Dead Ambience

by Pavel Shakin (Russia)

I didn't expect to find Russia

After an eight-hour journey by train, me and my friend, nicknamed Stringer, got on a on old dirty bus, carrying us through interminable Taiga to the Konjac mountain. It is only 1569 meters high, the Urals aren`t as youthful and immense as the Himalayas, but they don`t lack majesty and wisdom. The road was bumpy. The windows were covered with mud. So we couldn`t but respectfully look into sulky hungover faces of our companions. In response, three men, late in their fifties, were mistrustfully judging our unconventional look. As if trying to demonstrate their superiority a dominant male lit a cigarette. Smelling the smoke, the driver burst out unrivaled swearing. The cigarette was submissively stubbed out, and our companions turned back to conversation, taking no notice of us. Three hours later, we got off the bus and plunged into deafening creepy silence. To reach the point we had to cover 15 kilometers. We found the hiking trail and started the route. The summer was nearly over. The forest welcomed us with drizzling rain and tall groaning pines. We had already splashed out our innate talkativeness on train, so we preferred to keep quiet. Trying to escape from bustling cities, fuming chimney shafts and buzzing thoughts, we were deliberately trying to enjoy our spontaneous retreat. However, it was impossible just to turn the channel over. I could not avoid impacts of swelling anxiety, could not grope the invisible thread leading to peace. The forest seemed asleep or abandoned. We could hear only a jeering twitter of birds and whisper of wind. When walking up we discovered that the trees grew smaller and smaller, their trunks and branches were weirdly twisted, as if being pressed by heavy grey clouds. Having reached the plain, we set up a camp. Crimson glimpses of sunset broke through the somber indifferent sky. After having a snack, we got into the tent and fell asleep. The following morning, before ascending the top, we stumbled across a small glide of reindeer moss. Tiny dewdrops were scattered over a silver rug, glittering like crystal beads in delicate sunlight. No unicorn came to enjoy this treat, but nothing can be too perfect. A giant rock river led to the top, offering a fantastic view – foggy clouds were slithering down from the dull bottomless sky, which stretched out above vast areas of woods and hills, as far as the eye could see. It was getting colder. Soon enough we found ourselves in the ocean of snowstorm. It was impossible to see anything, so we decided to go down. When we reached the camp, the snowstorm turned into heavy rain. We packed up our humble outfit and kept on walking, expecting to find a better shelter below. Finally, we found an appropriate place and pitched up a tent. After a chilly night we came back to the road and started waiting for the bus, but it didn`t arrive. So we hailed the first car, it was a great luck in that thicket, and went home. The driver of a large lorry wasn`t very talkative, but we didn`t mind. I had a nap and opened my eyes, when the lorry stopped. Roaring bulldozers blocked the way. We got off the truck and walked up to a group of smoking soldiers. One of them told us, that we had to wait until they built a side road, because there had been an explosion of a gas pipeline the night before. I looked around; there was nothing but wasteland within a range of about two kilometers. Trunks of thousands of trees turned into dark candle stubs. They were reproachfully protruding from the dead ground. We came closer. A desert of ash was everywhere. We hadn`t heard the sound of the blast - it had been swallowed by the sea of burning trees. We hadn`t seen the flash - our eyes had been shut. Sharpened black logs of killed pines and birches looked like a military cemetery of unknown warriors. I could feel their pain and grief in that lifeless tranquility. No unicorn came to share that woe. Nothing can be too perfect.