A VILLAGE BOAT.
We reached the entrance to the Kamin Pass on October 10, and all of us got up at six in the morning so as not to miss any of it. I was very disappointed, for, though the finest sight we had yet seen on the river, the scenery was not nearly so imposing as I had been led to expect. Still, I suppose it is very grand for Siberia, which does not abound in big effects. For about half a mile, high but unpicturesque rocks rose precipitously from the swirling waters, their summits covered with dense forests of rigid pine trees, which in themselves took away from the effect, so regularly did they grow. One of our party said it reminded him of the Hudson River. With the utmost difficulty the Phœnix managed to hold her own against the tremendous current, and, with the engines going at their utmost pressure, after eight hours’ steaming got past the worst of the rapids, with all her barges in tow—an unprecedented feat in Yenisei navigation—and this notwithstanding her damaged propeller.
A RIVER PILOT.
In the mean time the little tug was having a mauvais quart d’heure—for, with her heavy barge, the stream proved too much for her powers; it was very different work to towing on the Thames—and, as ill-luck would have it, eventually ended by her being driven ashore some distance away from us, and in such shallow water that we could not get near enough to render her any assistance with the Phœnix. For two whole days all our available men were working at her before they were successful in getting her off. It was dreary work hanging about the deserted ship during this time, for all the boats were being used, so we could not get ashore, although an adventurous member of our party tried to fix up a raft, but was not successful beyond giving us a couple of hours’ hard work in hauling the confounded logs on board again after his fruitless attempt. However, at last we got under way again, and arrived at the village of Worogoro, where we had to stop for wood.
THE RIVER YENESEI AT WOROGORO.
[To face [p. 90].
The village itself offered little of interest, but I had heard that a wealthy Tartar lived there, so was looking forward to seeing something quite startling and Asiatic in appearance, and had my sketch-book ready. Imagine my disappointment when there came on board what looked more like a middle-aged English butcher than anything else, even to wearing the usual sort of blue coat. There was absolutely nothing of the “Tartar” about him; he looked, on the contrary, a very mild and inoffensive sort of individual, very unlike what one used to conjure up in one’s mind in the good old schoolboy days. Close to the village we saw the first cultivated ground we had seen since leaving Norway, in July.