Katun

Kicked by the Katun

By Yvonne Lanelli, Freelance Writer

January 2008

“Piriot! (Forward!)” ordered Sergei, our raft captain. Like eight Roman galley s This wave train on the Katun River in Siberia's Altai Mountains only hints of the ferocious whitewater ahead. laves, we obeyed, powering the eighteen-foot-long inflatable rubber craft into the center of the Katun River in Siberia’s Altai Mountains.

Ahead of us lay the Class Four [more difficult on a scale of One, easy, to Six, un-navigable] rapids of the Shabash I and II, a dual collection of wave trains, sinkholes, backwashes, boulders, boilers and whirlpools--the most treacherous whitewater of our week’s trek.

Gaining speed, we headed straight for a giant boulder and sinkhole. The river’s thunderous roar nearly drowned Sergei’s command, “Leva! (Left!).” Paddlers on the left side back-paddled; those on the right paddled forward. Like a giant multi-legged insect, the raft swung away from the maw of the sinkhole—right into a crashing wave.

Hundreds of gallons of glacial melt water drowned us, seizing our breaths. We hardly noticed. Sergei yelled, “Nahzad! (Back!)” and paddlers changed direction instantly.

Another huge wave crashed just in front of our bow, hurling us up and over it. The raft tipped nearly vertical; gravity yanked us down, hard. I nearly lost my footing but hung on.

“Prava! (Right!),” barked Sergei. “Piriot!” Our paddles dug in, stroke after rhythmic stroke. Then the river spun us 360 degrees.

We screamed—half in terror, half in delight. Centrifugal force nearly jerked us overboard. Were we caught in the Spin Cycle of some giant washing machine?

Challenge after challenge, command after command, we paddled like robots.

We entered calm water. Spin cycle stopped. Cramped hands released their grip “High five!” I yelled. We raised our paddles overhead, clicked them together and cheered.

Hundreds of gallons of glacial melt water crash over the rafters, but they keep paddling in the Shabash.

When friends and family learned I planned to raft in Siberia, they objected. “You’ll freeze. It’s all snow and ice. Only political exiles live there. You’ll hate it.”

Wrong.

Yes, Siberia is the classic “middle of nowhere.” But summer in Siberia is glorious-- hundreds of square miles of golden ripening grain fields, immense green mountains, winding rivers filled with opaque blue water melted from far away glaciers, brightly colored songbirds swooping over carpets of equally colorful wildflowers.

And rafters around the world dream of surmounting the Katun or her tributary, the Chuya, in Siberia’s Altai Mountains just north of Mongolia.

The first day we missed commands, knocked paddles and splashed each other. Sergei rolled his eyes and shook his blond head. “Good thing these were just little rapids,” commented Bruce, the only American in our group who had rafted the Katun before. “We have some serious whitewater in a coupla days.”

But the second day we worked in unison, guiding the raft anywhere Sergei or co-captain Nicky ordered. “We went from F Troop to A Team,” joked Terry, another American.

And the third day, we came, we saw and we conquered Shabash.

Every evening we put in for the night at various sandy beaches along the Katun. The evening after Shabash, however, Sasha, our expedition leader, chose a quasi-developed campground for a “down day” of trout fishing, kayaking, hiking and visiting nearby petroglyphs.

“What’s the excitement?” I asked as laughing, half-dressed Russians ran to a small log cabin at the end of the campground.

The Katun River loops through the Altai Mountains of Siberia.

“You’ll love the ‘banya,’ the Russian version of a sauna,” replied Bruce. “Bring your towel—but you won’t need that swimsuit. Oh, don’t worry,” he added when he saw my upraised eyebrows. “Girls go in by themselves.”

I grabbed my towel and ran, too.

“Come in, Ivanka!” Leda and Olga answered my knock. The heavy log door opened to a tiny anteroom where the girls were hanging their swimsuits on pegs. I hung mine too, and we stepped gingerly into the next room, the steamy sauna.

Our bare bottoms sat lightly on the hot birch slatted bench. Beneath the slats, hot stones rested on supports under which birch embers glowed. Leda poured water slowly over the stones. Birch-smelling steam filled the tiny room. Olga handed me a freshly-cut birch branch and we three struck each other lightly, giggling. Leda poured more water on the stones--then dumped the remainder on us! The shock of the cold water took our breaths away, but only for a moment, as we found voice to squeal and giggle. A babble of Russian from outside teased us. It was the boys, anxious for their turn. Leda and Olga responded in Russian while I gasped and giggled. “We must do three times,” explained Olga, whose English was a tad better than Leda’s. So Leda created more steam, and we switched and doused each other--with more giggles and squeals--before drying off and surrendering the banya to the boys.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the peaks of the Altai Mountains, Bruce, Terry and I joined the Russians in the laughter-filled dining tent for the nightly vodka ritual. While something meaty roasted on sticks above the roaring campfire, the Russians passed around a big bottle of vodka and trays of little pickles, olives, canned sardines and other salty tidbits.

They mimed that I should first chug a swig of vodka in one gulp then chomp a bite of sardine, olive or pickle. “Sardine is best,” advised Sasha.

I eyed the little fish askance but didn’t want to offend my hosts. I closed my eyes, chugged the vodka, chomped the sardine—and The white water of the Katun River in Siberia's Altai Mountians looks mild but in only seconds, it will build to Class III, difficult on a scale of I-VI. gagged!

My eyes teared with embarrassment, but everyone just laughed good-naturedly.

Slapping my back, Sasha said with a grin, “First time, not easy. Second time, easy. Third time, more easy,” and poured more vodka.

I guess he was right—after the third vodka, I don’t remember coughing. Come to think of it, I don’t remember much of anything. . . .

After dinner and washing up, everyone huddled around the campfire. Olga said something in Russian to Sasha, who translated, “We play guessing game.”

Olga began a pantomime. “Who am I?” We howled with laughter as it became obvious she was miming Sasha. I cradled my now cooling tin cup of hot chocolate, watched campfire sparks rise up to the stars and marveled.

Three days ago we had been Americans and Russians who behaved politely but distantly to each other.

But Shabash changed that. Now, tonight and for the remaining nights, we would gather around the campfire, chat away in broken English and bad Russian, play guessing games, sing folk songs. I French-braided Olga’s long blond hair while Leda memorized my movements. The guys punched each other’s shoulders to punctuate details of their day’s heroisms.

Gone were the stereotypes of the cold mistrustful Russian and the self-absorbed, greedy American. We were rafters—and friends.

**All photos by Yvonne Lanelli, except "Rafters in Whitewater" by Bruce Meyers.

IF YOU GO

Team Gorky

Adventure Travel Company

www.teamgorky.ru/eng/about

Siberia

www.waytorussia.net/Siberia/index.html

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