January 2 - 11
The Republic of Altai. I had heard its name spoken a few times, but it remained a far-flung region in the back of my mind. The more I traveled, the more I heard about it. Those who spoke of it said it was on their bucket list, but few had actually been there. A friend had gone there in October and, while she said the excursion was arduous, spoke of the incredible natural beauty of the place. I knew I had to go. Altai would turn out to be one of the most impressive, beautiful, and breathtaking regions I have ever visited. This was not just a trip, but a journey.
Like the previous year, I considered going to Yakutia, but I had found an excursion in Altai for half the price and twice the duration. Going there seemed like a no-brainer. My friend gave me a contact of hers, and for more than I month, I wrote to a woman named Irina, who needed to get me a propusk or pass so that I could travel legally to this region so close to the border with Kazakhstan, China and Mongolia.
Few realize that there are in fact two versions of Altai- there is Altai Krai, and Altai Republic. Most Russians only know of Altai Krai and its capital, Barnaul. Few know that right below is the Altai Republic and its small capital, Gorno-Altaisk, tucked away at the start of a mountain range which gets incrementally larger as you get closer to the border.
I arrived by plane to Gorno-Altaisk around 9:00 in the morning after having left Moscow shortly after midnight. Flying east is always harder than flying west, as you lose time and have to adjust to the time zone change. When flying west, you simply add the hours to your day and maybe drink some coffee.
I took a taxi with a couple other tourists into the city, and was dropped off at my hostel, which was simply called 'Hostel"- very creative. After sleeping some more in the hostel, I woke up and walked into the city center, to Lenin Square, where ice sculptures and a tall yolka- New Year's tree- were on display. There, Lenin stood frozen in time, bedecked with a thick blanket of snow. Walking around the city center and seeing faces, I immediately knew that I was once again in Russian Asia.
That evening, two people who would join the excursion showed up at the hostel. One was a man named Sasha, who would serve as one of the drivers on certain occasions, and another was Irina, who would be one of the helpers. They had driven for more than ten hours from Novosibirsk.
The next morning we rose early and set out to pick up the other members of our excursion and gather at a meeting point, a grocery store where we would do some last-minute shopping before beginning the six hour journey to the town of Kosh-Agach, right near the border of Mongolia. The trip would take us along the Chuyski Trakt, a federal highway which is claimed to be the most spectacular drive in Russia, and perhaps among the best in the world.
I met the others who would join our group; there was Lena and Vasya, a brother and sister from St. Petersburg around my age (who for the majority of the trip everyone thought were husband and wife), the Santi family- Roman, Evgeniya and their 10-year-old daughter Sonia, also from St. Petersburg, Oleg and Veronika, a couple from Krasnoyarsk in their fifties, and Nina, also in her fifties. I was of course the only foreigner in the group; yet, it would seem that we were all foreigners in this far flung corner of the Russian Federation.
I switched vehicles and was packed into the back of a large van which Sasha would drive; one of our excursion leaders, Zheniya, sat up front. She was originally from Saint Petersburg but moved to Altai some years ago after having visited; she told us stories of how she was captivated by the beauty of the place, and decided to make it her home. The rest of the vehicle was occupied by the Santi family. For several hours, I sat in silence and looked out the window at the frozen Katun River and the taiga. The hills around Gorno Altaysk gave way to mountains, which only grew larger as we continued along the Chuyski Trakt. Our halfway point was at a rest stop where people were selling honey, animal hides, and souvenirs. Men were cooking shashlik, -grilled meat- in -20 something degree weather, seemingly not discouraged whatsoever. Great windswept cedar trees surrounded this small but busy stopping point.
We passed several towns which were sprawled out between the mountains and the highway, an oasis of small wooden houses in a desert of cold mountains, and not a tower flat in sight. You start to understand why the population of Altai Republic- 218,000, just one-sixth the size of the state of Maine- is so small. Crops are hard to grow here, and the growing season is short. The winters are long and cold- so very cold. If I had thought it was cold in Gorno Altaysk, then I had no idea what I was in for in Kosh-Agach.
We stopped at a mountain pass (most of the road seems to be a mountain pass after a certain point along the Chuyski Trakt) where we had a fantastic vantage point of the mountains. There was a statue dedicated to the builders of the Chuyski Trakt, many who lost their lives during the construction in the 1930s. They were local residents, conscipted to work, and prisoners from Siberian gulags. They worked in dangerous conditions due to the terrain and weather, and used little more than picks, shovels and wheelbarrows.
Our next stop was for an up-close view of the Katun River, which is one of the main rivers in Altai Republic. After almost getting a shakedown from a local elderly woman, we saw the river, its incredibly cyan water raging among chunks of ice and huge boulders. Nearby, a bark-covered chum, much like a tepee, stood tall. I truly had entered another realm.
The whole of the excursion was like the first day, a lot of hopping in and out of our vehicles, throwing on hats and gloves to go outside and face the cold. I quite enjoyed it, in fact. From another viewpoint, we saw the confluence of the Katun and another river, the Chuya. I watched the mountains grow higher and higher, and as the darkness of night came, they became ever more austere. From 4,000 meters, they looked down on us, at our insignificance.
Darkness crept over the land, and we arrived, at long last, at the sleepy town of Kosh-Agach. We arrived at our hotel. In the kitchen, where we would all sit and eat together for the next week, we had our first meal together, and reflected on the drive. There, I met the leader of the excursion- Irina, a local Russian woman. She would tell us where we would go the following day, but did not give us so much information so as to spoil it for us. I would share a room with Sasha. This hotel, on the edge of town, was basic but cozy, with wooden walls and a space heater.
The next morning everyone convened for breakfast, which was kasha, or porridge. There was also meat, cheese and bread, and every meal was accompanied by tea with honey or sugar. The temperature that morning: -43 Celcius, or -45 Fahrenheit. In a long-sleeve shirt and pants, I went outside to feel the cold, and loved it. I couldn't see much of Kosh-Agach the night before, and I couldn't see much that morning. Smoke from wood stoves mixed with a frozen morning mist, and blanketed the town with a grey haze. The town had a strange, desolate feeling to it.
Getting dressed for the day's trip every morning was a ritual of sorts. I, of all people, seemed better prepared than the rest of our group. The excursion leaders and fellow tourists alike commented on how well-dressed I was for the occasion. My reindeer fur boots from Buryatia, unty, would serve me well; it doesn't seem to matter how cold it is, your feet will stay warm. Then I had my otter-fur mittens from Kamchatka, which work like a charm. Then there is my sheepskin cap, ushanka, also from Russia, a gift from my mother. With my large black winter coat, I looked like I was ready to explore, to face the elements- and felt that way too. But that is just the outer wear; underneath, I wore long wool socks, long underwear, a t-shirt, a long sleeve shirt, and a hoodie. In this kind of weather, layering is very important, and dressing becomes a sort of art form.
One frigid day, we went to the Chusky Steppe, a huge steppe surrounded by mountains. This flat landscape, stoney and frozen, seemed inhospitable- yet, some plants grew, spiky brush and grass bleached by the sun, and small rabbits scurried here and there, darting into their holes as we approached the 'Altai Stonehenge,' a group of huge rocks, islands in a sea that is the steppe.
These rocks have some significance for locals, as their presence is unexplained and mystical. But one thing we know is that this place was important for those who lived here as nomads in ancient times, as petroglyphs, rock carvings featuring deer and ibex, decorate the rocks. It is spectacular to see, so out in the open. Were this in Europe, the whole area would be fenced in, with a museum and tickets and the like. But this region is remote- extremely remote- and visitors don't come through here too often.
It is intriguing to think about who carved these animals into the rock, immortalizing them with their veneration of the hunt. Who were they? Did they have a good life? They most certainly didn't have an easy life.
We passed a herding camp tucked away between two hills, the nearby sheep grazing on what little vegetation there is in this stony terrain. Many people in Altai, especially in this region, are still semi-nomadic, moving from seasonal pastures and spending summer and winter in different locations.
Moving towards the center of the steppe, we passed another unprotected heritage site- thousand year old Muslim Kazakh burial sites. These square, mud brick tombs consist of four walls with small spires at the corners. Like the petroglyphs, they are strange to behold; no placards with information, no fences holding back a foolish tourist, nothing of that sort; just ancient history out in the open, watching time go by as the centuries pass one after another.
In the center of Chuyski Steppe is a hill overlooking the whole area with a panoramic view. First we had lunch in the -30 something degree weather, which would usually consist of hot tea with sugar, sliced cured sausage, cheese, potatoes, small Russian-style hotpockets, and some sweets. I loved having lunch with our group and chit-chatting with them and discussing our impressions. We then climbed the hill to see the view, and to find yet more rock carvings. These ones were different; one featured a horseman and an archer, evidently chiseled into the rock with metal tools. They were ancient Turkic carvings. Nearby were some more of the Neolithic type, this time portraying what looked like rabbits and wolves.
There, at the top of the hill, I could see a nearby village, a smoky, sleepy place. How people can survive in a place like this is beyond me; these villages are so far away from everything, even from each other.
Upon descending, due to my increased exhalation from this small hike, my hair and beard had turned white, frozen with my breath by the cold air. "Ты выглядишь как Дед Мороз"- "You look like Santa Claus" I was told by my fellow travelers, smiling.
Onward we drove, past a failed Soviet village where construction had been abandoned after the engineers learned that the land, swelling due to freezing and thawing, would ultimately destroy the concrete foundations. Now people only stop there to fill up plastic bottles at a spring, even in this weather. We passed through the village seen from afar up on the hilltop, and stopped near a marsh with a statue of an engineer responsible for developing the area's irrigation system; even though it was only in the -30s, it felt worse than -45 due to the moisture in the air, a wet cold that chills you to the bone. Up and over another hill, we saw red hills, rich in iron, a wondrous sight; never have I seen land so strikingly red, but I had no idea what I was in for the next day.
It was getting late, and an exquisite sunset overtook the view of the horizon as the sourrounding mountains and hill fell dark. I asked our driver to stop at the spring so I could fill an empty plastic bottle. This is something I have always admired, how people in Russia will go to a spring to fill up on water, right from nature. People in America might balk at the idea, but Russians frequently have to do everything they can to save money, but more than likely they do so because they like the taste of this fresh water, or even believe it has healing properties. Kindly requesting to cut some locals in line filling up massive jugs, I plunged my bottle into a hole in the ice at the source of the spring, the water not nearly as cold as I expected. It was refreshing, and I shared it with the Santi family, each of whom enthusiastically tried it and let out an "aaah" of approval.
We returned to our hotel in Kosh-Agach and had dinner where we reflected upon our first full day. Our leader, Irina, produced a bottle of local samogon, moonshine, which we tried with great interest. Without a thought, this one American and these Russians drank the lemon-flavored samogon with delight. Everything about this excursion was thus far fantastic; the sights, the food, the mood, the company- it doesn't get any better than this.
Sasha and I were briefly awoken around 2 in the morning to the sound of commotion outside the window of our second-floor room. Looking outside, I saw two figures whirling around one another with great commotion, loud shouts coming from their mouths. They were a man and woman, and were very drunk. The man tried to grab the woman, and she spun and he fell. She yelled at him, but then she too fell, and he, getting up, yelled at her and kicked her in the side. She started to sob, lying in fetal position on the frozen ground in what was most likely -50 degree weather. I told Sasha that I imagine if this continues, they could die out there. It isn't uncommon for drunk people in the winter to get so intoxicated that they black out on the streets and lose their way home, only for the locals to find their frozen body on the streets or in some unusual location. I asked him if we should do anything, to which he replied that we should wait. He said how interfering can get you in trouble, and next thing you know, you are the one being blamed. After a moment, the man put the woman's hat on her head and they went inside a building adjacent to our hotel. Next morning during breakfast, we all learned that they were the owners of the hotel, husband and wife; the others had heard the commotion as well. I saw the woman that morning, going about her business as if nothing had happened. And perhaps, to her, it was like nothing had happened; perhaps she had forgotten, or maybe this was a regular occurance. But I learned that alcohol can devastate these communities. There is little support and domestic issues in Russia are frequently treated as personal business which the involved individuals need to sort out for themselves, and not the police. This can lead to women being killed. This, compounded by the fact that many Asians (including the Altai people) do not have the genetic ability to break down alcohol normally, makes for a dangerous combination should one pick up the bottle.
Despite this, we were in good spirits. After breakfast, we embarked on our journey to 'Mars'. We drove for a couple of hours, partially on the Chusky Trakt and partially off road and over a frozen river to get there. 'Mars' is another red-hilled location popular among tourists for its incredible color. It starts as a hill but quickly turns into a mountain.
Our group decided to do a bit of hiking, but upon reaching one summit, learned that there was another, and that we simply couldn't see the top. Vasya and I decided to try to reach the top, but despite our best efforts, found that the mountain never seemed to end, each summit concealing the one after it. The mountains of Altai are unique indeed. But these ones were so red, so exquisite!
We returned to Kosh-Agach in the late afternoon and stopped by a local shopping plaza so our group could purchase any much-needed warm clothing or some souveniers. Like any small Russian shopping center, this one was comprised of individual blocks where the owners hawked their wares, but here, the wares were different; long wool socks, wool gloves and underwear and cashmere sweaters were the normal goods, not adidas tracksuits. Most of the products here come from Mongolia, the go-to country for warm wool clothing. As we continued towards our hotel, we got to see a bit of the town as we drove through- the local markets, the administration, a couple random sculptures in the town, and people playing ice hockey or skating on the ponds scattered here and there around the town.
But I wanted to see some more of Kosh-Agach. Upon returning to our hotel, we had some time to relax before dinner, so I went for a cold walk through the neighborhood. I am always interested if not perplexed by the way people live their lives, especially in remote places like Altai. As darkness fell, I walked through the streets of the sleepy, frozen town, smoke rising from wooden houses with sheet metal roofs. Some of them looked in better condition than others, and one can tell who the more successful herders are.
All was quiet but for the occasional passing of a car or mooing of a cow. I met no people during my walk. The inhabitants were most likely out all day, and do not seem to venture out into the cold for leisure. In much of Siberia, people spend as little time outside as possible, preferring to race from building to building where there is warmth. I enjoyed my walk through town alone, ever confounded by the conditions, buildings, and places where some people live.
Dinner was not at the hotel. Instead we piled into our vans and went to a local woman's house, an Altai woman named Olga. There we sat around a short round table inside a six-sided Ayil, a wooden building common among Altai people which looks like a yurt. This building can serve many purposes, perhaps as an extra room for visiting relatives, or as a kitchen. Olga was an excellent host, so warm and happy. After some basic introductions, the culinary adventure began. She brought out trays of food for us to try, all traditional Altai food that she had made; hard salty cheese, horse sausages, lamb meat with pasta, potatos; everything was from there except for the potatos and pasta, perhaps. We also tried kumis, fermented mare's milk, sometimes called 'milk vodka' in Russian. I was glad to try it, as I had heard about it but had never had the opportunity. It was slightly sour, and as I saw the reaction on the faces of some in our group, I was happy to take a second shot while the others decided to pass. We all had the opportunity to ask Olga some questions. I asked her about her language, the Altai language, and if she could say some phrases in it. She told us about her language, a Turkic language, somewhat similar to Kyrgyz. It sounds beautiful, guttural yet musical, kind of like Mongolian. We all learned how to say happy new year- jangui juillah. I think I will continue with Russian for now. Thanking Olga, we filed out of the ayil and returned for the evening to our cozy hotel.
The next day was a big day. It would involve driving over some of the most rugged terrain yet, as well as seeing some of the most 'far out' stuff of the entire trip. It started, once again, going along the Chuyski Trakt, but soon we were on a dirt road. Our destination was a lake called Ozero Ak-kol. Stopping on a stony hill which stretched out to form a wide valley, a thick mist covered the area where a shepherd was watching his flock with his dog, even though it was -35 degrees outside. The dirt road seemed interminable, but eventually we reached the village of Beltir, one of the most mind-blowing places that I have ever seen. This desolate village looked like a bomb had blown eveything up. In fact, an earthquake had destroyed much of the village in 2003. Only some 77 residents still live there, and it feels like a frozen ghost town.
Located at the confluence of the Chagan and Taldura rivers, Beltir is tucked in a valley between severe, treeless mountains. As we passed through the village, I couldn't help but think how depressing it must be to live there- at least it would be for me. One shop operates there, and apparently sells animal feed, animal husbandry equipment, and alcohol. Just down the road was a sign, which read "Give yourself the gift of life- give up drugs and alcohol". It would seem that Beltir, a small, insignificant village in the corner of Russia, had been completely forgotten; indeed, one can hardly say that this was Russia at all. It felt like a village in remote Central Asia.
After passing through the village, we found ourselves on a large, flat expanse in a valley; on one side, the mountains rose, covered with trees and snow; on the other, they were bare, and looked like a desert mountain, perhaps somewhere in the Sahara. And on the frozen steppe, there were Bactrian camels- huge, woolly camels, grazing in the sunlight. The people of Beltir raise not just sheep and cattle, but camels as well, but not for meat or milk- they raise them for their hair, which is prized in Central Asia and used for making warm clothing.
Just past the camels was another incredible sight. At first, one might think it nothing more than a pile of stones, but there I saw some ancient kurgans, or burial mounds where the Altai people laid their dead to rest. These kurgans had beet looted long before our time, perhaps a thousand years ago. But there they remained, a symbol of ancient people's desire to venerate the dead. It filled me with a sense of wonder.
Up and over the bumpy road, zigzagging around rocky outcroppings, it seemed as if we were driving on another planet. After some time we stopped at a vantage point where more rock carvings and fantastic views were to be found. In a valley, a frozen river snaked towards the border with Kazakhstan, China and Mongolia. This river led to the lake where we would stop next.
We arrived at last at the lake, frozen and surrounded by astonishingly high mountains. The lake, Ozero Ak-kol, means White Lake in the Altai language, called so because of the white sand on its shallow banks. These alpine lakes do not get very deep, but tend to be as wide as the mountains allow them. Everyone was thoroughly impressed; the natural beauty of this hidden gem was stunning. We ate our lunch, in awe and in good spirits, in the freezing cold, kept warm but by our clothing and hot tea. Afterwards, I was asked to help perform a 'Siberian experiment'- to throw boiling hot water into the air and watch it turn immediately into vapor, or rain down in frozen droplets, causing a magical effect. I was instructed how to do it, and carried out the experiment successfully.
To see the lake better, I walked out onto the frozen surface. Near the middle, it creaked and groaned as the ice shifted. The ice was glittering in the snow and sun, and there was something epic and majestic at work. When I imagine an epic, snowy mountainscape, this is what comes to my mind. At that moment I was there; my imagination had been realized in Altai.
From out on the frozen lake I saw what we would be doing next- drifting in our bukhanka (bread loaf) vans. Our drivers, an Armenian and a Greek, were both characters of sorts who had moved to Altai during the Soviet era and decided to make it home. They invited us all to hop in, and out on the ice they accelerated and then threw the steering wheel to the left or right, causing the van to drift and spin around. It was the kind of activity that foreigners might see and think "Crazy Russians," but sometimes what seems stereotypically crazy of a group of people can be fun.
The bumpy ride took us back through Beltir, past the uninhabited concrete buildings and frozen, flooded sportsfield, onto a dirt road and eventually out onto the Chuysky Trakt. By that time, the sunset was near, exquisite out on the frozen, rocky steppe with its many different hues.
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Zheniya, one of our helpers, had been talking about Altai music and about the khomus or jaw-harp, popular in Siberia among Turkic peoples. It is also an instrument that I had been learning to play since my first trip to Lake Baikal, and since then this instrument has taken a special place in my heart. By then I had become quite proficient in playing, and told Zheniya that I played and that I even had my instrument with me; she implored me to play for everyone that evening. So, after dinner, Zheniya told everyone that I would give them a small concert, and after telling them about the instrument, a small, metallic instrument played with the hand and made to resonate in the mouth, I played for our company and showed them that I am full of surprises.
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Next day we left Kosh-Agach. We would be on the road for most of the day as we headed towards another town called Ust-Koksa. I didn't even mind being on the road for so long. The Santi family were excellent company, and we told each other stories, talked about traveling and the like. They had even been to several cities in the USA which I have never seen. I was asked to speak some English with Sonia, who could speak better than I had anticipated. I always sat next to them when we had dinner as I had become accustomed to riding in the same vehicle as them. They were a lovely family.
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Our first stop was at a small pond with an underwater geyser. Stopping along the road, we walked across a wooden boardwalk over a marsh and into the forest, and there we saw it- a dazzlingly gorgeous turquoise pond, the patterns in the sand slowly changing. Never have I seen water of such exquisite color, cerulean yet clear. And the water here is so clean, so pure, that you could drink it.
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Emerging from the forest, we returned to our bread-loaf van to continue our journey until our next stop, a strange monument by the Katun River. It consisted of two army transport vehicles parked on top of a slanted platform. This monument is dedicated to those who transported much-needed supplies during World War 2 from Mongolia to Russia along the Chuysky Trakt, supplies like warm-weather clothing and food. While Western Russia was being devastated by the war, the country's leadership looked to the east to provide for the war effort.
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The drive continued, the terrain changing with the passing of every mountain. Some places were blanketed with snow, the mountains covered with tall pines, as it it were in Switzerland. Others were devoid of snow, and devoid of trees, like Afghanistan. Altai truly has many surprises, riddles, and mysteries.
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At long last, we arrived in Ust-Koksa, a quiet town tucked in between the Altai Mountains and the Katun River. Like in Kosh-Agach, smoke rose from the chimneys of small wood and brick huts with tin roofs, but the inhabitants were not the same. Instead of Altais and Kazakhs, Ust-Koksa was a mishmash of Russians, Germans, and Old Believers. The Germans ended up there when the Tsar allowed Volga Germans, who had immigrated to Russia in the 1700s, to move further eastwards in search of opportunities and land. Others ended up there as deportees to Siberia when Stalin suspected them of disloyalty. Many ended up relocating to the USA after the war, or being repatriated, but many in the Altai region stayed, and are respected for their hardworking spirit. The Old Believers ended up there due to persecution by the Orthodox Church. Reforms to the religion (some of which included rather trivial matters, such as how many fingers to use when making the sign of the cross and how to properly spell Jesus' name) resulted in a pushback by the Old Believers, who were then shunned, and even cast out of society. Many Old Believers moved to Siberia, some to incredibly remote regions such as Altai, where they continued their highly old-fashioned and conservative faith and traditions in relative peace. If Kosh-Agach was more remnant of a village in Mongolia or Kazakhstan, then Ust-Koksa was stereotypical of what one might imagine when thinking of Russia- a frozen town, surrounded by the never-ending taiga, out in the middle of nowhere.
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The following day was quite the adventure. It started with a ride about an hour outside of the town to an even smaller settlement. There, we switched our vehicle for something more appropriate for this incredibly forested and mountainous region- a snowmobile. We would be going up into the mountains and through them, winding up the side of them while precariously close at times to steep slopes. There were three snowmobiles, each towing a sledge with room for 4 people, give or take. Our driver casually smoked a cigarette, his red and windburnt face seemingly unaffected by the temperature, which was colder up in this forested and high-altitude region.
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Through mossy-covered forests we rode, watching with bewilderment. I rode on the snowmobile itself, behind the rider. At one point he tried to go over a large rock sticking out of the ground, but the snowmobile tipped over, smashing the windshield; with a deft move, I instinctually hopped off, saving myself from being crushed. All that dirt biking in the Dzerzhinsky forest had served me well.
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We eventually arrived at a frozen lake up in the mountains, where we stopped for some time to admire the scenery and drive around before having lunch at a nearby guesthouse. These lakes, called Upper and Lower Multinskoye Lake, are like steps, one leading to another down from the mountain.
Being there was like a dream, the realization of my undying desire to be in the wildest place that I can reach, soaking up the beauty of the world. The feeling of insignificance in a place like this is something that I am always trying to repeat.
The next day we hiked up a very tall hill on the outskirts of Ust-Koksa to get a panoramic view of the city and to see Mount Belukha in the distance, Altai's tallest and most venerated mountain, as well as Siberia's highest peak. As cattle passed by, following their well-known trails, we all caught our breath, lost during the steep ascent. Selfies were taken in the crisp morning air, and Roman and I stopped on the way back down at a spring to sample the water.
From there we piled into our bukhankas and began the long, 8-hour drive back to Gorno-Altaisk. Half of it was spent in silence, half in conversation with the Santi family as we got in whatever else we wanted to say before we would go our separate ways. I was somewhat sad as I realized that this was the end of the excursion, and that the chances were that I would never see these wonderful people again. This was no weekend trip, but an intensely fun-filled adventure during which we all formed bonds with one another. Everyone was dropped off at their hotel in the city, during which time we all said goodbye to each other. Sasha, Irina and I returned to the hostel where the whole thing began.
The next day was my last full day in Altai. I got up and walked to the Museum of the Altai Republic. Inside were ancient artifacts, geological finds, cultural displays of the Altai people, paintings by local artists, and a plethora of information. The most striking part of the museum was a room dedicated to the Siberian Ice Maiden, also known as the Ukok Princess. This tattooed mummy, discovered in a kurgan in the Altai Republic in the 90s, is of incredible significance to Russian archaeology. Her discovery was of major significance to anthropologists and geneticists as well, and she is revered by people from Altai and Siberia. Buried with beautiful ornamental clothing and items, she was certainly royal. She was not there, but the recreation was impressive.
Afterwards I wandered through the streets of Gorno-Altaisk, stopped at a restaurant, and then made my way to an outdoor center. Nearby a small ski lift and hockey rink, a long set of stairs takes one up onto one of the many high hills surrounding the city, from which you can get an excellent view.
The next morning, I got up early, took a taxi to the Gorno-Altaisk airport, and flew back to Moscow, leaving a part of my soul in Altai. I'll have to go back there to find it some day.
The company, the freezing cold, gathering together for meals, sharing stories, gazing in awe at the supreme nature of Altai- all of these things made this trip one to remember, the trip of a life time.
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