From North Pole to Equator: Studies of Wild Life and Scenes in Many Lands

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

As an instance of a forest glorious in such charms, I may mention that region known as “Taiga,”[30] which lies between the towns Schlangenberg and Salain, in the domain of Altai. In the broad tract which this beautiful forest covers there is a most pleasing succession of long ridges and rounded hills, valleys, troughs, and basins. One hill rises beyond and above another, and everywhere one sees a sky-line of forest. Pines and pichta firs, aspen and willow, mountain-ash and bird-cherry, are in the majority among the high trees, and are mingled in most pleasing contrasts of bright and dark colour, of light and shade. The soft lines of the foliage trees are pleasingly broken by the conical summits of the pichta firs which overtop them. The two species of Siberian pea-tree, guelder-rose and woodbine, wild rose and currant are combined in the brightly blooming undergrowth; Umbellifers as tall as a man, especially hemlock; spiræa; ferns such as maidenhair, larkspur and foxglove, bluebell and hellebore all shooting up in unparalleled luxuriance, weave a gay carpet, from which the wild hops climb and twine up to the tall trees. It is as if the art of the landscape gardener had been intelligently exercised, as if man had fashioned the whole with an eye to scenic effect.

In the south, the forests show their greatest beauty in spring, in the north, in autumn. By the first days of September the leaves of the foliage trees begin to turn yellow here, and by the middle of the month the north Siberian forest is more brilliant than any of ours. From the darkest green to the most flaming red, through green and light green, light yellow and orange yellow, pale red and carmine, all the shades of colour are represented. The dark Norway spruce firs and pichta firs are followed by the cembra pines and larches; and next in order come the few birches which are not yet yellowed. The white alders display all gradations from dark to light green and to greenish yellow; the aspen leaves are bright cinnabar red, the mountain-ash and the bird-cherry are carmine. So rich and yet so harmonious is the mingling of all these colours that sense and sentiment are satisfied to the full.

Such are the pictures which the woodlands of Western Siberia display to the traveller. But all the sketches we have attempted to give have been taken from within a narrow fringe. To penetrate further into the primeval forests, in summer at least, seems to the western traveller absolutely impossible. On the slopes of the mountains he is hindered by thickets and masses of débris, on highland and plain alike by prostrate trees and a tangle of bushes, in the hollows and valleys by standing and flowing water, by brooks and swamps. Wide-spread talus from the rocks, blocks and boulders rolled into heaps and layers form barriers on all the hills; lichens and mosses form a web over the rocks, and treacherously conceal the numerous gaps and clefts between them; a young undergrowth is rooted between and upon the old possessors of the soil; and the old trees as well as the young increase the risk of attempting to traverse these regions. On the low ground the obstacles which the forests present are hardly less formidable. Literally impenetrable thickets such as exist in the virgin forests of equatorial countries there are none, but there are obstacles enough. The prostrated trunks are all the more troublesome because most of them lie, not on the untrodden path, but at an inconvenient height above it; they are turnpikes in the most unpleasant sense of the word. Sometimes it is possible to climb over them or to creep under them; but equally often neither is possible, and one is forced to make a circuit, which is the more unwelcome, since, without constant reference to the compass, it is only too easy to stray from the intended direction. Real clearings are met with but rarely, and if one tries to walk across them, deep holes and pools full of mud and decayed débris soon show that here also the greatest caution is necessary. If the traveller trusts to one of the many cattle-tracks, which, in the south of the forest-zone, lead from every village to the forest, and penetrate into it for some distance, even then sooner or later he finds himself at fault. It is impossible to tell, or even to guess, whither such a path leads, for it intersects hundreds of others, and runs through tangled brushwood, through tall grass concealing unpleasant débris of trees, through moss and marsh; in short, they are not paths for human foot. Thus, though there are not everywhere insuperable obstacles, one meets everywhere and continuously with hindrances so numerous and so vexatious, that even where the plague of mosquitoes is not intolerable, the traveller is apt to return much sooner than he had intended. Only in winter, when hard frost has covered all the pools, bogs, and swamps with a trustworthy crust, when deep snow has smoothed off most of the roughnesses, and is itself coated with a hard layer of ice, only then are the forests accessible to the hunter equipped with snow-shoes, and accompanied by weather-hardened dogs; only then can even the natives think of making long expeditions.

Siberian forests are dumb and dead, “dead to the point of starvation”, as Middendorf most justly says. The silence which reigns within them is a positive torture. When the pairing of the black-cock is past one may hear the song of the fieldfare and the black-throated thrush, the warbling of the white-throat, the linnet, and the pine grosbeak, the melody of the wood-wren, and the call of the cuckoo, but hardly ever all these voices at once. The trilling call of the greenshank and redshank becomes a song, the chattering of the magpie gains a new charm, even the cawing of the hooded crow and the raven seem cheerful, and the call of a woodpecker or a titmouse most refreshing. The silence expresses the desolateness of the woods. He who hopes to be able to lead in them a joyous sportsman’s life will be bitterly disappointed. Doubtless all the immense woods of this region have more tenants, especially birds and mammals, than we are at first inclined to believe, but these animals are so unequally distributed over the immeasurable area, and probably also wander so widely, that we can arrive at no standard for estimating their numbers. Miles and miles are, or appear to be for a time at least, so lifeless and desolate that naturalist and sportsman alike are almost driven to despair, their expectations are so continually disappointed. All the reports of even experienced observers who have sojourned there leave one still in the dark. Districts which seem to combine all the conditions necessary for the vigorous and comfortable life of certain species of animals, shelter, to all appearance, not a single pair, not even a male, naturally fond of roving. In such woods, far from human settlements, and to some extent beyond the limits of human traffic, one cannot but hope at length to fall in with the species which should frequent such places, but the hope is as fallacious as the supposition that one is more likely to meet with them in the heart of the forest than on its outskirts. The fact is that the regions under man’s influence, which he has modified, and to some extent cultivated, seem often to exhibit a more abundant and diverse life than the interior of the forest-wilderness. Wherever man has founded stable settlements, rooted out trees, and laid out fields and pasture-lands, there gradually arises a greater diversity of animal life than is to be seen in the vast untouched regions which remain in their original monotony. It seems as if many animals find suitable localities for settlement only after the ground is brought under cultivation. Of course the fact that certain animals are more abundant in the neighbourhood of man, where they are ruthlessly hunted, than they are in the inaccessible forest, where danger scarce threatens them, implies a gradual reinforcement from without. At certain seasons at least there must be migrations of more or less considerable extent, and in these most of the West Siberian animals take part. All the observations hitherto made corroborate this view.

Fig. 19.—Reindeer Flocking to Drink.

The only stationary animals, in the usual sense of the word, seem to be certain mountain species and those which hibernate in caves and holes; all the rest migrate more or less regularly. At the pairing and nesting time all the West Siberian animals segregate themselves, except those which are gregarious during the breeding season. Later on, the parents and their young combine with their fellows in herds or flocks, which, impelled by the need for more readily obtainable food, and perhaps also driven off by the plague of mosquitoes, set out on their wanderings together. Localities rich in fodder attract the herbivorous creatures, which are the first to arrive, but on their heels come others, and finally their enemies. Thus certain parts of the woodland are depopulated and others are peopled, and there occur actual blocks in the migratory stream, which must be the more striking in contrast to the usual desolateness and emptiness of the forest. The scenes of old conflagrations are favourite rendezvous, for, on the fertilized soil, berry-bearing bushes of various sorts have sprung up and attained luxuriant growth. Here, in autumn, the Siberian herbivores find a rich harvest, and not only they, but wolves and foxes, martens and gluttons, sables and bears, primarily attracted by the collected herds, may be seen banqueting, devouring the berries with evident pleasure. The different animals thus brought together seem to remain for a time in a certain correlation. The herbivores, as observant sportsmen have noticed, keep with unmistakable constancy to the berries; and the carnivores follow closely in their tracks.

These migrations explain how it is that during certain years some of the woods are filled with all kinds of beasts of the chase, while during other years they are entirely forsaken. The traveller from the west, who journeys in late winter or early spring in Western Siberia, beholds with astonishment a flock of three to five hundred black-game rise in crowded flight from the highway through the forest, and learns with not less astonishment a little later that the same or even more favourable woods are but sparsely stocked with these birds. In summer he searches in the most suitable localities for the hazel-grouse, and is discouraged because his search is continually futile; in autumn he is pleasantly surprised to see, in the same places, abundance of the same game.

So peculiar are the conditions due to the monotonous uniformity of wide stretches, that the huntsman who will make sure of his booty must be very familiar with them; indeed, even the most skilful and experienced sportsman is always and everywhere in the measureless forests at the mercy of chance. Whatever be the game he pursues, he never can predict where he will find it. Yesterday the goddess of the chase was kind to extravagance; to-day she refuses him every aid. There is no lack of game, but the huntsman who had to live on what he shot would starve. A sportsman’s life, such as is possible in other latitudes, is inconceivable in Western Siberia; the profit to be derived from the forest chase is inconsiderable. Some animals, for example the beaver,[31] seem already to have been exterminated; and others, especially the much-prized sable, have withdrawn from the inhabited districts into the interior of the forest. Everywhere in Siberia one hears the common complaint, that game becomes scarcer every year; and it is certain that from one decennium to another the diminution is perceptible. For this man is not wholly responsible; the forest-fires and the devastating epidemics which now and then break out are probably as much, if not more, to blame. At the same time, no Siberian ever realizes that a temporary sparing of the game is the first condition of its preservation. Sportsman-like hunting is unknown; the most varied means are used to kill as many animals as possible. Gun and rifle are mere accessories; pitfalls and nets, spring-guns and poison are the most important agents employed by natives and immigrants alike.

“Game” to the Siberian means every animal which he can in any way use after its death, the elk and the flying squirrel, the tiger and the weasel, the capercaillie and the magpie. What the superstition of one race spares falls as a booty to the other; animals whose flesh the Russians despise are delicacies to the Mongolian palate. Ostiaks and Samoyedes take young foxes, martens, bears, owls, swans, geese, and other creatures, treat them tenderly as long as they are young, care for them sedulously until the fur or plumage is fully developed, and then kill them, eating the flesh and selling the skin. The number of skins brought from Siberia to the markets there and in Europe is computed in millions: the number used in the country itself is much smaller, but still very considerable. The quantity of furred, and especially of feathered game, which is transported to a distance in a frozen state, also mounts up to many hundreds of thousands. Along with the furs of mammals the skins of certain birds are at present much exported, especially those of swans, geese, gulls, grebes, and magpies, which, like the furs, are used in making muffs, collars, and hat trimmings. A single merchant in the unimportant town of Tjukalinsk passes through his hands every year thirty thousand plover-skins, ten thousand swan-skins, and about a hundred thousand magpies; and some years ago his sale was much larger.[32] That the total traffic in skins must involve a yearly diminution of the animals is certain; and that only the inaccessibility of the wildernesses of forest and water preserves the affected species from utter destruction will be plain to everyone who knows the unsparing hand of the Siberian huntsman.