with a flash of our magic letters of introduction, we were shown to an enchanted trailhead. A ten-minute walk brought us to a camouflaged barricade overlooking rocks covered in sun tanning Nerpas. The seals are not huge; the big ones weigh in at 250 lbs. Their eyes look as big as tennis balls and are inky black, as is their fur.

These critters are shy, we learned, and the slightest sound or motion has them sliding or rolling their plump bodies back into hiding.

Nonetheless, our cameras clicked for an hour or more. Then we slowly began to learn their habits and personalities. Eventually we snuck around to a closer spot and spied on some nervous seals swimming and flopping on and off the rocks. Heather then moved in close and sat, not fifteen feet, from the water. 'That'll never do,' I thought, 'her being so plainly out in the open,' and not at all still in her movement. But, eventually a youngster bravely, or ignorantly, swam to the closest rock and plopped himself upon it. Heather zoomed in so close she later said, “I could see the warts on his face,” and burned thru the bulk of a roll of film.

After that we hiked back to the boat and ate lunch; then started to paddle along the island's shore. It was nerva nirvana. Hundreds and hundreds of the things watched our every stroke; timing their exit from their tanning beds like a living wave as we progressed. Poking thru the smooth plane of crystalline water, 40 to 50 peeking heads would appear at once; and, another half that many watched us from the rocks. Around each bend we slowly paddled, as countless splashes ahead were matched by filled those left behind us.

The islands were in themselves, as beautiful as any paradise. Heather said, “these are what you hope to wash up on after a shipwreck.” It was true. White cobble climbed from the infinitely clear water and grew into caves and cliffs, then, lush green grasses and trees of all kinds. Sea gulls and their hatchlings filled the water, the sky, and our ears with their cries.

After another hour of visiting the sacred islands and their inhabitants, we struck out to re-cross to the Holy Nose. As we prayed for, Burkhan held his breath from the minute we set our course until (as true as I sit here and write this now) we were within 50 yards of landing, only then did the South wind resume its flow.

Heather and Brandon

Location: the North end of the Holy Nose Peninsula

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Day 33 Friday July 04, 2003 - Brandon

NOTE FROM JANET NELSON: I wish everyone could have heard Brandon's voice as he dictated the following update – the compassion and empathy he expressed was tremendous.

Around Baikal – Day 33-Brandon

In the midst of our day among the Nerpas of Bushkani Islands, we were both surprised at how incredibly shy these animals are. Aside from the one youngster, who modeled for Heather's photographic frenzy, no seal would come near us or even stay above water for more than a moment after spotting us. We read that, approached over ice, Nerpas will bolt at once; as this is how several thousand of their kind are hunted each winter. But, the mid summer fear of humans we saw was plain.

So, as we continued our rounding of the Holy Nose and, not 6 feet from Heather's boat, a Nerpa broke the surface and then lay there. We didn't know what to make of it. Lifting our paddles from the water, we both looked on for a few seconds and expected a departing splash, but none came. “Is it dead?” Heather asked.

Slowly, we paddled closer and then saw the reason. This full-grown Nerpa was not dead, but, tightly bound in a section of fishing net. Like a lens, the icy clear water magnified the woven strands biting into flesh and fur. The Nerpa wasn't tangled, it's flippers were free and the section of net was separate from any lines or long trailings. It was more like a body suit of netting only 6 sizes too small – as if it had been grown into over the years.

This Nerpa needed our help. As we looked on, the seal dove a mere 4 feet below, then stopped and looked up. Bigger, sadder eyes I hope to never see. Without sound from wind or waves and, for an eternity the creature floated and stared up at us, “Are you the ones, will you cut this hellish twine from me at last? Can I trust you?”

One soft thrust of its tail and we could have reached it. The knives on our vests would melt thru the netting and the Nerpa would know freedom again. And still it floated just out of reach and then it decided, and then it dove. It would never come as close again. Not by ten times.

For the better part of an hour we sat without paddling. In need of a breath, the seal would finally surface 75 feet ahead of us, 60 feet behind, the white netting on it's back visible each time it curled forward and dove again.

Broken hearted we finally paddled away.

Brandon and Heather

Location: North 53 degrees 58' 34.4“ East 109 degrees 22' 52.5”

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Day 35 Sunday July 06, 2003 - Heather

Around Baikal - Day 35, July 5, 2003

Our decision to go counter clockwise around the lake has given me ample time to really nail down my food buys. If I didn't calculate my proportions correctly, forgot an item or could not find something we needed, there would be another village within a few days. But, as we approached Ust Barguzin and the Grizzly Coast, the pressure was on. With nearly 300 miles of uninhabited coast, and with a 6'6“, 240 pound husband, who's got the appetite of a grizzly coming out of hibernation relying on me…I was about as tense as a deer with a big-rig bearing down at it at 65 miles per hour. But, I refused to be the deer caught in the headlights. I was going to be prepared for my big food buy.

My tent became my headquarters for “Operation Food Buy.” Two Russian/English dictionaries, flash cards, index cards, a 24” X 50“ Baikal map, a Baikal chart book, three pens – red, blue & black, and a copy of a shopping list I had made in Irkustk surrounded me. I stared at the map with an intensity reserved for a college student, cramming for finals. I count kilometers from Ust Barguzin to Severobaikalsk, double check on the second map, figure time in for storm days…then do it again.

Twenty-one days, I decide, now the shopping list. I grab an index card. On the left, I write the item in black ink – making sure to include the number or the kilograms I need. Next to it, I write in red, the Russian word, which I have translated letter by letter from Cyrillic. At the bottom of the list in blue, I make a cheat sheet… how to count from one to ten…how to say tin, or bag, or half a kilo.

Next, the food buy. One would be wrong in assuming the actual food buy is the easy part. The markets, ‘magazines’ – they are called, are about the size of an AM/PM. Each item is displayed on a shelf behind the counter. As an impatient line forms behind me, I point, fumble with the list, pull out my dictionary, stumble through words and try to explain apologetically, “ya nye gavarut po rooski.” Finally, I emerge with about one quarter of what I need. Luckily, each village has about four magazines.

Now, eight days into the isolated Grizzly Coast, we pull our boats ashore, exhausted from a long day of paddling. Brandon sets up the tent while I start dinner. My mouth waters at the thought of the pasta, salmon and mushroom feast I'm about to create. As the pasta cooks to tender perfection I prepare the main ingredients, which entails, opening the cans, draining the water, and spooning into the pots.

No sooner than I had opened the first can, I started to giggle. I opened the second can and burst into fits of laughter that had Brandon rolling before he ever knew what was happening. “Baby,” I finally spit out, “tonight we eat pasta with salmon flavored cat food and almond stuffed olives.”

He ate the meal with gusto, and even licked the pot clean…But, I still haven't had the heart to tell him that the emergency supply of peanut butter I purchased in case we run out of everything else…well…let's just say we've got enough butterscotch to invite forty of our friends over for Sundae’s!

Heather and Brandon

Location: North 54 degrees 31' 39.6” East 109 degrees 29' 55.8“

For those of us who don't have the equipment to chart the location using degrees, minutes and seconds, you can find a map of Lake Baikal at: chargelife.com According to Brandon they are about ¾ of the way up the East side of Lake Baikal. All the updates can be found at the chargelfe.com

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Day 38 Wednesday July 09, 2003-Brandon

Around Baikal - Day 38, July 8, 2003

Don't be bamboozled by Heather's tale of pet food pasta, and a bucket of butterscotch.

Labels aside, I've been served far more frightening food at restaurants far and wide – without eight hours of paddlin' behind me to get my gut rumblin' like thunder. And, I damn sure didn't get to climb into bed with the cook after desert.

But, Heather's not one to pat her own back. So, let me serve up a slice of what must be her train of thought on any given day in the camp kitchen.

“Damn, I got moves, I'm the paddlin' pantry princess, The kayakin' cuisine queen, Tourin' with an eatin' machine.

I got more game of white rice and spice than Las Vegas' got dice.

Breakfast, bring it on. What you got? Espresso maker, waffle iron, micro wave, juice machine. Man, throw that in the can.

I got one match, two rocks and a bundle of sticks. And you think Aunt Jamima got tricks. How about raspberry crepes on a rocky beach, Pounded by surf. This is my turf.

Peaches and cream, that's standard fare, and so are the wolves and the grizzly bear; Who be sniffing my food, and acting rude. Look dudes, I'm cooking for two.

Not you, not today – and tonight my kitchen be twenty miles away. And after that, there's two hundred more, til the next store.

So, if you're feelin' like stealin' - You be dealin' with a woman crazed; Not phased by the fangs and claws.

The only jaws that I be feedin' are those needin' rocket fuel. Gourmet nutrition, the backbone of any expedition. Baikal is stormy, cold and deep; But, I've got a dinner date to keep. And, a salad of wild plants to reap. And, a grocery list to translate before I sleep.

Heather and Brandon

Location: North 55 degrees 24' 49.5” East 109 degrees 49' 33.6” 20 miles south of the north end of Baikal

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Day 40 Friday July 11, 2003 - Brandon

Around Baikal - Day 40, July 10, 2003

Today is a special and symbolic day for us, the 40th day of the expedition. We've reached the northernmost end of Lake Baikal and our camp in the sheltering dunes of the upper Angara. The Grizzly Coast and nearly 700 miles of our journey are behind us now and tomorrow we begin the southward leg back towards where we began.

Not a minute, nor a paddle stroke has past, that we aren't grateful for what has brought us this far – good luck and the grace of Nature and Baikal and the endless support of our families, friends, sponsors and strangers, who showered us with blessings. And, certainly our arsenal of bombproof gear. In the vast universe of outdoor equipment, we have been granted the perfect combination to explore Baikal in total and complete comfort. For that, we send our warmest thanks to our team of, “Whatever you need! Yes, is the answer! Make it happen!” - Sponsors Extraordinaire: Adventure Medical Kit Banks Fry-Bake Company Brunton Current Designs Earth Island Institute Hennessey Hammocks Kokatat Mother Lode River Center Mountain Surf Pelican Products

As a final note, though, we could never express how deep our gratitude runs. We send our special thanks to Mom and dad Nelson, Mom and dad Christensen, and the trio who tied up every loose end that we couldn't reach: Hank in BG, Sergei in Moscow, and Jack in Irkutsk, “Spafeeba ogramnoye!”

Heather and Brandon

Location: North 55 degrees 41' 44.4“ East 109 degrees 55' 27.9” Northeast corner of the delta on the north end of Baikal

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Day 43 Sunday July 13, 2003 - Brandon

Around Baikal – Day 43, July 13, 2003

There is a habit among Baikal's coastal residents, universal among young boys and girls, store clerks, rangers, fishermen, priests…if the Pope himself were a Siberian, I'm sure his behavior would be no different.

It starts with a long, complicated statement or question in their native Russian tongue. Aside from the occasional familiar word, “baidarka” (kayak) or “riba” (fish) the message sails over our heads like the afternoon wind. “ I'm sorry,” I'll reply in my best phrase- book Russian, “I don't understand.” And, with that, I have pulled the trigger. There is a pause. A slight but irrefutable reddening of the face while our puzzled host lifts his eyes and quickly scans the horizon.

His thoughts at this stage need no translation. “How, in the name of all that is holy, did these two ever make it this far?” At once his gaze is upon us again, piercing into our tentative eyes for a spark of intelligent life.

His hands fly out to the sides, as if they might swat his words around in front of us for a few extra seconds of comprehension. Then the message starts again. Only, not so much spoken, but shouted. It's shocking loudness surly meant to leap the language barrier with unmistakable clarity.

This time when a familiar word comes around, we grab for it, like the tail end of a rope dangling from an escaping life raft. “Riba! Riba!” we cry in unison. “Da! Da! Riba…Baikal…Mmmmmm, mmmmmmm!”

We carry on, rubbing our bellies like trained chimpanzees at feeding time. The interaction usually ends with our host slowly nodding in silent bewilderment. And Heather and I, to one another through clenched teeth, like ventriloquists, “what did he say?” “Just keep smiling!”

Fortunately for us and on the rarest of occasions, we are granted an intimate and most memorable encounter that is outside the wall of spoken word. This happened on the North end of the Grizzly Coast when an ax and rifle toting woodsman emerged from the forest just as we were landing to cook a freshly caught fish. He gave his name as Pavel… (to be continued)

Location: North 55 degrees 30' 33.1“ East 109 degrees 12' 19.4 seconds

5 miles south of Vero Baikal

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Tuesday July 15, 2003-Brandon

Around Baikal - Day 43 (continued) July 13, 2003

To a lone pair of unarmed travelers, infinitely far from home and already edgy from the four “grizzly” visits of the past week, the sight of a gun in a stranger’s hands is anything but comforting.

Pavel knew this and before he'd come within a kayak's length of where we stood, he laid his century-old rifle in the rocks; then came forward to shake hands. His look was timeless: aged boots, trousers, and jacket, all the same earthy colors of the forest he appeared from. Darker patches were hand-sewn over his knees and elbows, and a shapeless hat sat softly upon his head. From his belt hung a black leather sheath, with a bone handled knife. And, on his back, a narrow rug-sack – I could image held some bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth, a pack of matches, and a whetstone. Last in the pack was a small crude ax.

We exchanged names, then, I offered the three or four phrases that explained our trip: where we started, where we are going, how long we've been out. To each he said nothing, and I understood his gentle smile and nod to mean that, somehow, he already knew.

Gesturing for us to continue on with our lunch, Pavel backed a few steps and squatted down. While Heather gathered some wood for a fire, I set to cleaning the fish. When I finished, Pavel held out several pieces of birch bark – the natural lighter fluid of Siberia. Inside a minute, our small cooking fire crackled to life. By the time we looked up from the growing flames, Pavel was gliding to us over the rocks while he whittled a sapling into a perfect sharp lance.

Reaching us, he held out his hand for the fish and, with two quick cuts had halved it, and unfolded it along the spine, like a book. After he threaded it onto the stick, he spoke his second word of the entire encounter, “salt.”

We spiced the fish, then watched as he planted the butt of the stick into the rocks so the meat was held just to the side of the flames. Then he slunk back a few steps and went again to his squatting stance.

And so the meeting with Pavel played on.

Without fail, as Heather and I had thought of each next step to prepare our lunch, Pavel had already done it for us. He fed the small fire so the flames were always just shy of the meat. Cooked to crispy perfection, Heather and I feasted while he sat silently by and wouldn't have a bite.

As we picked the last flakes of delicious meat from the bones, the fire flickered down into a circle of silver ashes no bigger than a dinner plate. And, with his gentle smile and the shouldering of his rifle, Pavel turned to the forest and like a myth was gone.

Location: North 55 degrees 18' 48” East 109 degrees 11' 20.5“

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Day 48 Saturday July 19, 2003 - Brandon

Around Baikal - Day 48, July 18, 2003

One night during our layover in Ust Barguzin, our host Sergey, called me aside for a man to man chat. With a grave look on his face, he asked me how we had prepared to deal with “hooligans.” I chuckled softly; as much at his choice of words as anything. But, Sergey clearly didn't think it was funny.

I folded my hands and bowed my head – meaning that our only defense was to pray for safety. Sergey was not impressed. He led me into his house and to a tall wooden cabinet which I was sure held a collection of guns. There was no way was I about to go cruising with my wife around back country Russia, packing a freekin' pistol in my kayak, and had steeled myself to refuse the offer.

Sergey pulled open a long drawer, reached in and took out what looked like a giant policeman's flashlight. The kind that runs on 8 D cell batteries. It was pretty beat up, had some electrical tape wrapped around it's base and, where the bulb would usually be, there was, instead, a pair of thick metal prongs.

I had no idea what I was looking at. Sergey motioned for me to stand back. I gulped. He held the thing at arms length and thumbed the switch. There was nothing to see at first – just a disturbing buzz, growing steadily louder like the device was collecting energy. I held my breath. Suddenly, a crooked, wiggly moose of blue electricity shot out from the prongs; cracking and popping like a toaster oven dropped in a bathtub.

I stared, entranced, and when I finally turned my eyes to Sergey, his face had a look fiendish and wild. After a few seconds, he released the switch and the blue spike of spark and fire disappeared.

“Oh yeah!” I cried, feeling quite fiendish myself, and, already pitying the drunken slob who I would light up like a Roman candle if he tried something funny. I grabbed for his “zapper.”

Sergey thought better of it though, and quickly stuffed the thing back in the drawer. He dug around for a few moments then finally withdrew a cell phone. “Of course,” I thought sarcastically, “when the hooligans have us surrounded and the end is near I'll just make a phone call.” Noticing my waning excitement, Sergey clarified, “nyet cell phone.”

He took the device from its leather case and quickly hit the “send” button. This time a tiny blue worm of static crawled around the antenna.

It would certainly be an unpleasant surprise to someone who thought they were ordering take-out. But, next to the lethal lance of lightening just demonstrated, it didn't exactly inspire a flood of confidence.

Sergey handed me the gizmo, then quickly led me outside. I probably wouldn't have accepted the gift, generous though it was, if not for a piece of information we've carried since Ir Kust. A piece of information, concerning a point, hundreds of miles beyond Sergey's place, in Ust Barguzin.

A point we encountered today, in fact… (to be continued)

Heather and Brandon

LOCATION: about 75 miles south of Vero Baikal

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Day 48 - Heather

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Day 58 Monday July 28, 2003 - Brandon

Around Baikal, Day 58, July 28, 2003

Three days ago we sat, holed up on a small patch of beach, just south of Olkhon Island. Ten or fifteen minutes of paddling would have put the half mile crossing behind us, and delivered us to the base of Olkhon, to start exploring its mystical and “Holy” coast. Or, we could continue south and, with good weather, arrive in Bolshoye Goloufpnoye, and claim “Around Baikal” a success.

Staring out towards Olkhon, Baikal's largest island, the crossing may as well have been a hundred miles. Under a thick blanket of fog, the island was totally invisible. And, an east wind as if the nearby Sarma Canyon were inhaling, sucked whitecaps through the channel, straight from the open lake.

We watched, as the conditions remain unchanged as darkness fell. Though our decision, we knew, was already made. Olkhon is an unrivaled epicenter of myth and ancient legend. And is considered Holy, beyond our comprehension. It is believed to have been the birthplace, home and/or burial place of history's most powerful Khan. It is steeped in Shamanism that is practiced to this day; is home to prehistoric petroglyths within its countless caves. It contains, we have come to realize, a bunch of the most demanding and spectacular shoreline we'll see, on all of Lake Baikal.

The following morning we were on the water early and finished the crossing just as the winds regained strength. We cruised past miles of rock, plastered with bright orange lichens. The sky began boxing us in with thundering blue/black clouds. For the past 2 days, not a sliver of clear sky has slashed through this eerily dark storm. We made short burst off the island's west coast through 2 to 4 foot chops and following gusty winds. We declared these rowdy passages “training sessions” for the islands much more exposed and cliffy eastern side.

Having today, finished the expedition's final food buy in the town of Khuzir, we may round Olkhon's northern tip and resume heading south once again, as early as tomorrow afternoon. As darkness falls tonight, the lake is finally starting to lay back down. And to the South, a clear sky has at last begun breaking through.

Heather and Brandon Location: North 53 degrees, 16', 17.5” East 107 degrees, 29', 28.3“ Seven miles North of Khuzir on Olkhon's eastern side

P. S. Brandon's final thoughts of this message were, “I wish you could see it thru my eyes, what I'm looking at right now. It's just the most amazing…what I'm looking at. I can see across the Bay, to the other side of Lake Baikal. And, the clouds are just soooooo dark, and so cottony…it looks like you could take a big scoop of them…it looks like mud. It's been this way for a couple of days. It's starting to break up to the South, it's just amazing…”

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Day 63 Monday August 04, 2003

Around Baikal, Day 63, August 3, 2003

Interesting how what passes for a comfortable camp can change so radically with worsening water conditions, burning mutinous muscles and bones, or yet another mile past, without a hint of a landing. A stone shelf, we'd be surprised to see a flock of gulls cling to one day, the next – can look like the honeymoon suite at the Waldorf.

These postage-stamp size treasures of Siberian real estate, have earned our heartfelt gratitude and, an esteemed spot in our ever-evolving list of expedition lingo. We call them “nuggets.”

As we rounded the craggy, un-climbable, northern port of Olkhon, and began cruising the eastern shore, we prayed out loud that there be a humble handful of “nuggets.” But our charts portray icons of in-hospitability lining the length of our mythical monolith.

Radiant lines squeeze together until they nearly overlap and they grow steeper still in their submarine plunge to the center of the earth. The bruise-colored sky of the past few days has thickened like fudge and began to spit. Stroking southward, we clung to our hopes as lifelines and chant our montral, like heroin freaks on a quest for salvation – “Show me the nuggets!”

A pile of gravel, in among house rocks, a slated slab, with room for us both – if we curl up tight. “A cave, a cave,” damp and dark, with shards of stone like daggers, but shelter, nonetheless. We paddled by these geological gems, grinning like apes – reassured that a perch for the night could be ours. Then, at the start of the second mile, “What's this – nugget of nuggets!” A pebbled beach 100 yards long. Surely a mirage. But, we paddled to it and true enough, our boats grind ashore.

We seize this unimaginable opportunity to add layers for warmth and psych up for the next push, for surely this anomaly of accommodation is a one of a kind. And, thirty miles might pass before another. With a war cry, we shove off and paddle southward again.

Around the next point we emerge brave to face our vertical walled fate – but instead discover . . . three more inviting and pristine, driftwood stocked beaches, each one bigger than the last. We cruise past, around each bend there are more, only growing in length and beauty and, features like hammock hanging trees, wind blocking walls and rain sheltering shelves. These aren't nuggets, but full-blown resort-style, stuff-of-dreams, beaches.

As it turns out though, they are merely an appetizer for what is to come. In the days that follow, we find ourselves camped out in utter luxury. Smooth rounded cobble runs for miles lined by lush pines and stands of birch rustling in late summer breezes.

The Baikal sun finally burned through and dried everything – including the countless white sandy beaches we explored all day today. As we cruise the southern third of Olkhon - a landscape looking for all the world like its twin – the Utah desert. We are camped now on the south edge, minutes from where we entered a week ago. Tomorrow, the home stretch begins.

Heather and Brandon

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Day 67 Saturday August 09, 2003 - Brandon

Around Baikal, Day 67 - August 6, 2003

In the final few days of racing around Urkuth, before we set out for Baikal, I received a flurry of emails from a writer friend of mine back home. His deadline, it seems was quickly approaching, and he had only to add a final sentence to complete the articles he was writing about our expedition. “I just need a quote,” his e-mail begged, “why are you doing this trip?”

In the year and a half of planning and preparing, of gazing endlessly at the maps hanging on our living room wall, and of talking to everyone I could find, who's been here - or even heard of Lake Baikal, I had never been asked, or, asked myself, that simple question. Then, as I stared at the computer screen in Urkuth, re-reading, my friend's third pleading e-mail, I realized I didn't know the answer.

Today, after 67 days of exploring and living with, and coming to love this unique and amazing body of water, I've only, just now, thought again of that most basic and essential question.

The answer comes easy now. Maybe too easy and too much of an answer. But, by God, to find out, to see - to see a lake that has survived 2500 times longer than average, will reveal its strategy! To see if a trench that's deeper than Mt. Everest is tall, will share some wisdom! And, if an inland sea, sucking its life from 300 some rivers and swirling with a hurricane on one shore - while on the other an eagle, big enough to carry off a lamb - carves lazy circles over another shore – might let a couple of wide eyed paddlers come away with their lives, and a healthy hint of fine, organic, “AWE.”

Why? Because where better to have a honeymoon than where a newlywed couple is at its best – most comfortable, most natural state. Feasting on hot, fresh food, cooked over an open flame, on a different deserted beach lapped by blue/green waves under a fire colored sunset, after another day of muscle powered miles and memories. Where bills, advertisements, alarm clocks and career choices, give way to sunscreen, skinny dips, star gazing and surfing a cultural shockwave.

Why paddle around Baikal?

As we close in on the last couple days of our journey, I'm convinced the answer may have best been put, last spring, by my buddy Crawdad. When I explained that Baikal is slowly spreading along a riff down its center, that it's growing still bigger, and that the belief is that it will one day become an ocean. “Just think,” Crawdad said with a smile, “someday you guys will be able to look down and say, 'man, we paddled around that thing, when it was still a lake!”

Heather and Brandon

Location: 40 miles north of Bolshoye Goloufpnoye

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Day 69 Saturday August 09, 2003

Around Baikal, Day 69 - August 8, 2003

Another 40 miles, forty miles, and we would have been tucked away safe and sound in BG, gorging ourselves on piroshki’s, kartoshki’s and i-dunno-ski’s – while Luba and her family listened eagerly to our stories, not understanding a word, but grinning and nodding and serving up the grub.

It was that mere 40 miles - topped with the 40 campers who invaded our beach, late the night before last, that made the lake look so calm and inviting…before we took to paddling at 8 am the next morning.

The air was thick with rain and gentle rolling waves passed beneath our boats – as they so often do on this immense lake. A sign that somewhere on the lake, though surely not here, a blustery storm prevailed.

Brandon and I rolled and bopped along for nearly two hours. Brandon merrily singing a tune, I, immersed in thoughts, when we noticed something strange. Rollers, big enough to swallow Brandon whole, were steadily coming from the north. But now whitecaps were hitting us head-on from the south. To top it off, wind was blasting us from all sides. Suddenly, a wall of white slammed into us at about 35 miles per hour. I laid my belly on my cockpit, gripped my paddle tight, kept the blades low and held on.

As soon as it let up, a stronger blast of white, foaming waves bombarded us. “See that opening in the rocks?” Brandon yelled, “We'll land there!” The landing was about 400 yards down the coast. We paddled and braced while the surf crashed angrily to shore. My muscles ached and my eyes were as big as saucers by the time we arrived in front of our spot.

Brandon landed first – a wave picked him up and he gracefully rode it to shore - a piece of cake – my turn! My knees were shaking as I prepared to land. I turned the bow towards shore - SLAM! A furious blast of wind hit me broadside. I reached out my paddle to brace, just as the grand-daddy of all waves, a MONSTER, a boat-eating-beast, picked me up. My last memory before it slammed me face down in the surf was Brandon's voice, from far, far away, yelling, “RIDE IT BABY!”

Thank goodness for dry suits, plastic boats and carabiners. Me and all my gear made it to shore in tact. Darn lucky considering the 63 mph reading we later clocked on our wind gauge. The feast at Luba's will have to wait, as the storm continues to gain strength, pinning us here, just 35 miles from BG.

Heather and Brandon

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Day 71 Sunday August 10, 2003 Trip Completion

Around Baikal, Day 71

WE HAVE ARRIVED!!!

Heather and Brandon

Location: Bolshoye Goloustnoye

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photo: the Nelsons

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