Tent Life in Siberia: A New Account of an Old Undertaking; Adventures among the Koraks and Other Tribes In Kamchatka and Northern AsiaKennan, George
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Tent Life in Siberia: A New Account of an Old Undertaking; Adventures among the Koraks and Other Tribes In Kamchatka and Northern Asia
Kennan, George
Kamchatka Peninsula (Russia) -- Description and travel; Kennan, George, 1845-1924; Siberia, Eastern (Russia) -- Description and travel
I know that I am laying myself open to the charge of exaggeration by
thus praising Kamchatkan scenery, and that my enthusiasm will perhaps
elicit a smile of amusement from the more experienced traveller who
has seen Italy and the Alps; still, I am describing things as they
appeared to me, and do not assert that the impressions they made were
those that should or would have been made upon a man of more extensive
experience and wider observation. To use the words of a Spanish
writer, which I have somewhere read, "The man who has never seen the
glory of the sun cannot be blamed for thinking that there is no glory
like that of the moon; nor he who has never seen the moon, for talking
of the unrivalled brightness of the morning star." Had I ever sailed
down the Rhine, climbed the Matterhorn, or seen the moon rise over
the Bay of Naples, I should have taken perhaps a juster and less
enthusiastic view of Kamchatka; but, compared with anything that I had
previously seen or imagined, the mountain landscapes of southern and
central Kamchatka were superb.
At Sherom, thanks to the courier who had preceded us, we found a boat,
or Kamchatkan raft, ready for our reception. It was composed of three
large dugout canoes placed parallel to one another at distances of
about three feet, and lashed with sealskin thongs to stout transverse
poles. Over these was laid a floor or platform about ten feet by
twelve, leaving room at the bow and stern of each canoe for men with
paddles who were to guide and propel the unwieldy craft in some
unknown, but, doubtless, satisfactory manner. On the platform, which
was covered to a depth of six inches with freshly cut grass, we
pitched our little cotton tent, and transformed it with bearskins,
blankets, and pillows into a very cosy substitute for a stateroom.
Rifles and revolvers were unstrapped from our tired bodies, and hung
up against the tent poles; heavy riding boots were unceremoniously
kicked off, and replaced by soft buckskin _torbasses_ [Footnote:
Moccasin boots.]; saddles were stored away in convenient nooks for
future use; and all our things disposed with a view to the enjoyment
of as much luxury as was compatible with our situation.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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