Since it was apparent the animal that had left the tracks behind on the stream bank was not going to show itself, Mikhail decided to resume his hike. A series of large, flat rocks provided a convenient bridge, so the robust old-timer crossed the gurgling creek and once more found himself on the footpath.
The clean fresh air was like a tonic, and he lengthened his stride, his long legs feeling limber and fit.
Back in Moscow, he hardly ever got a chance to walk like this. Not only was his schedule a busy one, with hardly a free minute in his entire fourteen-hour day, but the city itself was hardly conducive to this type of exercise. Diesel-belching trucks and buses tainted the air, while the jostling masses that crowded the sidewalks barely gave one a meter of free space of his own. Parks such as Gorky were lovely enough places, though on a decent day, they too were crowded with families and individuals seeking a moment of pastoral peace inside the capital’s bustling confines.
Mikhail often fantasized on how it would be to live out here in the wilderness permanently. He’d fish, hike, and even clear some land to plant a vegetable garden. He’d often thought about doing such things while at sea. A career sailor spent precious few hours on solid land. This was especially the case when one’s active career spanned five decades. Thus he’d promised himself that as soon as he was given a steady desk Job, he’d look into purchasing a country dacha of his very own.
His great-uncle had suggested that he look into the Lake Baikal region. So, without even seeing the property, he bought the dacha from the family of a deceased shipmate. The house itself was only three years old, and from the very first time that he flew over the area on the way to the Irkutsk airport, he knew that he wouldn’t be disappointed.
Located outside the village of Jelancy, some sixty kilometers northeast of Irkutsk, the dacha turned out to be everything that he had dreamed about. Built entirely of local timber, the six-room cabin had all the comforts of their Moscow apartment including a fully outfitted kitchen and an indoor bathroom. What made it unique were its cathedral ceilings, massive stone fireplace, and of course the magnificent forest it was situated in.
Mikhail had discovered the trail that he was currently following by sheer accident, on the very first day of their arrival at the dacha, nearly ten years ago.
Leaving Anna to clean house, he’d struck out for the woods with his walking stick and trusty compass in hand. Since the lake was evidently some distance east of them, he’d pointed himself in that direction and had spotted the bare outline of a trail invitingly beckoning inside the adjoining tree line. Even though this path snaked through the thick taiga, its general direction remained eastward, and Mikhail was determined to follow it to the very end.
He was out on the trail for almost a half hour, when he encountered the stream that he had just crossed.
Halting briefly to admire this brook, he pushed on and soon came to the bluffs and what was to turn out to be his very own private balcony, allowing him a magnificent vista of the lake.
He was so excited with his breathtaking discovery that he dragged Anna out there that same afternoon.
She was equally enthused, and later that week they set up some deck chairs on the bluffs to admire the lake in relative comfort. And now a decade later, to find oneself every bit as inspired by this same vista only went to prove its beauty.
While wondering if he’d have the time to escort his guests to the overlook, Mikhail passed by a startled ground squirrel and climbed up a small rise that brought him to a grove of particularly ancient cedars.
Like a group of stately elders, these giant conifers were the senior statesmen of the taiga, having grown here for centuries. A good majority of the trunks were so thick it would take the combined reaches of three fully grown men to encircle one of their lower trunks.
The very character of the forest seemed to change here. Because of the lofty branches that cut out most of the direct sunlight, ground cover was almost nonexistent.
In its place was an occasional clump of giant clover or a moss-covered boulder. The very air was hushed and still as Mikhail silently cut through the grove, as reverently as one of the faithful on the way to Mass.
He was in the process of passing through a stand of young birch trees when the air filled with the alien chopping sound of an approaching helicopter. With his gaze now drawn to the heavens, he was afforded a brief view of the vehicle responsible for this noise as it zoomed over from the southwest. The dark green chopper had an elongated boxcar like fuselage that had a series of circular viewing ports cut into its sides and a bright red, five-pointed star emblazoned on its tail. Quick to identify it as a Mi-8, the veteran was suddenly conscious of the late hour.
