In the beginning was the picture. It was of a strange mountain formation at night, the likes of which we had never seen before. Matthias had come across it while searching the internet for new winter sports opportunities in the Caucasus. But this couldn't be the Caucasus. Like a lunar landscape, folded mountain ranges formed around a basin that seemed to be filled with a lake of light. The flat ridges of the peaks fell away abruptly towards the viewer, and the evenly sloping ridges descended into the vegetation zone in an almost geometric order. The mountains were massively snow-covered - one striking flank in the foreground was even covered in a layer of ice. The decision was quickly made: We have to go there!
On arrival in Saint Petersburg, a piercingly cold wind sweeps across the wide streets between the freshly spruced-up magnificent buildings as we make our way to one of the many clubs in the evening. Everything is brightly lit. It is snowing and thick ice floes are floating in the many canals, emphasizing the atmosphere of cold and frost. It is -10 ?C. and we are completely frozen through. What will it be like in Kirovsk, more than 1000 km north of here? In well-filled clubs, we toast new friendships with many glasses and shout "Nastrovje!".
The next morning, we combat the hangover with a walk along the frozen Neva. It's still cold, but the snowstorm has passed and the sun is shining from the sky.
As we stroll along the ramparts of the Peter and Paul Fortress to the Neva beach, we come across a bizarre sight: many almost naked people have lined up along the wall and are sunbathing standing up. Dressed only in their underpants or bathing suits, they hold their skin up to the sun with great seriousness. On the snow-covered stretch of beach next to the frozen Neva, a few older men, dressed only in their underpants and leather shoes, are playing a beach volleyball match. Beach activity in the middle of winter. It may be sunny and sheltered from the wind here, but it shouldn't be warmer than -5?C. A little further on, a hole has been broken in the ice of the river. We don't find out whether it's for ice swimming or fishing. We have to go back to the hotel to pack. We are also cold
From Ladoga station, we are supposed to continue north by train. For 23 hours, to Apatity, just before Murmansk, and from there by car to Kirovsk. In the station concourse, we meet other winter sports enthusiasts: heavily packed groups of young people with vintage ski equipment crowd the station. Wooden skis with strap bindings and screw-on edges, wooden ski poles and garish polyester suits with padded linings are the standard. Some also have cooking utensils tied to their thick backpacks.
Since nothing else is available, we have booked first class, and although there are only two of us in each compartment, space is quite limited. The grumpy conductor checks our tickets very carefully as we board and keeps a close eye on us as we laboriously stow our bulky luggage in the compartments. Unfortunately, the compartment windows cannot be opened and the heating resists all attempts to turn it down, so that tropical temperatures soon prevail in the compartment. Dressed only in a T-shirt and shorts, we watch the frosty landscape pass by the window in the evening light. After the occasional dacha, the signs of human life soon disappear into the uniform birch forest and make way for the snow-covered trees and bushes of the taiga. Apart from a few stations and settlements, this picture will not change for the rest of the journey. The way to the dining car at the other end of the train reveals a three-class society and makes us realize how luxuriously we are travelling. The difference between first and second class is still limited. There are always four people per compartment, with two berths on top of each other. But it is only when we enter third class that we see how it could have been: An open-plan carriage with dormitories on two levels stretches out in front of us. This is also where the youth groups have been accommodated, and it is a mystery to us where they have stowed all their luggage. The air is stifling, the background noise consists of soft radio music, muffled conversations, snoring and groaning: a youth hostel on wheels. We carefully push our way between the crammed-in fellow travelers and have the embarrassing feeling of sneaking through a stranger's bedroom.
The food is amazingly fresh and excellently prepared. The fish is bought freshly caught from traders on the platform during the stopovers and tastes fantastic. During the meal, two rather drunk young men persuade us to join in a spontaneous fraternization party with a few bottles of vodka. The atmosphere becomes more and more exuberant, even the next table joins in. We toast to friendship, the country, the journey - and to the forests of Siberia. The following story is told: A long time ago, an evil sorcerer traveled through Russia and turned all the beautiful women in the country into trees. Well then, cheers!
