The general impression which the Siberian forests make on the German traveller is by no means favourable. At the apparently boundless tracts which are wooded, he is of course astonished, but he cannot be enthusiastic, or at least very rarely. The creative, productive, renewing power of the North does not seem to be adequate to balance the destructive forces. Hoary age stands side by side with fresh youth, but somehow there is no vitality in the combination; incomputable wealth appears in beggar’s garb; and moribund life without any promise of vigorous rejuvenescence inhibits any feeling of joy. Everywhere we seem to perceive the hard struggle for existence, but nowhere are we really fascinated or attracted by the spirit of the woods, nowhere does the interior fulfil the expectations which the external aspect suggested. The splendour of the primitive forests in lower latitudes is entirely and absolutely lacking in this derelict, uncared-for woodland. The life which stirs within them seems as if it had already fallen under the shadow of death.[28]
True forest, full of fresh life, with continuance amid a regular succession of changes, is rare. The devastation wrought by fire is a much more frequent spectacle. Sooner or later a lightning-flash, or the culpable carelessness of the Siberian, sets the forest in a blaze. Favoured by the season and the weather the conflagration spreads in a manner scarce conceivable. Not for hours, but for days, or even for weeks, the destruction rages. On the mossy and turfy ground the flames smoulder and creep further and further; the quantities of dry and mouldy débris on the ground feed them, dry branches hanging down to the ground, or dead trunks, still upright, lead them to the tops of the living trees. Hissing and cracking the resinous needles fall, and a gigantic spray of sparks rises to heaven. In a few minutes the giant tree is dead, and the destruction spreads; the rockets which radiate from it fall in thousands of sparks, and all around fresh flames spring from the glowing seed. Thus every minute the fire gains ground, and destruction spreads on all sides uncontrolled. In a few hours square miles of the forest are ablaze. Over hundreds of square versts steaming clouds of smoke darken the sun; slowly, but thickly, and ever more thickly, the ashes drizzle down, and tell by day to distant settlers, as the glow reflected in the sky proclaims by night, that there is a fire in the forest. Affrighted animals carry terror into the surrounding townships. Immediately after great forest-fires, bears appear in districts where they have not been seen for years; wolves wander over the open country in formidable troops as if it were winter; elks, stags, roedeer and reindeer seek new homes in distant forests; and squirrels in countless swarms hurry through wood and plain, field and meadow, village and town. How many of the terror-stricken beasts fall victims to the fire no one can estimate, but it has been found that woodlands desolated by conflagration remain for many years thereafter without fresh settlers, and that the valuable beasts of the chase have entirely disappeared from many of these desolated districts. The devastation is sometimes on a scale of vast magnitude; thus, in 1870, a fire which raged for about fourteen days destroyed a million and a quarter acres of valuable forest in the government of Tobolsk, while clouds of smoke and showers of ashes were borne to a distance of a thousand miles from the seat of the conflagration.
For many years the devastated woodland remains like an immense succession of ruins; even after a generation or two the limits of the conflagration may be recognized and defined. The flames destroy the life of almost all the trees, but they devour only those which were already dry; thus stems more smoked than charred remain standing, and even their tops may remain bereft only of their needles, young shoots, and dry twigs. But they are dead and their destruction is in process. Sooner or later they are bound to fall before the storm. One after another is hurled to the ground, and one after another is robbed of its branches, its crown, or a third or a fourth of the trunk is broken off from the top. Across one another, at all angles, and at different levels, thousands of these tree-corpses lie prostrate on the ground already thickly covered with piles of débris. Some rest on their roots and top-branches, others lean on the still upright stems of their neighbours, and others already lie crumbling among the fallen branches, their tops often far from their trunks, their branches scattered all around. To the lover of the woods, those stems which still withstand the storm have perhaps an even more doleful appearance than those which have fallen. They stand up in nakedness like bare masts. Only a few retain their tops, or parts of them, for several years after the fire; but the weather-beaten twigless branches of the crowns rather increase than lessen the mournfulness of the picture. Gradually all the crowns sink to the ground, and the still upright trunks become more and more rotten. Woodpeckers attack them on all sides, chisel out nesting-holes, and make yard-long passages leading into the tree’s heart, thus allowing the moisture free entrance and accelerating the process of decay. In the course of years even the largest trunk has mouldered so completely that it is really one huge homogeneous mass of rotten tinder which has lost all stability. Indeed, a rough shake from a man’s hand is sufficient to make it fall into a heap of shapeless débris. Finally, even this disappears, and there is left a treeless expanse, broken only here and there by the last traces of a trunk.
But even here a new life begins to rise from amid the ruins. Some years after the conflagration, the charred ground, manured by ashes and decayed débris, begins once more to be adorned. Lichens and mosses, ferns and heaths, and above all various berry-bearing bushes cover the ground and the débris of the trees. These flourish more luxuriantly here than anywhere else, and they begin to attract animals as various as those which the flames had banished. Seeds of birch borne by the wind germinate and become seedlings, which gradually form, at first exclusively, a thicket as dense as if it had sprung from man’s sowing. After some years a young undergrowth has covered the field of the dead; after a longer interval other forest trees gradually arise in the room of their predecessors. Every forest-fire spares some parts of the region which it embraces; even isolated trees may survive in the midst of the burned area, and effect the re-sowing of the desolated tract. Sheets of water and deep gorges may set limits to the fire, and it may even happen that the flames, leaping over a gulley, continue their devastation on the opposite bank without injuring the trees in the depths beneath. Moreover, individual larch-trees which have been attacked by the fire may escape destruction. The bases of the trunks are charred and all the needles are shrivelled up, but often the crown bursts forth afresh, and for a time the tree continues, though somewhat miserably, to live.
In comparison with the ravages of the flames, the devastations for which man is directly responsible seem trivial, but in themselves they are of no slight importance. Of forest-culture the Siberian has no conception. The forest belongs to God, and what is His is also the peasant’s; thus, in view of the practically infinite wealth, he never thinks of sparing, but does what he pleases, what the needs of the moment seem to him to demand. Every Siberian fells and roots out, where and as he pleases, and everyone destroys infinitely more than he really requires. For a few cones he will fell a pine, even if it be in the prime of growth; to obtain building wood he will cut down three or four times the quantity required, leaving the residue without a thought, often not even using it for fuel. Already, such careless procedure has entailed serious consequences. The woods in the neighbourhood of townships, and here and there even those near the highways, are worked out, and appear scarce better than those which the fire has devastated; and still the work of destruction goes on. It is only since 1875 that there have been forest-officers in Western Siberia, and even they give their attention rather to the exploitation than to the renewal of the woods.
Even where neither man nor fire has ravaged them the forests present an appearance essentially different from ours—an appearance of complete, absolutely uncontrolled naturalness. It is but rarely, however, that this attracts us. At first, perhaps, we are impressed by seeing at one glance all stages of growth and decay; but the dead soon becomes more conspicuous than the living, and this depresses instead of stimulating.[29] In forests thus left in their natural state, thick growth alternates with clearing, tall trees with mere thicket, hoary senility with vigorous youth. Mouldering trees stand or lean, hang or lie everywhere. From the remains of fallen stems young shoots sprout; gigantic corpses bar the way within the thickets. Willows and aspens, which, with the birch, are the most abundant foliage-trees of Western Siberia, appear at times in irreproachable perfection, and at times as if they had been persistently hindered from full growth. Stems thicker than a man’s waist bear tangled crowns of small size, on which, year after year, fresh twigs break forth without being able to grow into branches; other apparently aged trees remain not more than bushes; and others, broken across the middle, have their split, cracked, and twisted upper parts connected to the trunk only by the splintered bark. Rarely does one get a complete picture; everything looks as if it were going to ruin, and could advance only in decay.
Yet this sketch is not true of all the woods in this vast region; there are indeed woodlands, especially in the south of the zone, on which the eye rests with satisfaction. Locality, situation, soil, and other conditions are sometimes alike propitious and combine to produce pleasing results. The growth of the individual trees becomes vigorous, and the general composition of the wood changes; the undergrowth, which is luxuriant everywhere, becomes diversified in the most unexpected manner. Gladly one welcomes each new species of tree or bush which reduces the marked poverty of species in these forests, but even from the richest tracts many trees are awanting which we rarely miss in Europe at the same latitude. It must be confessed that the forests of Siberia are uniform and monotonous, like the steppes, and like the tundra.
In the river-valleys of the forest zone the uniformity is perhaps most conspicuous. Here the willows predominate, forming often extensive woods by the banks and on the islands, almost to the complete exclusion of other trees. Over wide stretches willows alone form the woods of the valley, and in many places the trees rise to a stately height, yet even then without often gaining in impressiveness or charm. For the isolated willow-tree is not more, but rather less picturesque than the willow bushes; its crown is always thin and irregular, it is not close-set but loose and open, in fact almost scraggy. On frequent repetition it becomes wearisome. When the willows stand, as is usual, close beside one another, they form a dense thicket, and then, even more than the isolated tree, they lack character, for all the stems rise like posts and all the crowns fuse into a close, straight-contoured mass of foliage, suggestive of a clipped hedge, in which the individual trees are entirely merged. As pleasing additions to such monotonous woods we welcome the sprinkling of poplars, the silver poplar in the south, the aspen in the north, both of them giving some animation to the willows. In the valley of the stream too, but only in those places which are not subject to regularly-recurring floods, the birch appears in addition to the trees already noticed; indeed birch-covered tracts occur with some constancy as connecting links between the willow-woods and the pine-forests. But it is only in the south of the zone that the birch attains its full size and vigour; it is as unresisting a victim to the flames as the most resinous pine, and is therefore incapable of greatly affecting the general aspect of the forest. More or less unmixed birch woods bound the forest zone to the south, and sometimes intrude far into the steppes, yet it is but rarely that they form thick, compact, well-established stretches of timber; and they are, when one sets foot in them, disappointing.
On the other hand, the pine-forests which cover all the regions between the river-courses often fascinate and satisfy the traveller from the west. If the tundra has not gained upon them or begun to make its desolating mark, they consist in the main of vigorous pines and Norway spruce firs, the pichta or Siberian silver fir, the cembra pine, and more rarely larches. Among these there are aspens and willows, with occasional mountain-ash and bird-cherry, while birches often appear in as great vigour as in woods which consist exclusively of this accommodating tree. The pichta and the cembra pine are the characteristic trees of all West Siberian pine-forests, and vie with one another in beauty and vigour of growth. The pichta is a particularly beautiful tree. Nearly related to our silver fir, and representing it in all East Russian and West Siberian woodlands, even from a distance it catches the eye, standing out impressively from among all the other conifers. From the silver fir and from the Norway spruce fir the pichta is distinguished by the stateliness of its slender conical crown and by the rich, delicate, bright green needles. Almost always it overtops the other trees of the forest; usually, indeed, the topmost third is above the crowns of its neighbours, thus effectively breaking the sky-line of the forest and giving an individual character to certain regions. The cembra or stone pine, which flourishes especially in the south of the forest zone, though it also occurs far to the north, has round, smooth, usually compact tops which contrast well with those of the other pines and firs; and it also contributes not a little to the external adornment of the forest, towards making it seem more attractive than it is. Pines and spruce firs are nowhere absent, but they do not flourish everywhere as they do in the mountains of Central Germany; towards the north they sink rapidly into crippled senility. And so is it also with the larches, whose true home is Siberia; it is only in the south of the forest zone, especially on the mountains, that they attain the stately height of those in our country.
The above-named species include almost all those which occur regularly in the woodlands of Western Siberia. There seems to be a complete absence of oak and beech, elm and ash, lime and maple, silver fir and yew, hornbeam and black poplar. On the other hand, there are many kinds of bushes and shrubs in abundance everywhere. Even in the north the undergrowth of the forests is surprisingly rich and luxuriant. Currants and raspberries flourish to a latitude of 58°, a species of woodbine occurs up to 67°; juniper, white alder, sallow, crowberry, bilberry, cranberry, and cloudberries increase rather than decrease as one goes north; and even on the margins of the tundra, where dwarf-birches and marsh-andromedas, mosses, and cowberries insinuate themselves into the interior of the woods, the ground is still everywhere thickly covered, for the mosses thrive the more luxuriantly the poorer the woods become. The steppes also contribute to enrich the woods, for in the south of the forest zone, not only most of the steppe-bushes and shrubs, but also various herbs and flowers, enter or fringe the forest. Thus certain wooded stretches of this border-land become natural parks, which in spring and early summer display a surprising splendour of blossom.