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Emerging out of the tent at 6 am I look up and there is not a cloud in the sky. Finally the weather gods are with us on the most important day’s trek. Ahead of us is a 24 km return trip up to the flat top ridge to the right of Mt Tolbachik (3682 metres) Our destination is only at 2600 metres but the time for the round trip is 12 hours reflecting the grueling conditions up the mountain. Personally I have hit a couple of snags. Firstly a painful right knee after pivoting on it to put my pack on 2 weeks ago. Regular antiinflammatory medication has eased the pain only slightly and I wonder if I have torn my cartilage. Secondly, my faithful boots have decided to pick now to retire themselves with the sole of my left boot showing signs of separation from the upper. I tape the front of the boot with the elastoplast I brought for any blisters and it is onward and upward.
The walk is a steady upward grade for 6 hours. Early on its a scramble and hop over the lava field from the adjacent Naboko crater. The lava is a confused and jumbled mass of rock twisted into often fantastic shapes but it certainly stirs up my sore knee. Interestingly beyond it I settle into a stride and the knee pain abates.

As we climb our guides are gobsmacked by the clear skies. It begins to dawn on me that the wild inhospitable weather we have had is not the norm rather than the exception. Our experienced Russian guide admits later that out of scores of trips here this is only the 4th time he has seen the mountain and the crater which is our destination crystal clear. The mountain is a beautiful snow capped cone with the elegant Schmidt glacier cascading down.

Five hours of steep ascent and I reach a high plateau. It is now freezing and the cloud has come over. I assume that I have made it but am crestfallen to hear we have another kilometre to go with a gain of 400 metres. I turn to trudge up and reassure myself that 1 km is not much and that I am nearly there. That last kilometre turns out to be among the most arduous hours of my life, and with 20 minutes to go I feel absolutely “cooked”. I grind out the ascent counting 30 steps at a time and having a breather in between. At the top, amazingly, the cloud has cleared again and beneath my feet is a gaping crater, red rocks with frozen rims. It is absolutely beautiful and suddenly my exhaustion is forgotten as I hurry to find the best vantage point for photographs.

It is on the descent that I am in awe of the steepness of the gradient not just at the end but for the whole 6 kilometres. I feel that I am justified in feeling tired. The descent is only slightly quicker than the ascent as steep and treacherous and required great concentration. I am pleasantly surprised that both my knee and boots have pulled up OK!

Welcome to Russia’s “wild east” a remote peninsula jutting down toward Japan from the north easternmost part of Russia. There are no roads connecting this place to Russia and connections are via air or sea. A region that was closed to outsiders until 20 years ago it is not a place that many tourists have heard of and even fewer come here.

Our drive from Petropavlovsk to Kluychevskaya National Park on the far north of Kamchata is only 700km but takes 2 long days of driving. Most of it is through the wide valley between the eastern and western ranges the road crosses multiple wide muddy rivers and is flanked on either side with birch and larch forest. The peninsula is home to a variety of wildlife including elk and brown bears but the only ones we have contact with is the swarms of mosquitoes that appear out of nowhere any time we venture out into the open.

Our campsite is set up at the feet of the mountains and is a wild windswept area. I am amazed that our little tents don’t blow away. There is no soil the ground is covered with thick black gravel from the volcanic eruptions. Against the odds pretty little wildflowers battle thir way in this harsh, forbidding environment. Tiny little marmots scurry around making high pitched squeaking noises looking for food scraps.

Our days are spent exploring the multiple craters that are scattered everywhere some of which have erupted in the recent past leaving behind lava rivers and lakes. The effect is very otherworldly as fumeroles still continue to emit fumes and the rocks strewn around are an assortment of colours reflecting the mineral diversity underground. In places the ground and the rocks are still quite warm where the underground lava comes close to the surface.

Surprisingly for a frontier this city has a bit of history to it precisely because of its remote and subarctic location. The names of many Russian cities end in “sk” which means city or town as in English the suffix “ville”. What I didn’t know but should have is that this city is named after St Peter and Paul i.e. Petro and Pavel, hence Petropavlovsk.
The day begins with heavy rain that refuses to let up. The ring of volcanoes has gone, shrouded in mist. A wander through the heart of town commemorates not just the obligatory Lenin, but draws out a bevy of notable explorers including La Perouse the remarkable Frenchman who I like to call the French Captain Cook. There is Vitus Bering and even Captain Cook’s own expedition after he was killed. This also turned out to be an unlikely hot spot in the Crimean war. A subsequent trip to the museum nicely ties this all together.

In the harbour more warships and a large black “evil” looking submarine are lined up and I discover that today is navy day and this, of course is the home port for the Russian Navy submarine fleet.

Tomorrow marks the start of 2 weeks in the wild. There is a remote chance of internet in a week or so. I am unlikely to be able to post anything further until my return but I promise you, my faithful readers that I will complete the story on my return. Weather permitting this should be the most impressive part of the journey.

The carriage attendant woke us all an hour before arrival. The skies were leaden grey and all around was the Pacific Ocean. I always have a sense of “homecoming” when I see our Pacific. The track wound closely to the shoreline for most of the last hour over what would otherwise have been prime seaside real estate. As we neared the city centre a row of Russian warships came into sight, 11 in all perfectly lined up and with flags up to “dress ship” suggesting some sort of inspection was imminent.

Vladivostok has been the headquarters of the Russian Pacific fleet and this is very much a military town with warships in both harbours and lots of uniformed men in the streets. Strategically it is not at all surprising as there across the sea a veritable stone’s throw away is Japan and to the south about 100 miles away are China and North Korea. It goes without saying that whoever controls Vladivostok controls Eastern Siberia.
The city itself matches the grey skies and is without any major tourist feature. It is also blighted by busloads of gaggling, noisy Chinese tourists who delight in posing in front of everything with their selfie sticks posing garishly and looking utterly retarded in the process.

With some effort I managed to avoid them as much as possible and spent a pleasant day walking around this harbour city. The new suspension bridge linking the city to Russky Islnd has some tourist brochures branding this the San Francisco of the east. Sadly it falls well short of that.

What I did find moving was the park around the submarine museum which has an eternal flame and is dedicated to the Russian war dead in WW2. The walls filled with names of fatalities from this city alone dwarf the corresponding board for all Australian casualties in the Canberra war memorial. Hardly surprising as to defeat Hitler Russia lost 24 million men, If that is too big to really appreciate remember that Australia’s present population is only 24 million. Think about it!

On arrival back to Ulan Ude station to complete the last 60 hours of the epic 9000 km journey, I cannot enter the station. It is cordoned off by troops with Kalashnikovs and police in riot gear. All seems quiet and talking to the others waiting they have been here for up to 2 hours. Nobody has any information as to why. An ambulance with lights on leaves the scene and suddenly we are given the all clear and it is back to normality.
The Trans Siberian was constructed between 1861 and 1916 at a time when road travel and vehicles were inferior to rail. Tsar Alexander 111 started the project and his son, future emperor Nicholas 11 laid the foundation stone in Vladivostok. Nicholas was emperor at the completion of the line at a troubled time during WW1, just before the 1917 revolution that would end the Romanov dynasty. The official length of the journey is 9289 km and it crosses 7 time zones. Branch lines down to Korea and to Beijing via Mongolia occurred later in the 20th century. The latter is often mistakenly referred to as the trans Siberian where its true name is the trans Mongolian.
The train experience is very basic. The sleeping benches are hard and make for a disturbed night sleep and the locals who travel on this tend to self cater their food for the trip. There is almost no English spoken and there seem to be very few tourists. The locals can’t understand why anyone would bother to take the trip.

The scenery outside is pleasant if not monotonous. The Russians call this taiga, large expanses of green grass, rolling hills and the occasional pine or birch forest. Of itself pretty but after 7 days of the same I am pleased to complete this “marathon”.

I am in a 2nd class cabin, 4 bunks and a toilet at the end with a washbasin. A large samovar at one end of the carriage is a constant source of hot water for tea and the ubiquitous instant noodles. I spend a lot of the day in the perennially empty restaurant car, allowing me to spread out and really stretch my legs. Unfortunately, for this leg the menu is entirely in Russian which means that I am having to struggle with phrase books to get a meal ordered.
Nonetheless the scenery is pleasant even if it is the same for thousands of kilometers. Roll on Vladivostok!

Vladivostok station – the end of the line.

All around is verdant gently sloping countryside. The Selenge river describes a broad arc through the green hills and plains and then my guide says something that transfixes me, “this is where the tribes that migrated and settled into modern day Hungary came from”. Abroad smile crosses my lips, the Magyars migrated from central Asia and settled in what is now Hungary late in the 9th century AD. I always thought that that was actually from Mongolia. It turns out its from Ulan Ude 200 km on the Russian side of the border. The whole experience gave me pause to reflect on my ethnicity and ancestry.

Ulan Ude is 7 hours by train from my last stop at Lake Baikal. The journey is scenic as the tratcks follow the southern shore of this massive lake quite closely and the fact that it is there for the whole 7 hours really emphasises the massive size of Baikal. Ulan Ude itself is a pleasant city, home to a massive Lenin head statue and a beautiful little square outside of its opera house theatre. I find myself taking late evening photos here when the fountains suddenly start ramping up and speakers start playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Truly sublime I sat there and just soaked it all in.

Ulan Ude is a tale of two religions. My first excursion is to the township of Tarbagatay 50 km south a village of “Old believers”. There is a touch of Amish about this settlement of Russian Orthdox families who adhere to the faith as it was before the reform of the Russian orthodox church 300 years ago. We are shown the church which of course is a new version of that which was razed by Stalin in the 1930s when all religions were prohibited by the Soviets and father Sergey explains the differences between the new church and the old church. To me the differences seem cosmetic and minor. The old faith uses the old, superseeded Russian Cyrillic language their fingure position when making the sign of the cross is different and their crucifixes show Jesus with his feet splayed out rather than crossed as we are used to seeing. Hardly stuff worth splitting a faith over but I keep my opinion to myself. Certainly the people are friendly enough and put on a show in native costume and a meal for us. The houses are old style log cabins, brightly painted.

Kublai Khan became influenced by the Dalai Lama in the 13th century and as aa consequence Mongolia is Buddhist. Unsurprisingly so close to the Mongol border my second excursion is to the Involginsky Datsan (monastery). All of the datsans were destroyed by Stalin in the 1930s. Amazingly, a request by locals in 1946 was granted by the Kremlin and apparently as gratitude for local sacrifices during WW2 a monastery was established. This complex has expanded over the years to multiple temples and as we walk around twirling prayer wheels we visit them all. There are monks praying, chanting, the clash of cymbals, bells and trumpeting conch horn blasts. It is all very atmospheric and takes me back to my travels in Tibet. The piece de resistance is temple displaying the 12th Kambo Lama. His body was exhumed in 2002 70 years after his death. It shows no signs of decomposition. It is an eerie experience standing before the wax model like corpse arranged in a seated pose. It is reminiscent of the viewing of Lenin back in Moscow.

The sun is shining brightly on the yellow sand beach. Gentle waves lap at the shore. The deck chairs are not out yet as its early morning but the pedal boats and stand up paddle boards are lined up in readiness and a few early birds stroll the shore in swim suits or even brave the frigid waters. It is less than 20 degrees celsius but here at Lake Baikal where winter temperatures plunge to -30 degrees celsius and the lake freezes over, today its time to have fun in the sun!

Baikal cuts a great gash through the middle of Russian Siberia. It is the largest and deepest freshwater lake in the world. When Japan invaded Russia in 1905 it provided a major obstacle for the Russians. At a time when road travel was rudimentary and rail was king the trans Siberian railway had been completed to either side of Lake Baikal. In an attempt to connect Moscow with the theater of war at Vladivostok 9000 km at one stage they even laid rail tracks over the frozen winter ice of Baikal. Eventually they dedicated the manpower and resources to running a track around the mountainous southern shore. Too late as the war was lost by the Russians but the legacy of the Circumbaikal railway now provides a largely tourist train experience. Once a week it is with a beautiful sleek black 1948 steam engine and as luck would have it I was there!

The real highlight of Baikal is Olkohon Island, a 70 km long island off the north west shore reached by ferry. It encapsulates the multifaceted ecosystem of lake Baikal and is enriched with the cultural legend of the local indigenous Buryat people. Their shamanist religion and legends are superbly brought to life by my knowledgeable pretty guide Dasha who has a real passion for this place. Enjoy the beautiful Lake Baikal.

I wake bright and early with the sun very high in the sky already. All around are verdant gentle hills covered in pine forest. This is the Urals, the end of Europe and the gateway to Asian Russia. Officially it is 6 am as the whole of Russia is on Moscow time. Locally it is 3 hours later already.

Unfortunately the first shiny train seems to be a one off as I spend the night in an ancient rattler. Unprepared I have brought no food on board and there is no restaurant car on this one. I chow down on two minute noodles and coffee brought from the carriage attendant. More of a worry is that no water comes out of the washroom tap when I turn the handle. After a couple of hot and sweaty days without a shower I can barely endure my own smell so I improvise and use a cup of water cooled down from the samovar at the end of the coach and have a bird bath. I laugh the next morning to find that there is water residue in the wash basin and after some exploration find that while the knobs are useless pressing up on a bit of metal sticking out of the spout releases copious water.

I hit the streets of Yekatarinburg late morning again with bright sunshine. This city, surprisingly, is the fourth largest in Russia and the hub of the extensive mining industries that abound in the mineral rich Urals. In the late 1980s President Gorbachov promoted a certain Boris Yeltsin to the politburo and he took over as first president of the “new” Russia. This is not what I am here for. Students of history will know of the last Russian Tsar, Nicholas 11. As absolute ruler of Russia he conducted the military campaign of WW1 from the front lines. In the wake of the February revolution of 1917 where a coalition of socialist and communist parties assumed control he abdicated the throne and was placed under house arrest. Following the subsequent October 1917 Bolshevik revolution he and his family were eventually moved to Yekaterinburg in detention and ultimately they and their remaining loyal staff were herded into the cellar of the house where they were staying and mowed down in a hail of gunfire by the Bolsheviks. Their bodies were dumped and burned in a forest 16 km out of the city.

Graphic snippets of history such as these fascinate me and stay with me. Decades ago I determined that when I went to Russia I would seek out this place, not for any misplaced loyalty to the Tsars or any political reasons as the Romanov dynasty was an autocratic greedy repressive regime that cared less for the people and more for building the opulent palaces that I have already seen in St Petersburg. Its more to feel history, stand there, close my eyes and imagine. To augment the experience I am in the midst of reading a historical book of this time in Russian history and the book and being here perfectly complement each other.
I trudge up the hill to the spot, it nicely overlooks the whole city. Post Soviet Russia has built a massive new, beautiful Byzantine style church named the Church of the Holy Blood where the now destroyed house was. Marking the spot of the execution in the church’s ground is a metal orthodox cross and there is a tiny wooden church adjacent. As I wander in to there it is full with all of 5 people praying and the entrance has a tiny kiosk selling icons and framed pictures of Tsar Nicholas and Alexandra. Now this is no tourist town, in fact for my whole day there I see only 1 other tourist. This is for local consumption. Even more intriguing is that there is a police and army presence that I only saw at the Moscow Kremlin in Russia. It is still there when I walk back to catch the next train out in the evening.