Tent Life in Siberia: A New Account of an Old Undertaking; Adventures among the Koraks and Other Tribes In Kamchatka and Northern AsiaKennan, George
History
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
After a couple of hours' rest, during which our heavy baggage was
transferred to another similar raft, we walked down to the sandy
beach, bade good-bye to the crowd which had assembled to see us off,
and swung slowly out into the current, the Kamchadals on the shore
waving hats and handkerchiefs until a bend in the river hid them from
sight. The scenery of the upper Kamchatka for the first twenty miles
was comparatively tame and uninteresting, as the mountains were
entirely concealed by a dense forest of pine, birch, and larch,
which extended down to the water's edge. It was sufficient pleasure,
however, at first, to lie back in the tent upon our soft bearskins,
watching the brilliantly coloured and ever varying foliage of the
banks, to sweep swiftly but silently around abrupt bends into long
vistas of still water, startling the great Kamchatkan eagle from
his lonely perch on some jutting rock, and frightening up clouds of
clamorous waterfowl, which flew in long lines down the river until out
of sight. The navigation of the upper Kamchatka is somewhat intricate
and dangerous at night, on account of the rapidity of the current and
the frequency of snags; and as soon as it grew dark our native boatmen
considered it unsafe to go on. We accordingly beached our rafts and
went ashore to wait for moonrise.
A little semicircle was cut in the thick underbrush at the edge of the
beach, fires were built, kettles of potatoes and fish hung over to
boil, and we all gathered around the cheerful blaze to smoke, talk,
and sing American songs until supper time. The scene to civilised eyes
was strangely wild and picturesque. The dark, lonely river gurgling
mournfully around sunken trees in its channel; the dense primeval
forest whispering softly to the passing wind its amazement at this
invasion of its solitude; the huge flaming camp-fire throwing a
red lurid glare over the still water, and lighting up weirdly the
encircling woods; and the groups of strangely dressed men lounging
carelessly about the blaze upon shaggy bearskins--all made up a
picture worthy of the pencil of Rembrandt.
After supper we amused ourselves by building an immense bonfire of
driftwood on the beach, and hurling blazing firebrands at the leaping
salmon as they passed up the river, and the frightened ducks which had
been roused from sleep by the unusual noise and light. When nothing
remained of our bonfire but a heap of glowing embers, we spread our
bearskins upon the soft, yielding sand by the water's edge, and lay
staring up at the twinkling stars until consciousness faded away into
dreams, and dreams into utter oblivion.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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