Bicycles overboard?

Yawning, I lie on my sleeping mat and look out of the window at the dark sky. The clouds hang low over Baikal. It has been raining continuously over the last few days. “It has stopped. If we’re lucky, it will be a pleasant day’s travel,” I say. “Yes, it would be nice if we could spend the 300 kilometers on the ship to Irkutsk without storms and waves,” Tanja replies. “Is your stomach rumbling?” I ask, because four of the five guests at Simone and Leonid’s are suffering from diarrhea. “No, I’m fine, thank God. And you?” “I feel healthy too. Wouldn’t be nice to be attacked by this strange virus or whatever it is on a travel day, especially on a boat,” I say tiredly. It’s 6:00 a.m. As the sun rises 1 ½ hours later than two months ago, it is still twilight. Nevertheless, we get up and pack the rest of our things.

“Dobre utra” (Good morning) Leonid. How’s your stomach? Are you feeling better today?” I greet him and ask him, because he also spent the whole day in bed yesterday. “Charoscho, (good) but Simone got it this morning,” he replies with a worried look on his face. “Doesn’t seem to stop at anyone,” I reply. ‘Hmm, it looks like it. Hope you get through all right,” he says. “We’ll do our best. Maybe our defenses have been strengthened by all the traveling? Who knows?” I reply, oiling the chain again. Because the sprockets and chains were in a catastrophic state after our island crossing, Tanja cleaned them yesterday with a brush and kerosene. A dirty but important job. “Goodbye and have a good trip!”, Simone calls to us, who has just come out of the house to say goodbye to us. “Goodbye, get well soon and thank you for the lovely time,” we reply. Then we hug Leonid and the motorcyclist Stefan, who is waiting for a few spare parts from Germany so that he can continue his journey. “Here you go. I picked these especially for you this morning,” says Leonid, handing me a glass full of currants. “Thank you very much, but where should I put them?” “You’ll find a place,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

Even on the first few meters our chains grind terribly and after just 100 meters they jump off the sprockets. “Strange, they’ve lasted this far. I hope the island crossing hasn’t ruined our drive. What could that be?” I ask myself nervously, looking at my watch. “We still have enough time. The boat doesn’t leave until 12:00. If necessary, we’ll have to push the six kilometers to Chushir,” Tanja reassures me. Fifteen minutes later, the chains remain in the sprockets and we make good progress despite the horrible grinding noises. “I shouldn’t have oiled the chains so much. All the sand just sticks to them,” I think as we ride through the beautiful forest to the village.

In the village of Chushir we buy food for the boat trip. Then we ask where the Barguzin docks. “Up ahead on the right and then towards the shaman’s rock,” we hear the description. The path is completely soaked by the rain of the past few days and we literally sink into the mud. Our chains thank us by constantly jumping out until we can’t get any further. Again I am forced to scrape the mud and sand off the drive. “You have time, the Bargusin won’t be here until 1:00”, a woman reassures us. “We should ride to the beach anyway. Better safe than sorry,” advises Tanja, which is why we push the bikes over a meadow ridge that slopes down to the lake. Travelers who have shouldered their rucksacks also make a pilgrimage in groups in the same direction. Suddenly the steeply sloping path comes to an end. The rain simply washed it away. The travelers use a small earth bridge about 30 centimetres wide, undercut by a stream. “Will it hold?” I ask. As we have no other chance of reaching the beach below us, I take the plunge and carefully push my bike over the footbridge. It works. Tanja also manages the acrobatic act without falling. Carefully pulling both brakes, we let our trestles roll down a narrow dirt path and lay them in the sand next to the backpackers. Everyone is waiting for the Bargusin. Because you can only book the tickets on board, it is not certain whether everyone is allowed to travel. The next ship doesn’t arrive until the day after tomorrow. But only when it’s not stormy. “I’ll go and have a look at the shaman’s rock,” I decide to pass the waiting time. “But don’t stay too long. Maybe the ship will come sooner!” Tanja warns me.

The large limestone rock, which is also known as the symbol of Baikal, is indeed very impressive. The trunks of the scattered trees are wrapped in colorful cloths. They stretch their crowns majestically into the cloudy sky. I climb down into the circular, picturesque bay and have a fantastic view of the sanctuary, which has been the seat of the gods for centuries. Because of the ferry coming soon, I have to hurry to explore the abode of the infamous god Khan Choto-Babai. I scramble up the rock as fast as I can, as far as I can. I’m looking for the cave that’s supposed to be here. Traces of a Stone Age settlement were found inside the rock. A burial site and the remains of sacrificial rituals and incantation ceremonies from long ago were also discovered. Spellbound by the aura of the place and the fascinating view, I pause for a moment. I glance at my watch. No time to look any further for the cave, the god’s living room. Because of the slippery wet rocks, I carefully descend again.

I haven’t been back long when the Bargusin sails around the Shaman’s Rock at 12:00 noon on the dot and heads for the beach. Now the travel groups are on the move. Everyone shoulders their rucksacks, lifts their suitcases and trudges through the soft beach towards the Bargusin, whose bow is crunching into the sand. Only when everyone is on board do we have the chance to drag our bikes up the steep board ladder. Luckily for us, the bar is only half full. “The wheels have to go on the roof,” says the machine operator. Together we pull the Intercontinental upwards. “Do you have a rope?” he asks. “A rope? No, I don’t have one,” I reply. He abruptly leaves me standing in front of our bikes, but comes back a little later with a thin wire to attach them to an iron railing. “For God’s sake! She’ll never stand it!” I shout in horror. “Normalna”, (statement for many situations, e.g. okay, all right, or normal), he says with a smile. “Njet normalna. Eta bolschoi problem”, (“Not okay. This is a big problem”) I say and can’t believe it when he bends the cutting wire over the brake hoses. The waves certainly cause the ship to shake and rock considerably. If I left the bike mounted like this, the Magura brake hoses would definitely be damaged and the frames of the wheels chafed. The mechanic simply leaves me alone and helps his colleague pull in the ladder. Soon desperate, I think about what to do now. The wind is already blowing around my ears as I climb off the roof and Tanja asks me to find something to secure our sumo bikes. As there is no railing on the roof, I am forced to tie them down. Otherwise, they would simply fall into the water in a light swell and disappear forever into the depths of the lake. “Here, take our camp seat!” she calls out to drown out the wind. (Camp seats are two lightweight foam surfaces connected by a strap) Again I climb onto the smooth roof of the Bargusin and place the camp seat between the wheels and the iron railing as protection. I replace the wire with our washing line. Hoping that the lacing will hold. As I climb off the roof, the Bargusin has picked up full speed. Exhausted, I drop into a seat next to Tanja. “All right?” she asks. “I think so,” I reply.

After just an hour we leave Olkhon Island behind us and the Barguzin roars into the great Baikal. “I hope the waves don’t get any bigger here,” I say. As soon as I close my mouth, the hull of the ship bangs hard on the increasingly higher short crests of the waves. The Baikal is known for rapid and often extreme weather changes. Above all, no long waves develop here, but short and hard breakers. I look nervously out at the waves. “Now exactly what I was talking about is happening,” I say. “Are the wheels fixed?” asks Tanja anxiously. “How should I know? If the washing line breaks, they’ll disappear into the lake never to be seen again.” “You can’t possibly go up on the roof in this wind.” “No, otherwise I’ll disappear into the lake never to be seen again,” I say as there is a sudden loud, metallic crash above our heads. I immediately jump up and run to the cabin door. A Russian behind us is obviously thinking exactly the same thing. He jumps up and helps me push the door open against the wind. I slip through and have the chance to take a look at the roof. “Phew, lucky”, I think as I see our bikes standing where I tied them up, undamaged. “So, how’s it looking?” asks Tanja when I come back. “Good, they are more crooked than before but the cord seems to be holding,” I explain. As soon as I have settled down, it crashes over us again. I hurriedly run forward to the cabin door, swaying. The swell makes it impossible to go straight ahead. The hull of the Barguzin violently divides the waves that thunder mercilessly and brutally against it as if it were not made of water but of concrete. Although I’m aware that I won’t be able to get onto the roof to rescue our bikes in the swell, even in an emergency, I open the board door again and look out. Everything stays the same. The Intercontinental holds out. Reassured, I sit down again. “Well, I imagined the journey to be a bit more comfortable and stress-free,” I say. Sleep is almost unthinkable, as my neck is constantly jolted by the impact of the hull. The first passengers get seasick, while other guests find the ride across the lake fantastic and laugh heartily.

After four hours of driving, the Baikal calms down a little. Many of the guests use the time to expose themselves to the wind on the foredeck. The bikes still stand like a rock in the surf on the iron railing. The captain sails to a few secluded beaches to let guests off the boat and pick up new ones. As on the way here, we now enjoy the rugged, sloping rock faces of the shore. The taiga stretches almost without a gap to the mountainous horizon. It burns in some places. The wind continues to fan the fire, allowing it to spread over the hills. In some years, the fire has fatal consequences. In 2003, for example, the situation was frightening. After a summer with very little precipitation, over 2,000 fire hotspots were discovered in the Irkutsk region alone. They raged for more than two months and destroyed indescribably large areas of forest. The clouds of smoke even drifted over Irkutsk, so that the sun was barely visible. Many of the fires are caused by careless burning of grass and garbage. Profit-seeking businessmen also deliberately set fires to reduce the biological value of forests. This makes it easier for them to obtain logging permits. On the other hand, forest fires also occur naturally. They are, however, isolated undergrowth fires that occur in spring when the ground is dry and the first green has not yet emerged. They help to release nutrients from the biomass that would otherwise decompose very slowly.

At 18:00 there are hardly any people left on the Bargusin. Apparently none of the tourists wanted to return to Irkutsk. It is 8 p.m. when we call at the small port of Irkutsk. Our bikes are quickly carried ashore. “And what do they look like?” asks Tanja. “Good, they survived the transport in one piece,” I reply with relief after a quick check. Before we set off, I clean the entire drive very thoroughly. This time with success. Now that we’ve had asphalt under us again for over two weeks, the chain stays clean and the wheels purr along as they always have. We soon reach the hotel where our trailers are stored. We only get the last room because we made a reservation by phone. It is not easy to find accommodation in Irkutsk at this time of year. Above all, there is hardly anywhere to store our bikes.

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