Communist Rope Tour: Playing with Birds

Shamanist wrapping on a tree overlooking Baikal.

Our final obstacle before leaving Russia was getting through customs with an overstayed visa. We wouldn't have found ourselves in this predicament if it weren't for the never ending amount of adventures to be had in Siberia.

Olkhon's coast. Our tent was on the beach at bottom right.

A shot of the hidden cove we camped at on Olkhon

Lake Shara Nuur.

On Olkhon, the Buryats still worship
Shamanism in the west and
Buddhism in the east.

Shara Nuur

With recommendations coming from all directions, Olkhon Island lived up to its hype. The island is over 70km long and 15km wide, with a wide variety of terrain. Our mountain bike traverse across the island involved pedaling over mountains, through valleys and forests, and across steppes while breaking up the action with swims in the Baikal and Shara Nuur, where the mud apparently cures ailments and worked to revitalize my aging body. No photograph I took, and I took a lot, can express the epic moment of rocketing down a forested mountain at full speed, the air blowing by so fast your eyes are watering, swerving around fallen trees and sunken mud holes, when you break out of the forest and start flying across a vast open grassed steppe with panoramic views of the deepest lake in the world.

Jesse looking over the final grassy steppe towards Huzhir.

I had to include a sunset picture.

Jamming around the campfire with locals.

Jesse and I hiking the tracks past Staraya Angasolka.

Our friend, Michael, came all
the way from Irkutsk to help
show us to our last
Russian home.

Our Lake Baikal experience didn't end with our departure from Olkhon. With some help from the friendly Russians, we made our way to a tiny coastal village in the south, Staraya Angasolka. Along the southern shores of the lake there is an old railway that hugs the coast. This is the Circum-Baikal Railway, and it was commissioned by Nicholas II, the same Tsar killed by the Bolsheviks back in Yekaterinburg. Numerous tunnels had to be bored for this railway to exist because the mountains of rock drop right into the sea in Southern Baikal. After a hike along the tracks, it was just outside of one of these tunnels where Jesse and I set up camp for our last couple days of climbing before having to leave the country.

The following is an excerpt from my journal:

Jesse coming up
the first pitch.

Starting at the base of the cliff, standing tip-toed on a small rock to keep from falling into the lake, is where you begin. If your belayer is above you then you have to struggle to hear each other over the breaking waves and playing seagulls. These cliffs are the living, mating, eating, and defecating grounds for hundreds of seagulls. This added a whole new element to our climbs. For example, on one climb I remember being about 40 meters above the lake with the howling of the wind cutting off my communication with Jesse. At this point I see the final anchor about 5 -10 meters above me. I started poaching a route well above my ability and I just can't make it past a certain point. Being so close to the final anchor at the end of a multi-pitch climb, I'm not about to give up. Looking left, I spot a series of potential holds that may get me to the top. Out of quick-draws, and out of sight from Jesse, I begin my traverse left towards the final ascent. I'm now engulfed in a stench of seagull waste as I navigate through their nests. There are so many of them that I need to probe with my hand under the filthy webbing of damp brush to find handholds. Locking into the anchor at 50 meters high, my fingernails are stained with seagull and my arms are fully pumped. This is the adventure I signed up for.