Bellingham, WA
April 27, 2004
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Editor's Note: No sea kayaking expedition is complete without at least one encounter with nature in a bad mood. Heather Nelson shares her thrilling encounter on Lake Baikal.
By Heather
We were less than sixty miles from the finish of our 1200-mile circumnavigation of Lake Baikal when we awoke to waves crashing high onto the beach and lapping the side of our tent. Our dome shelter was already showing the signs of hard use when we had set it up the evening before. Our bodies were tired, and the flat spot we had chosen had looked so much more comfortable than any spot further from the water. The waves pounded on the weakened fabric, sending droplets of icy water into the warmth of our tent and sleeping bags. The loud crash of an especially big wave shocked me out of sleep and into action like a firefighter leaping out of bed for a late night call. In an instant, I sprang into a crouched position on my haunches in the tent's doorway, gaping out at the great lake, and shaking Brandon from his deep slumber. He peered out and, with the detachment only a sleepy male in the midst of a crisis can maintain, said, "Either we pack and go, or we move the tent and sit here and shiver all day".
Before I could speak, Brandon answered himself. "I say we go". His decision made, he crawled out of his bag and began stuffing it into its sack.
I peeked out one more time. When the Earth's oldest, largest, stormiest lake spoke, I liked to listen. Brandon, on the other hand, liked to be part of the conversation.
Excited by the building winds, Brandon urged me on. I was reluctant to set out in what had the potential to become a storm. My intuition gave me a definitive, "No!" My pride coerced me with reminders of how much I had trained for days like this, how fit I was after over 1000-miles of paddling, and how disappointed Brandon would be if we sat in the tent all day on the mere chance that a storm was on the way.
"Let's do it!" I said, with more enthusiasm than I felt.
The sun had fully risen by the time we launched and paddled into 3 to 4-foot rolling seas. The wind was at our back, and we rode the waves easily. A few boat lengths away from me, Brandon sang a happy tune, a sure sign that he did not share my concern that the wrath of Baikal could come unleashed in a moment's notice.
One can't open a book about Baikal, or speak with a local villager, without being warned of the explosive and instantaneous fury of Baikal. "If a breeze even whispers in your ear," Baikal's coastal residents warned, "get off the lake!" Those warnings are based on Baikal's 30-some named winds: Gornaya, Kultuk, Barguzin, Berezhnik, and the most powerful of them all, the 100mph Sarma. This last one, we had been told, throws livestock from the coastal cliffs, rips roofs off houses and has sent many a sailor to an icy, watery grave.
As we paddled and surfed along, there was an intensity in the air, a warning unheeded by two insignificant sea kayakers on the giant inland sea. Like sentinel soldiers, boulders lined the coast and I watched as waves exploded against them. A sudden gust of wind ripped off my visor. Not wanting to lose my only hat, I shot my hand behind my head, grabbed the visor and shoved it back in place without missing a stroke. My attention back on the water, it dawned on me that the wind had come from in front of us. The moment the thought cleared my brain, waves began hitting us from the south while the winds and waves from the north showed no sign of letting up. "We need to land," Brandon's voice pierced my thoughts. "Stay close."
The opposing winds seemed to gain strength from each other, growing fiercer with each gust and swell. My boat was being tossed like a penny in a washing machine. I wrapped my fingers around my paddle until my knuckles were white through my tanned hands. I watched each gust of wind rip toward me in a rage of thrashing water and icy air from the depths of Burkhan's belly. We had been careless, and the Buryat God of Lake Baikal would show no mercy on us today. With each blast I splayed my body across the top of my deck, gripped my paddle like a lifeline and braced.
"Come towards me!" Brandon screamed above the freight train roar of the wind. No matter how hard I paddled, the wind was stronger. I was getting pushed out to sea. With every passing blast I bowed low, braced, and as I felt the calm before the next gale, I dug my blades into the water and clawed my way towards shore. The entire coast was an explosion of rocks and sea, but each stroke forward gave me strength. I inched closer to Brandon, watching him fight to hold his own ground while he scouted for a place to land. Finally, he pointed directly inland and hollered over the roar of the crashing surf, "I'll land first!"
With a broad sweep of his paddle, Brandon turned towards the shore, took two quick strokes and was on a wave, weaving through the maze of boulders. He made it. I looked away and began the sweep to turn my boat inland when a gust hit me broadside. I braced with all the strength left in my exhausted muscles. As I fought to control my boat, staying low over the bow, a monstrous rogue wave picked me up, draining all the water from beneath me as I was lifted high above the rocky lake bottom.
The wave played with me like a toy, throwing me bow over stern towards the jagged shore. I searched my spray skirt for the strap that would release me from my kayak. My fingers found it and a quick tug freed me from my boat. The icy waters of the lake immediately engulfed me, its' power pulsing through my body. The churning waves tossed me through the treacherous, shallow water. I wrapped one arm around my head while the other reached out as a fragile barrier between my body and the 17-feet of hard, pointed plastic crashing in the surf somewhere next to me. Suddenly I felt solid rock beneath my feet.
I took in my surroundings; Brandon running down the beach towards me, my body unharmed, my kayak close, my paddle riding towards me in the next wave, my visor: gone. I gathered all my strength, grabbed my boat and heaved it toward shore. Brandon arrived in time to grab the boat and drag it far up the beach. Adrenaline won out over common sense and I plunged waist-deep back into the lake to rescue my paddle. The smaller wave surrendered the important piece of gear without a fight.
Minutes later Brandon and I sat in the lee of a large pine, witnessing the wrath of Baikal from a safe distance. Brandon opened a small flask of Russian vodka and we poured a splash on the beach, an offering of thanks to Burkhan. But what filled my thoughts was the nerpa. Her will to survive had touched me and fed me with resolve as the storm exhausted my strength. I knew that the encounter with her was why I had made it through the storm, to paddle another day. I raised the bottle to my lips, and drank a toast to Baikal, to adventure, and to life.
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