I was on the shores of lake Khovsgol, Mongolia, when the good news came by text.  My second passport had just arrived by express mail with a three month Russian visa. 
Just a few days later my night flight was landing at the Irkuskt airport in Siberia.
Fascinated for years by this part of the world, this name resonates in me.  I've read quite a bit of material mentioning in passing, or in more detail, "Irkuskt."  But now, finally, I wasn't reading, my eyes stuck in the pages of some story.

Airport and bureaucracy

Natalia, my local contact, was patiently waiting for me.  Meanwhile, on the other side of the glass door, a tall Russian lady in a bottle green uniform conducts a vigorous and thorough baggage check, explaining that I need to pay a surcharge on baggage arriving in Russia.  The exorbitant sum that I'd already paid in Mongolia doesn't concern them.  The official looks me straight in the eyes and I hear, for the first time, "It's procedure," in a tone of voice that leaves little hope for negotiation.

In spite of the hour (1 am), I expend a little more energy with the firm intention of not letting myself be had by a guard in need of cash.  So I decide to dump out all of my things, right there in the middle of the hall:  cart, cooking pot, water pump, tent, mattress, etc...
Before long, amused laughter echoes through the terminal.
"Why didn't you bring your husband with you?"
I look up from my hardware.  "Well, he needs to work a little!!"
In a shared burst of laughter, she waved for me to collect my odd assortment of possessions and leave.  This was my official entry to Siberia.

8/1/11  A departure under the sun

Port Baikal is my point of departure.  According to the basic maps that I was able to find, I should be able to go around the lake to the south.  Stuck between the lake and the rocks, I have to walk (or really jump) for more than seven days on a railroad track, the only available space.  My cart, which normally follows me without much noise, is carefully attached to my belt by two large carabiners.  From moment to moment, we pass perilously through 39 tunnels (totaling 9 km) and over 248 bridges, all the while sharing the track with several convoys of all sorts.  These range from homemade wagons destined for the immediate towns, occupying the tracks in the gaps between the hours of the official trains, to convoys of tourists crammed into old-fashioned train cars, antique versions of restored trains with an air of luxury--but to be avoided at all costs lest sharing the tunnels comes to resemble the ambiance of a pressure cooker.
Nature takes the upper hand

But the flowers are everywhere, even tickling the underside of my arm; everything is more over grown here, dense and intense in its nuance.  I find myself *buried* by the odors of humus and chlorophyll.  In spots, the access is vertical, and only vegetation touches the lake.  Expanse that leaves the spirit suspended.  A gentle disconnect as though, from time to time, the pause button is pressed.  Hypnotic Mr. Baikal, the local name goes.  Far away the nerpa, fresh water seals, surface with their round and shiny little heads, just long enough to catch their breath.  I can't mention seals without thinking of the wonderful passage from the book by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, "Women Who Run with the Wolves," where she counts and analyzes--skin of the seal, skin of the spirit.  (I leave you curious to discover this magnificent book for yourself.)
Nerpa are the only variety of fresh water seals in the world.  The population totals 60,000 individuals living in the largest Russian fresh water reserve (comprising 80% of the fresh water in Russia).
Fishing pole at rest
Otters, nerpas, water birds, etc... I won't risk accidentally fishing one of these magnificent inhabitants of the banks, so I'll abstain.

My road is still long... At the dawn of our meeting, I already love it, brutal and vibrant.  There reigns here in Siberia an energy that devours anyone who hasn't understood that each moment is survival.