o’clock in the afternoon we arrived at the swamp. It stretched out ahead for several kilometers. Beyond it, through a light, marshy fog, distant hillocks could be seen. Scorched forest surrounded the swamp. Chistiakov, walking off a ways to answer nature’s call, found a spring that gushed from the stony soil and ran toward the swamp in a meandering stream. The water in it was amazingly pure and delicious. Tired of boiled swamp water, everyone drank his fill of spring water for the first time in several days. The spring was immediately named Chistiakov Spring. Kulik walked over to a burned pine with its crown snapped off, pulled his homemade Celtic ax from his belt, and stuck it in the trunk.
“Here a campsite will be founded!”
The travelers all cried “Hurrah!,” removed their “Chinese” hats, and threw them in the air. A banquet was announced in celebration. All the victuals that the expedition possessed turned up on the oilcloth. Buckwheat groats were boiled on the fire, seasoned with lard, onion, and salted white salmon. Flasks of spirits were handed around. I sat eating berries and drinking water. No one paid me any attention. Everyone quickly got tipsy. Toasts were proposed: Kulik was praised for his sagacity and correct choice of route, they drank to the “smart and bold” guide Fyodor, to the inexhaustible Trifonov, the fanatical Ikhilevich, the unbending Chistiakov, the brave Molik and Petrenko, the courageous Yankovsky and Potresov. The students drank toasts to the drillers, the drillers drank to the geologists, the geologists to the astronomers. Okhchen’s nephew quickly became very drunk, sang Tungus songs, clicked his tongue, and giggled stupidly. The driller Gridiukh sang along with him in Ukrainian, eliciting general hilarity. In the end, two of the students felt sick. The only ones not to drink were myself, Ikhilevich (who couldn’t stand alcohol), and the prudish geologist Voronin. It all ended long after midnight.
When the camp was finally snoring, I again began to walk around. The stars and moon were hidden behind clouds. But the northern sky was light even at night. I wandered among charred trees, touched their trunks, sat down on the mossy earth, then stood up, strolled over to the swamp, to the stream, and touched the water.
The huge and intimate
was somewhere close by. It was waiting for me. It banished sleep from my body, leaving only the excitement of anticipation. It made my heart thrill and tremble.
I met the dawn among dead trees.
In the morning Kulik announced the order of the day to everyone: he and Trifonov, Fyodor, and Chistiakov would head out in search of remnants of the meteorite and draw up a map of the area; all the rest would erect a barracks under the direction of the builder Martynov.
The construction began after breakfast. The stocky, pockmarked, taciturn Martynov finally felt that his time had come: his face reddened from shouting. In a loud voice he ordered everyone around right up until dinnertime. Under his command, the scholars and seasoned geologists looked like pitiful apprentices. First we dug holes for the posts of the barracks, then we knocked down charred trunks, sawed them, and rolled them to the construction site. We chose the deciduous trees because almost all the pines were moldering. The larch trees had been wonderfully preserved over twenty years and sounded like iron when they fell. Only their tops had rotted and broken off. It was difficult to saw them: dried out at the root, they had become harder than the saws we used to cut them. We drove thick-bottomed logs into the pits and crowned them with the first charred crossbeams. The barracks began to grow quickly; the crowns, naturally, were not planed — no ax could manage the hard dry wood. Kulik had given Martynov the directive: build simply, not for posterity. But the meticulous Martynov forgot this admonition: he shouted and demanded the highest quality from us. Finally, the driller Mishin told
“Here a campsite will be founded!”
The travelers all cried “Hurrah!,” removed their “Chinese” hats, and threw them in the air. A banquet was announced in celebration. All the victuals that the expedition possessed turned up on the oilcloth. Buckwheat groats were boiled on the fire, seasoned with lard, onion, and salted white salmon. Flasks of spirits were handed around. I sat eating berries and drinking water. No one paid me any attention. Everyone quickly got tipsy. Toasts were proposed: Kulik was praised for his sagacity and correct choice of route, they drank to the “smart and bold” guide Fyodor, to the inexhaustible Trifonov, the fanatical Ikhilevich, the unbending Chistiakov, the brave Molik and Petrenko, the courageous Yankovsky and Potresov. The students drank toasts to the drillers, the drillers drank to the geologists, the geologists to the astronomers. Okhchen’s nephew quickly became very drunk, sang Tungus songs, clicked his tongue, and giggled stupidly. The driller Gridiukh sang along with him in Ukrainian, eliciting general hilarity. In the end, two of the students felt sick. The only ones not to drink were myself, Ikhilevich (who couldn’t stand alcohol), and the prudish geologist Voronin. It all ended long after midnight.
When the camp was finally snoring, I again began to walk around. The stars and moon were hidden behind clouds. But the northern sky was light even at night. I wandered among charred trees, touched their trunks, sat down on the mossy earth, then stood up, strolled over to the swamp, to the stream, and touched the water.
The huge and intimate
was somewhere close by. It was waiting for me. It banished sleep from my body, leaving only the excitement of anticipation. It made my heart thrill and tremble.
I met the dawn among dead trees.
In the morning Kulik announced the order of the day to everyone: he and Trifonov, Fyodor, and Chistiakov would head out in search of remnants of the meteorite and draw up a map of the area; all the rest would erect a barracks under the direction of the builder Martynov.
The construction began after breakfast. The stocky, pockmarked, taciturn Martynov finally felt that his time had come: his face reddened from shouting. In a loud voice he ordered everyone around right up until dinnertime. Under his command, the scholars and seasoned geologists looked like pitiful apprentices. First we dug holes for the posts of the barracks, then we knocked down charred trunks, sawed them, and rolled them to the construction site. We chose the deciduous trees because almost all the pines were moldering. The larch trees had been wonderfully preserved over twenty years and sounded like iron when they fell. Only their tops had rotted and broken off. It was difficult to saw them: dried out at the root, they had become harder than the saws we used to cut them. We drove thick-bottomed logs into the pits and crowned them with the first charred crossbeams. The barracks began to grow quickly; the crowns, naturally, were not planed — no ax could manage the hard dry wood. Kulik had given Martynov the directive: build simply, not for posterity. But the meticulous Martynov forgot this admonition: he shouted and demanded the highest quality from us. Finally, the driller Mishin told
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