Oh, what a luxury it was: three days without electricity, signal, or comforts—in a relict northern forest, in a miller’s hut beside a watermill 😈. Snow was knee-deep, and in places thigh-deep, so that moving on forest skis was difficult—and it kept falling, day after day :) There is something a little misanthropic in such woodland solitude; only the mice, growing bolder at night, disturbed us.
The journey there and back was its own art form. After 350 km of snowstorm roads, we were picked up by our driver, Ivan, on an old Buran snowmobile. We flew to the hut with the wind in our faces; twice the machine bogged down in March drifts, and twice we somehow hauled it out of the snow. The track battered and jolted the sled mercilessly—but all of it was rewarded by the catharsis of a forest refuge.
The return was simply epic. Rejecting the timid offer of our Charon—who had brought us into this other world—to come back and fetch us, we set off at dawn, bravely heading back to the world of people on skis, with backpacks, following a snowed-over snowmobile track. The first eight kilometers ran through steep descents and climbs over the wooded local hills and across the snow-covered Maselgskoye Lake; another seven and a half went along an equally hilly, icy dirt road.
Legless but proud of ourselves, we reached our destination—and, climbing aboard our drakkar, set off for home. With this fine adventure, winter 2025 (Anno Domini) came to an end for us.
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