Baikal, the father of all lakes

“It’s delicious,” Tanja praises the hotel’s breakfast buffet. “Very tasty. We really must enjoy it. We won’t get anything like this for the next few weeks,” I think, because we’re planning to spend some time on Olkhon Island on the Baikal. We pedal our bikes to the ferry station at 7:45 am. Because of the bad roads and the many mountains on Olkhon, we left the trailers at the hotel and only took some of the equipment with us. Without this burden, we make rapid progress and arrive at the port a little later. The first travelers arrive as we lean our riese und müller against the railing. “Look, there are cyclists,” I say, pointing to a couple rolling their bikes in our direction. Maria and Alexander come from a remote region of northern Siberia and want to cross the island of Olkhon on their bikes. Apart from an insulating mat, Maria has nothing on her bike and Alexander’s bike only has two medium-sized saddlebags. “Either we have far too much with us or they have far too little,” I muse. Then the ship docks. Hectic tourists board the boat. At the end we are allowed to bring our bikes on board. As the little space on the foredeck is needed by the workers, we have to put our bikes inside the watercraft. Our vehicles have barely been stowed away and the saddlebags placed on the luggage rack when the Bargusin sets sail. Only 30 of the approx. 100 seats are occupied. So we have the choice to place ourselves wherever we want.

Eating cookies and drinking tea, we watch the passing taiga through the large windows of the closed cabin. Similar to an airplane, there are five seats to the left and four seats to the right of the wide central aisle. Every now and then I climb the stairs at the end of the cabin. This gives you access to the aft deck, where the wind whistles around your ears. We never thought we would be able to see Baikal in such a comfortable way. “A fantastic tip from Father Andrej,” it goes through my mind, observing the densely overgrown banks of the Angara River, which rises at the south-western end of Lake Baikal and is its only outlet. According to what I have read, the Angara is one of the great rivers of Siberia and, despite its enormous discharge, would have to flow for about 400 years before Lake Baikal would be emptied. We follow the wide river for only about 60 kilometers to its source, the legendary Baikal, one of our biggest intermediate destinations of the entire Trans-East Expedition so far. Tanja and I are excited about Baikal, the father of all freshwater lakes on earth. The lake that is also called the blue heart of Siberia or the holy sea. The Russians adopted the word Baikal, as well as many of the other geographical names for this region, from the tribes living here. The Buryat word for lake was Baigal-nuur. The Mongols called it Baigal-murän or Dalai-noor, which means sacred sea. The Chinese gave it the name Bai-chai, meaning northern sea, to name just a few of the different terms for the lake.

As the Barguzin glides through the wide mouth of the Angara into the impressive Baikal, I almost lose my breath. Now, at this very moment, we have reached the largest and, at 25 million years, the oldest reservoir of liquid fresh water on earth. One fifth, i.e. 20 % of the entire freshwater reserves of our Mother Earth, are stored in this enormous trench. “It’s hard to believe. At its deepest point, the bottom is 1,637 meters below us. No lake in the world reaches such a depth,” I soon say to Tanja in awe as she gazes spellbound at the unimaginable expanse of 31,492 km² of water. We can’t see the end of the lake in front of us. No wonder, since its length from one bank to the other is 673 kilometers. At their widest point, the coasts are 82 kilometers apart. “When you consider that it won’t be long before water is worth more than oil and people start wars over it, Russia is the richest country in the world, regardless of its enormous natural resources, if only because of Baikal,” I think, remembering that when the Russians discovered this liquid treasure in 1643, they had no idea how valuable fresh water would one day be for mankind. This oversized basin, which is fed by 336 rivers and countless streams, has a total water volume of 23,000 km³. This makes it larger than the Baltic Sea and corresponds to about 480 times the water content of Lake Constance. With a shoreline length of around 2,125 km, the father of all lakes is the second largest body of water in Asia after the Caspian Sea.

As soon as we have left the Angara estuary behind us, the Barguzin moors on the beach of today’s tourist resort of Listvyanka. More guests board the ship. Two motorcyclists stand in the sand with their heavily laden bikes and look up at us. “They don’t want to get on the boat, do they?” I ask myself, as the thin, 40-centimeter narrow ladder leads down to the beach at a steep angle of around 40 degrees. “It’s impossible for a motorcycle to ride up there without rolling over. And if it really gets to the top, it will simply crash into the side of the ship. Even an acrobat would have problems mastering such an impossibility without risking his neck,” I continue to think and take out my video camera to record the event. “Everyone inside! Go to the passenger compartment!” other guests and I are asked to leave the foredeck. Since I’m standing in an area where no one can disturb me, I stop and press the record button. The engine of the first machine howls. The biker bravely turns up the throttle, releases the brakes and his off-road machine shoots up the ladder. Now everything happens in a fraction of a second. As soon as the rear tire touches the steep steel staircase, the front tire loses traction. The motorcycle and rider roll over. The rider is thrown out of his saddle and hits his back on the steel steps. Just a wink later, the huge off-road motorcycle crashes into the poor man. “Ahhh!” everyone screams in horror and the crew rushes to the casualty to heave the heavy machine off him. The driver crawls out from under the iron vehicle like a trampled ant. I can hardly believe my eyes as the driver helps his assistants to get the off-road machine upright. It seems that he has miraculously remained unharmed. Now a crew member picks up a ship’s stowage. They attach it to the front end of the machine and then use their combined strength to pull the vehicle onto the roof of the Bargusin. When the casualty enters the cabin, I ask him how he is. “Everything is fine. I seem to have been very lucky. Unfortunately, our friend didn’t fare so well. He injured his head in an accident and had to cut his journey short. Now there are two of us. We come from the Ukraine and want to get to the north-easternmost point of Russia. It’s only a stone’s throw to Alaska,” he explains. “How much time do you have for this big tour?” I ask. “One month in total.” “One month? That’s very short,” I wonder. “We’ll manage that. I think we’ll have to cover a total of 25,000 kilometers.” “What? 25,000 kilometers in a month? And that’s with these roads. There’s no more asphalt from Irkutsk onwards. That means over 800 kilometers of gravel and clay a day. Is that feasible?” I ask in amazement. “Yes,” he replies. “Well, I wish you good luck and good health,” I reply and sit down next to Tanja in one of the armchairs.

The shore glides slowly past. We gaze intently at the coast. “Maybe we’ll discover one,” I say. “You mean a brown bear?” asks Tanja. “Yes.” However, small villages and many Baikal tourists’ tents keep popping up along this stretch of coast. Signs of civilization that give little hope of spotting one of the largest land predators on our planet. “I didn’t think I’d come across any real tourism here,” I say as our boat docks in another bay. There are about 40 tents and many wooden huts right behind the beach. Around 30 young Russian travelers board our boat with heavy rucksacks. It looks like they jump from island to island and from beach to beach by ferry. In no time at all, the peace and quiet is over and our bikes disappear under a large pile of luggage.

“Are you also getting off at the beginning of Olkhon or are you going all the way to the main village of Chushir?” the cyclist Alexander, who speaks a little English, asks me. “We paid all the way to Chushir. I didn’t know you could get out earlier,” I reply. “If you really want to ride your bikes on the island, it’s better to get off with us and take a ferry for the short distance from the mainland to Olkhon,” he suggests. “How long is the island anyway?” “72 kilometers,” he answers and shows me his detailed map. After some deliberation, we decide to leave Barguzin earlier than planned with Maria and Alexander. “I think that’s a good decision,” I chatter. “I think so too. At least this way we can see the whole island,” Tanja replies.

At 5 p.m., after eight hours of driving, things suddenly get hectic. “We are here. Get ready,” Alexander tells us. We quickly take our bikes and equipment off the boat. As soon as we step onto the jetty, the ropes of the Bargusin are pulled in again. “Do you have the second handlebar bag?” Tanja shouts, startled. “No, I haven’t!” I reply, and because it contains the GPS, speedometer, anemometer, pepper gas, keys for our locks and a few other important things, I feel her question pierce my limbs. I immediately hop on the boat again. From the on-board loudspeaker, the captain asks me to get off the boat. “My handlebar bag!” I shout desperately and can’t make it out in the mountain of suitcases, bags and rucksacks of tourists. Suddenly I remember that she must still be hanging from the handlebars and hurry back outside. “Is she on the handlebars?” I call out to Tanja. “Yes,” she replies. Heart pounding, I stand back on the jetty as the engines roar and the iron hull of the Bargusin cuts through the crystal-clear waters of the Baikal.

Just on the other side of the wooden jetty, a car ferry has moored to take us to the shore of Olkhon Island. Dark storm clouds are gathering as we attach the Ortlieb bags to our bikes. “Hurry up. We have to put on our rain gear,” I say. As soon as we’ve dressed for the approaching weather, there’s frightening thunder and lightning in the sky. The temperature plummets from 32 degrees in the shade to 15 degrees and the downpour pours over us. Within seconds, Maria and Alexander are soaked to the skin and shivering all over. The ferry casts off and plows its way through the rising waves. Just 1 ½ kilometers later, it is already moored on the shore of the island. “Do you want to take shelter first?” Tanja asks the two ill-equipped Siberians. “No, let’s get going,” Alexander replies. After just 50 meters, the dirt road leads up a mountain. Maria dismounts immediately. She can’t take any more. Coughing and freezing, she stands next to her bike with a contorted face. Her friend unpacks a cord, attaches it to his luggage rack and to the handlebar tube of Maria’s bike. This is how they overcome the first incline. When we reach the top, they ask us if we have any water with us. “Yes, but it could be tight for four people,” I reply. Maria starts to scold her friend. Then we roll back down the incline. It goes over slippery, wet clay and rock. A real challenge for inexperienced cyclists. As Maria has only recently learned to ride a bike from Alexander and obviously hasn’t had time to practise, she wobbles back and forth on her frame in a frightening manner. “We should go to a camp. What do you think?” Tanja suggests. Maria and Alexander nod, which is why we pitch our tents four kilometers behind the ferry landing stage in a picturesque bay just 20 meters from the water.

Completely exhausted and coughing heavily, Maria stands freezing on the shore of the lake. “It’s a good thing we have high-quality equipment. I won’t be complaining about my heavy luggage in future,” says Tanja, firing up the stove. When it stops raining, Maria gets on her bike to do a few laps around our camp. She desperately tries to get warmth back into her body. “Her cough sounds like pneumonia. I don’t think the trip is good for her,” I say worriedly.

As the sun bids farewell to this day with an almost indescribable play of colors, we sit on the banks of the Baikal. We put a stick of incense in the sand to greet the holy sea with a modest offering and to please its gods. Then the red ball disappears behind the mountains. The clouds change color instantly. Its lowest layer radiates in various shades of purple, which become darker and darker the further away from the last rays of light, until it absorbs a black-blue. Just behind the mountains, where the occasional rays of sunlight are still peeking out, the clouds are orange and orange-yellow. Different shades of blue separate them from each other, which is why each of them is painted in the sky like a work of art. On the other side of the lake rises the jagged mountain range, which at this moment looks like a silhouette. Baikal stretches out at the foot of the bizarre, torn-out shadow, its slightly undulating surface reflecting the evening sky in all its colorful glory. We sit there for a long time. Until the rising night has swallowed up the last splashes of color. Then we go into our tent and listen to the soft lapping of the gentle waves, the cry of a seagull, the gentle fluttering of the canvas and are happy to be able to experience this moment.

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