Berendeeva a thicket of Zaonezhya
Industrialists like to say that the wood - a renewable resource. But scientists consider, as hundreds of years will not be enough for restoration of a virgin taiga in its present look. In spektrozonalny satellite pictures of border of Vodlozero National Park are visible distinctly as to them naked cuttings down closely rose. Prishvin looked for Berendeeva a thicket in upper courses of Pinega, and it always was on a border zone of the Arkhangelsk region and Karelia, in Zaonezhye. Here bogs with strange names (Stone Mokh, Chirdamokh, Shoyka Mokh, Lishkmokh) are outspread between the spacious pine forests which were not knowing the axe, here veins of streams bulked up dark water of a taiga, and between ridges lakes with treasured islands hide. Here it is an ancient cradle of bylinas...by
To morning of Tuesday appointed the helicopter from Petrozavodsk in Varishpeld`s small village revived by national park in a northern bay of Vodlozero. There so far two houses ashore and chapel. Weak wind pulls gray cotton wool from Onega and tears over the coast. From - for fog the departure is late, and I manage to buy products in near shop. Now I have plus to a backpack and a wardrobe trunk a heavy bag with everything - everything without what not to live three weeks in solitudes.
By noon we fly up. The helicopter slowly bends a hook over the Onega shkher (rocky islands), without having risked to fly straight through the lake. Zaonezhye opens a melkolesny taiga with pale-yellow glades of bogs, with an obligatory window of black water in the middle. The fall concerned orange paint of birches, claret - mountain ashes, and splashes of color among tired greens of fir groves burn. Hour of flight - and under us Vodlozero with bouldery braids and shallows, with gold pies of 196 islands. From height it seems the ancient mirror forgotten in the woods where, missing, the low gray sky is looked.the Reference
the Vodlozero National Park is created by
the Second day the sky over Varishpelda exudes with a sad rain. Yesterday it fell from the running clouds driven by impudent wind. Today - the branch will not move, the leaf will not tremble. An indifferent dullness to the horizons. Drum drops on an izba roof as if mice dance there on sharp heels. Postrelivat fir-tree firewood in the furnace, and potato gurgles in a pan. What else is necessary here in such weather?
End of September. Though the fall was late for few weeks and wind is more often - southern, by the night the sky fluent beams plans the polar lights. At dawn fragmentary clouds are poured by ice blue, wind as if checking a taiga for durability is cooled. But by noon crude heat comes back again. Means, with a winter for the present not everything is so serious, still will take a walk, the shafranny fall will stand out.
the Lake frowns from winds, morshchinyas heavy ripples. Last frosts cooled water, and it began to smell snow. Mushrooms were beaten by cold, only lop-eared svinushka heroically stick out of a moss, powdered with foliage. The frozen bilberry spreads in fingers tasteless is black - blue ink. And cowberry, on the contrary, became even more tasty. Having confused spider lines marsh hummocks, redness the cranberry slowly gathers.
the Fall calmed down and now lasts and lasts, smargivy in a night and beginning last day with eyelashes new - similar to it. It seems, time was slowed down. Only having looked at a near birchwood, you note that there was it absolutely transparent, and the sky freely looks in its most undercover recesses. The breeze will run - and will tremble, the remained leaves as if the scared dawn cloudlets got confused in branches will become agitated.the Tiny forest rivulet with darkly - brown as the Irish beer, water is motionless in we zmeyashchtsya by
the course. It so slowly gives itself to the lake that it seems, this lake started a feeler in the wood - to drink undiluted cranberry drinks. On coast the exotic koml similar to enormous spiders with the spread wide paws stiffened. As if someone main ordered - stand, and nothing will move to the order now.
Having caught sight of me, unwillingly sail from shoal of a pike, disturbing a soft arch the river. Occasionally the whitebait bulknt in the middle, and the smooth surface reconciles again, having put out nervousness by leaves of water-lilies. The fragile autumn magic weaved a silence cover. Silence - the integral property of a taiga, its live, material elements.
the Virgin forest climbs up from a bog a ridge and goes down on raspadka to Vodlozero. On a ridge ant hills are stuck one-and-a-half-meter height. Murasha were hidden in “Babel towers“, only couple of intelligence agents run under a dozhdichok above. To nonsense between five hundred-summer pines and larches, as if in a vault. The sun does not look here - and here everything is wet, it is mouldering and unreliable under thick mosses. Everything slides, crumbles and breaks under a leg. Huge, in two grasps, aspens quietly stand among a disorder, gray columns propping up the low sky. At an inaccessible height turn yellow, their small kroner bow to the South.
the taiga impregnated with a rain Darkened. Emerald here, heavy spirit as if deep water costs between trunks. It presses and restricts a breast as if vydyshat all air. Branches silently drop large drops. The confused, lonely underbrush does not live here about mature years. One hope: the huge pine will be filled up, will make room - and the chance will appear.
It all wrong - a virgin taiga. Disturbs, guards. It - live chaos. Is not present for an art look of any classical piece around. There are no reference points for the city person. The passable way is dissolved behind the back, and ahead - a dark wall.
At midnight a blue claw was broken off by a blanket over the lake, and the Pole star looked from a slanting cut. Then in a fluffy cloudy cave, in a mysterious subsoil of the heavy front of clouds the moon cold flashed. Its reflection laid down on the lake, became agitated, began to sparkle the chromeplated ripple. Passionless light turned a night landscape into unearthly. The distance which is lined ultramariny with a contour of the woods sighed is spacious and it is easy.
the Moonlight from a window a square laid down on a floor, having filled the room with the gentle shine designating space. Everything became illusive and weightless in an air luminescence. It seems, you will move awkwardly - and, alarmed, will fly up, objects from a table will begin to spin, the stool from the furnace, a towel and a table - and will be all this usually, is not surprising at all.Ileks`s
Now I live on a river cordon of park. Flowing from the North into the lake, Ileksa is quiet and beautiful in fenny coast. Rare sounds stick in sedge. Even fish splashes in a whisper. Only spinning of the lumps of foam brought from the Novgudsky threshold hints that the river flows. They - as a gray-haired curl in the middle of a mirror, as a feather of a bird - a blizzard in an easy current. There is a park cordon.Trees approached
close water, peer into the reflections. Bewitched by irrepressible streams, they tend below and below - and fall to the river, having helplessly spread wide roots as if tried to catch silence, and that slipped through their wooden fingers. Did not help out. Did not rescue.
What it is necessary to the person? The small lodge on the bank of the slow taiga river in a familiar way grumbling on an oven a teapot and never-ending fall with imperceptible transition from amber ringing in heavy orange, a small drizzle, rustle of foliage under legs, an apple crunch of hoarfrost in the mornings. And let in mute radio heavenly air rustles. Let dense forests cover elks, bears, gluttons, protein and hares. Let clouds - fat boars with a dark belly - cling to fir-trees, repeating for appearance in the running water...
Here, opposite to a park cordon, there lives the rare echo. With it it is possible to exchange words only with high Jara. On other places it answers reluctantly. The echo from the opposite side of the river, from the marshy gulf echoes, returning words with a delay by a thunderous, epic voice. It was shown me by the inspector Nikolay Mikhaylovich from Kuganavolok (the village on the southern coast of Vodlozero) - fast, dexterous, smiling. He shouted from the coast: “Who are you?“ And the echo severely asked again: “Who are you?“ The forester Alexey standing nearby suddenly cried out: “Who stole collars?“ And the echo reproduced this inappropriate question in a taiga, and in the calming-down repetitions began to sound: “You, you, you“. They bawled with boyish passion for a long time, asking different questions as if secretly hoped that once the echo will not just repeat it, and will give the present answer. I too, which - that asked.“ It well answers today, - told, having shouted, Nikolay Mikhaylovich. - And foam on a current, - suddenly as if inopportunely, he added, - it is similar to our life“.
on marsh expanses the swan - shipun Low flew by and has gutturally something in common with an echo as if called the password. Also the echo abated, hid invisible in wild, up to a breast herbs, in terrible depths of failure bogs, in windbreaks and blockages, fancy a spring flood.
Grew dark. A sharp dead grass, clinging to legs, held down a step. From bogs dank fog is stolen, exfoliates over water an incorrect cloth. The taiga fills up. Will not move, will not shudder. Only occasionally oil large fish will splash, and, long without fading, circles disperse on the sleepy river.
October Slowly rose, and the winter came round as if making up for lost time. At first zakholodat and the sky fell so low that bogs drank directly from clouds. When rains exhausted the water stocks, the North sighed as a real man. Now snow grain with the rain a curtain is rinsed in a pinery gothic style. In the mornings the river soars, and water became transparent and fragile. The wood was tired to resist, summer batteries came to an end in it. By the night the West was poured in the dense, cruel gray color. Against a heavy, long decline trees showed all perfect, nervous graphics of the naked branches.
But as taiga morning blueness is transparent! The smoke of a fire does not fly up up usual smoky property, and creeps away on the river, creeps, pretending to be fog. The landscape is mysterious as if zaplyanut over water ghosts now. Being slowly alloyed in a soft current falling in Ileksu Novguda, for nothing drove a spinner through all this rivulet. Fish went to holes. Only at an island in the mouth hooked on the kilogram shchuchka splashing on a current fork. Accurately took out a hook from a dangerous mouth it. What it was the beauty! Darkly - brown from taiga water, harmonous, fine very much. Well how not to release such! Admired and softly put it in native water.
the boughs which are Sticking out of the river cling overboard my boat, trying to drag off it on a bottom. Thirteen wood-grouses are noisy and were hard carried away on the opposite coast. They watched closely me from branches of a centenary aspen while I floated along the coast. What they pecked on naked branches there - secret. I remember suddenly that around a cordon the bear is unsteady. Scratched, bit kilometer milestones on a footpath. Rose on hinder legs and it is high, above human growth, marked claws trees, showing what it mighty and who here the real owner. Without running off far in the wood a lodge, could not stop in the evenings, the dog choked with bark. Could not calm down, howled, sobbed. Terribly to it here. And I should beware.
What it is a virgin taiga? It is life and death nearby every second. This their indissoluble texture. They embraced so strong that you will not understand where life comes to an end and the death begins. They are unpredictable in eternal, mild fight. The few from begun a way in the morning will live up to evening.
Shipped in narrowness of a taiga, you cannot contain the scale of its spaces in any way. Here, apparently, behind that bog, in the pines reminding the avenue to a train there will be a path. But it is not there and never was. You walk, you fail, you perelazit through the fallen trunks, you evade from biting fir-tree paws, you wind, losing the direction. If not gloss of the river in gleams on the right, would be rolled up in green twilight.
Trees were covered on branches by scraps of a hairy lichen as if animals of color of gunpowder scratched here. The enormous pre-trial detention center - a black raven creaks wings, turns low and shouts kartavo as the angry fascist. What attracts what attracts me in wild this jungle?
For a long time hints on the final were p>
- when the rain was wrapped in snow and vikhritsya by the silent fugue. But at once thawed as if came in dream. Today in the morning everything was already serious. In a night turned gray, the taiga grew old. Mokh did not remind more soft carpet, and, through chilled, held strong. In small zatonchik of the river ridge crystal took water. Each fallen-down leaf bristled on a contour a prickly ice. The cold sun looked from a clear sky with astonishment and joyfully. Again the noisy goose wedges detained by bad weather departed in height, and their loud laughter was especially ringing today.
By white coast, by naked birches and the silvered fir-trees down the river the winter drove me. By noon spiteful wind shook the lake and showered with splashes an icy motorka. Cold streams exuded on a back, on legs under trousers. The wet laika of Mikhaylycha which is coming back home with me in Kuganavolok pressed close in legs, having narrowed eyes, having hidden the head to me under a jacket. The last pack of cigarettes became limp in a pocket.
of the Island of Vodlozero in desperate effort of resistance kept from South side birch copper. But cycles are relentless, time is irreversible - and the fall in the irretrievable past is carried away. Farewell, Land of the Lost with terry fields of bogs, with light pine forests, lake dispersal and tender Ileksa. It is unknown whether we will meet again.