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

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

Fig. 59.—Imperial Eagle, Marmot, and Souslik.

Before we came to Barnaul we had reached the Obi; at Barnaul we crossed it, and at Tomsk we embarked on board a boat. Through its tributary the Tom we entered this giant river, whose basin is larger than that of all the west European rivers taken together, and sailed for about 1700 miles, towards the north. For four days and nights the river—flooded to its highest water-mark—bore us at a rate almost twice as quick as a steamboat hastening up-stream; we required eleven full days and nights to cover the distance between the mouth of the Irtish and that of the Shtchutshya, although we only rested a few hours in Samarowo and Bereosoff, and did not include in our reckoning the two days which we spent in Obdorsk, the last Russian village on the river. The river is gigantic and most impressive, dreary and monotonous though it be called. In one valley, whose breadth varied from six to sixteen miles, it split up into numerous branches surrounding countless islands, and often broadening out into extensive lake-like shallows; near its mouth the depth of water in the main stream—miles in breadth—was on an average about 90 feet. Primeval forests, hardly broken by clearings, into whose heart not even the natives have penetrated, clothed the true banks of the river; willow-woods in all stages of growth covered the islands, which are continually carved at by the floods, eaten away, and built up afresh. The further down we went the poorer became the land, the thinner and more scanty the woods, the more miserable the villages, though as the river nears its mouth the water liberally supplies the food which the land itself denies. Not far below Tomsk, beyond Tobolsk, the soil ceases to reward cultivation, further down the grazing of cattle gradually ceases; but the river teems with shoals of valuable fishes, and the primeval forests along its shores yield rich spoil to the huntsman. Fisher-folk and huntsmen replace the peasants, and the reindeer herdsmen the cattle tenders. Russian settlements become more and more rare, the homes of the Ostiaks become more frequent, until at length the only visible signs of man’s presence are the movable, conical, birch-bark huts or “tshums” of the Ostiaks, and occasional exceedingly miserable log-huts, the temporary shelters of Russian fishermen.

Fig. 60.—An Ostiak Settlement on the Banks of the Obi.

We had determined to explore a tundra or moss-steppe, and had therefore fixed upon the Samoyede peninsula between the Ob and the Kara Sea, all the more because a solution of certain important commercial problems was to be looked for in this portion of the broad treeless zone which encircles the pole—a region, moreover, on which Europeans had scarcely as yet set foot. In Obdorsk and further down-stream we hired for this journey several Russians, Syryanians, Ostiaks, and Samoyedes, and set out on the 15th of July.

From the northern heights of the Ural range, which is here represented by lofty mountains, three rivers arise near one another, the Ussa, a tributary of the Petchora, the Bodarata, which enters the Kara Sea, and the Shtchutshya, which flows into the Obi. It was the basin of the last, Shtchutshya, which we determined to visit. But no one could tell us what the country was like, how we should fare, whether we might hope to find reindeer or be forced to go afoot.

To the mouth of the Shtchutshya river we journeyed in the usual fashion, paying off our oarsmen at each Ostiak settlement and hiring others; when we reached the river our own followers began their work. For eight days we worked slowly up the stream, following its countless serpentine windings further into the monotonous, indeed dismally tedious tundra, now approaching the Ural range, and again diverging from it. For eight long days we saw no human beings, but only traces of their presence,—their necessary property packed on sledges for the winter, and their burial-places. Treacherous swamps on both sides of the river prevented us from making inland excursions, and millions of bloodthirsty mosquitoes tormented us without ceasing. On the seventh day we saw a dog—quite an event for us and our crew; on the eighth day we came upon an inhabited tshum, and in it the only man who could tell us about the country before us. We took him with us as a guide, and with him, three days later, we set out on an expedition which proved as dangerous as it was fatiguing.

We were told that reindeer were to be found nine full days’ journey from us, on the pasturage of Saddabei in the Ural range; at this season there was not one to be got near the Shtchutshya. There was nothing for it but to set off on foot, and to face, as best we might, the difficulties and hardships of a journey through a pathless, barren, mosquito-plagued district, altogether hostile to man, and worst of all—unknown!

After careful and prolonged consultation with the natives our preparations were made, the burdens which each one was to bear were carefully weighed, for the spectre of starvation loomed before us. Full well we knew that only the nomad herdsman—but no huntsman—was able to keep body and soul together on the tundra; well we knew by previous experience all the trials of the pathless way, all the torments which the army of mosquitoes promised, the inconstancy of the weather, and the general inhospitability of the tundra, and we made our preparations with due consideration of all these. But we could not prepare for what we did not know and could not foretell, and for what, in fact, eventually befell us. Not that we wished to turn back, though, had we foreseen what was to happen, we might well have done so.