At last, it was time to set off for Lake Baikal.
From Irkutsk to our destination on Lake Baikal, the drive would take a little over 5 hours. The minibus looped around the city again and again, finally picking up one Baikal-bound passenger after another.
In summer, there seemed to be fewer Chinese travelers coming alone to Siberia than in winter. Instead, there were many Europeans taking the opposite route from mine, riding the train from Moscow to Irkutsk.
Aside from one stop to rest along the way, I spent most of those 5 hours dozing. When I woke up, we were already at the lakeshore, facing Olkhon Island across the water. The lakes and islands of Siberia appeared before me with overwhelming grandeur, all at once.
By the time we arrived, a long line of cars was already waiting to cross the lake. Everyone took the chance to get out, breathe some fresh air, and stretch their limbs, which had gone numb after hours in the car.
Besides foreign tourists, Lake Baikal is also a favorite weekend or holiday escape for locals from Russia. Siberia’s wild nature is the playground where this battle-hardened nation has grown up tough.
In winter, when the lake freezes over, vehicles can drive directly across the ice or passengers can switch to a hovercraft. In summer, the only way across is by ferry, with both vehicles and people loaded together and carried to the other shore.
For most travelers heading to Lake Baikal, the real destination is Olkhon Island. Olkhon is the largest island in the world’s largest freshwater lake, stretching 71 kilometers from north to south and 15 kilometers from east to west. Lake Baikal’s deepest waters and highest peaks are both found around Olkhon.
Ten years ago, Sylvain Tesson spent six months living in a small cabin at Cape Cedar North, not far from Olkhon Island. He wrote, “I brought books, cigars, and vodka. As for the rest—space, silence, solitude—it was already there.” Later, he turned those six months of solitary living into In the Forests of Siberia, telling others how he found happiness, despair, and ultimately peace by the lakeshore.
After spending a little over an hour getting onto the island, we were greeted by a row of what looked like “armored vehicles,” all standing ready. The terrain and roads on Olkhon are hard to describe; only these battle-nation-style modified vans can power through everywhere without a problem. And yes, they’re that cool.
Khuzhir, in the center of town, is where most people choose to stay, with plenty of guesthouses plus all the cafés, supermarkets, and restaurants you could need. In the summer high season, it gets pretty crowded too. Trying to save money, I picked a cabin described in the reviews as “a little farther from the town center, but offering rare peace along with forest and lake views.”
I told myself that in an increasingly noisy world, cold, silence, and solitude may one day become more precious than gold. And if that’s true, what could be more like a hidden paradise than a cabin in the woods like this?
The cabin of my imagination: facing the sea, with spring blossoms
The downside of paradise was that neither the driver nor Google Maps could find this peaceful woodland cabin.
After searching for 20 minutes, the desperate driver finally coaxed and pressured me into getting out of the car.
So I had no choice but to call the host again, practically on the verge of tears. Before the trip, I had mastered exactly two Russian words: до свидания (goodbye) and да (yes). So no matter what the person on the other end of the phone said, all I could do was keep repeating, da da da. Luckily, after walking a few steps forward, I spotted an excited figure in the distance waving at me.
And yet there was still a stretch of sand about 1 kilometer long between me and the cabin. Was I really supposed to drag a 20-jin suitcase across it? I shouted toward the other side, making honking noises, and kept miming a steering wheel with my hands. The host spread his hands helplessly: no ride.
I’ll skip a thousand words here describing an ordeal worthy of a military march through the wilderness...
At last, I reached my cabin. I hoped I might find a hermit-like life here, along with some inner peace.
The hosts were a very ordinary Russian family. Their yard was enclosed by a wooden fence, with three cabins they had built themselves—one for their own use and two for rent. The yard was piled high with logs, firewood, and all kinds of tools.
And yes, on Olkhon Island, polished theories about investment logic or pyramid-style writing won’t keep you fed. Knowing how to chop firewood and repair a truck is the real productive force. In the forests of Siberia, the only reliable things are an axe, a stove, and a knife.
I quickly booked a tour group for the next day. The island’s sightseeing routes are simple: the northern route, the southern route, and the water route. The northern route offers steppe, pine forests, fjords, beaches, and cliffs. In winter, the southern route is famous for its beautiful bubble ice. The water route means taking a boat to other lesser-known islands.
There is, in fact, another and even simpler way to experience Lake Baikal: do as Sylvain Tesson did, sit facing the lake and the forest, and watch the days pass. Chop wood, fish, cook, read a great deal, walk in the hills, and drink vodka by the window.
When ordinary travel can no longer give you anything, perhaps it’s time to ask stillness for a more peaceful life.
At dusk, the village was as beautiful as a Russian oil painting. The whole night was quiet.
Early the next morning, we set out again on Olkhon’s rough roads, heading north. Primeval forest swept past outside the windows. Because of local government protection policies, no asphalt roads have been built on the island. Even riding in one of those sturdy vehicles, we were constantly being jolted around, our heads knocking into the roof.
The night before, another annoyance of modern life had still been bothering me: no signal. The only way to bring my phone back to life was to walk 20 minutes through pitch-black forest or muddy sand. Maybe this was what people once meant by “walking miles just to call the one you love.”
I squatted by the roadside with my laptop in my hands. In front of me were a sky full of stars and the still lake; far behind me were two passing vehicles with their headlights on, quietly keeping watch over me.
Malevich once wrote that no one who crosses Siberia can continue to think happiness is something to be taken for granted. Everyone in our vehicle gave that sentiment a deep +1.
Racing alone through the Siberian wilderness
The vehicle stopped, and when we opened the door, a vast highland spread before us. Looking out, the lake seemed endless. For Lake Baikal—700 kilometers long, 1,500 meters deep, and 25 million years old—this was just another ordinary day in its immense span of time, quietly waiting for yet another group of travelers to arrive.
The weather wasn’t great. Dark clouds draped a hazy veil over Lake Baikal. It felt like those who had traveled a great distance to propose to the princess of Western Xia, only to find her still hidden behind a curtain, posing one difficult challenge after another.
Only the white birches and the lake remain unchanged
A pair of travelers stood before the endless lake, talking quietly together. Their dog stood beside them, sometimes lowering its head to forage, sometimes darting around in delight. In Siberia’s hazy blue tones, it formed a classic and warmly intimate scene.
Our vehicle carried us all the way down from the highlands to the lakeshore, to what was once a fishing village. Years ago, some political exiles from Moscow were instead imprisoned in a labor camp here.
Many years ago, innocent people were thrown into the nightmare of Siberia for as long as twenty-five years. Now, perhaps only the remains left by the lake and the cries of crows can summon those memories.
At noon, we struggled our way up again to Cape Khoboy, at the northernmost tip of the island. Huge rocks split the water apart with the brute force of a rhinoceros. Cliffs connect one after another, the mountains rise high, and the terrain is steep. On the side where cars can stop, rolling mountain ranges face the broad, open lake.
To reach this edge-of-the-world viewpoint, you have to hike over rocks covered in red moss and push through brush that is neither tall nor short. Looking down, all you see is a dizzying blue. In a few months, under Siberia’s fierce winds, the lake will freeze into intoxicating blue ice. Hard and frigid on the surface, yet still deep, surging, and alive underneath.
Lunch was prepared entirely by our Buryat driver: a big pot of fish soup mixed with potatoes, cabbage, and carrots. My earliest memory of Russian food, though, came from a small book describing life in a Soviet labor camp.
It was more or less the same hard bread and omul fish soup. “A few mouthfuls of hot soup warmed the whole body, as if even the heart had begun to tremble.” Solzhenitsyn probably never imagined that many years later, one of his readers’ taste-memory of hot soup would come from here.
Summer at Lake Baikal is full of life. It is that rare season of the year when other colors are finally free to join in.
For Russians, perhaps the best way to experience Lake Baikal is with a Land Cruiser, a kayak, a few tents, and a handful of close friends. Free yourself from daily routines, and let rest, conversation, vodka, and happiness take over your life.
By the time we returned to the cabin, we were completely exhausted and desperate for a proper shower. I had assumed that in a place where the toilet was just a pit in the ground, bathing would mean standing in the yard and pouring water over yourself from a basin.
Unexpectedly, our host had an extraordinarily modern bathroom. It felt nothing like Olkhon at all; for a moment, I could almost imagine I was in an upscale residential complex in Shanghai or Singapore.
An earlier essay about the changes in Wuzhen once pointed out what most tourists really want: “The exterior of a small-town guesthouse can be rustic, but the sheets, duvet covers, bathtub, and toilet absolutely cannot be old. I may stand before crumbling walls and reflect on the passage of time, but once I return to the hotel, I still expect service fit for the Princess of Wales.”
The owner understood this perfectly.
Even if we still have enough curiosity and courage to explore the wild outdoors, we still hope that a Four Seasons–style room will be waiting for us when we return. Sigh—travelers really have been spoiled by modern life.
I sat by the cabin window, drinking hot tea and quietly looking outside. Sunlight slipped in and brushed across my face, insistently calling me back outdoors. Slowly, I walked down to the shore.
The bay was lined with a beach of pebbles in many colors, and the water was astonishingly clear. The setting sun washed everything in gold. The lake charged arrogantly onto the shore, then retreated helplessly. In that vast meeting of water and sky, all the tension and pressure of ordinary days vanished. Even the rugged mountains seemed calm and gentle.
Only here, with “By the Baikal Lake” echoing in my ears, could I truly understand why Li Jian was able to write such lyrical and moving words. I imagine he once sat by the lake just like this, watching the sunset and finding the peace within himself.
And perhaps like this place, once you are strong enough to need no shelter at all, you can still remain perfectly at ease.
One last time, I came to the lakeshore to say goodbye to Lake Baikal. I sat on the dock waiting for my boat. In the distance, gulls circled the ferry, and the lake was serene.
I think I’ll come back again—probably in winter.
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