Siberia is cold and filled with snow a lot of the time. It was hard for us to gauge whether our Twin Cities climate was the same or less extreme. We were there in March and the ground was three feet deep in snow. Plus, it’s Siberia, we assumed it snowed every day even in June. We came to learn that Minneapolis is considered a sister city to Novosibirsk in size and climate.
The exchange program arranged for a cross-county marathon for all of the students Russian and American alike. This was generally accepted with enthusiasm. Most of us had downhill ski experience from living in Minnesota, and some with cross-country, yet for me that was a different animal.
We gathered along a hiking trail on the edge of town. The teachers had arranged a school bus in case any of the students couldn’t or wouldn’t participate. As much as the Russian students were generally gracious, sweet, understanding, curious and generous; there was a characteristic of competitiveness especially related to athleticism. Frankly, the Russians were talking shit and ready to put 10Km behind them leaving us to muddle through the snow and ice in their wake.
My Stolichnaya friend from Park High School was bragging about how awesome he was at downhill skiing and how he rocked the downhill team. He saw the opportunity to show off by taking a snowdrift by the trailhead. He made sure we were all watching when he pushed off for this mogul he was going to jump. He hit the snowdrift going so fast his feet went up above his head and his back came down on the trail. His Russian exchange family had given him a thermos for the long ski run and he had stored it in his back pocket of his Spyder jacket. It was comical but I felt bad, he was so excited to show off his ability in the eyes of these competitive Russians, but when he got up and we saw how the thermos had exploded into his back staining his jacket with hot tea, all I could do was go over to him and pat him on the back and say, “nice try man.”
I was intimidated. I carried an extra 25-30 pounds weight being a rather chubby 11th grader, definitely not in shape or prepared for this type of adventure. I took it slow, sneaking several cigarette breaks with my friend Matt.
I remember this adventure so clearly. Most likely because it was traumatic but exhilarating at the same time. The forest was deep and dark with a fresh unblemished snowfall. The only sign of people were the parallel lines left by the skiers ahead of us that we followed exactly like horses on a trail ride.
About one-third of the way through the marathon several of the Park High kids got pretty excited about U2. They were carving notes in the snow for those of us behind. Back home in the Twin Cities at that exact time U2 was playing in Minneapolis. In honor of our friends and family back home, we sang U2 songs as we traversed the distance which seemed like a very long way - because it was.
At the halfway point we stopped at an old wooden church in the middle of nowhere. We came to a rise with a beautiful view of the surrounding land with this temple made out of wood. We all went inside and took a break from the cold and long distance trek. As we entered it was like truly going back in time. 100 years or maybe 200 years there was an eerie serenity to it. I felt in awe but also like a trespasser. The antique wooden castle was built in 1700 and had survived probably one of the harshest environments.
As I look at this picture I think back to that day and I try and inhabit the Pete at 17 in my 40 year old bones. I feel gratitude for the opportunity to have stood in my rickety wooden skis staring up at a relic. This mecca for locals to visit that many around the world will never experience. I wished I’d stayed a little longer, smelled the thick pine forest and sun soaked snow as it weaved a pattern on the ground like the wind does to a desert- randomness made perfect with a brush stroke of symmetry and gravity and solid ground.
We were young and innocent and lacked layers of responsibility and experience. Truly a perfect time to fill the vacancy that defines our youth; to broaden the depths of each of us in ways we will have difficulty sharing with those that didn’t come. Ray Bradbury would invoke many more metaphors that I lack as I write this. I can only say that my spirit leveled up that moment and it took 23 years to acknowledge the gravity of how I felt on that day.
We continued on the marathon sweat mixed with chill and exhaustion. My friend Matt got a really bad set of ski’s, frustrating him with frequent breaks to reseat his boots. I stayed with him for awhile but also at times I continued along on my own, my competitive nature pushing me to finish in some reasonable time.
We reached the finish together Matt and I and he proceeded to a tree and he removed his ski’s and swung as hard as he could breaking the ski’s in half splintering them. I laughed at his frustration and the silliness of the day. Part of me felt bad since the ski’s were probably a month’s wage for one of the Russian Families. Yet, they were bad skis.
They shuffled us into a cabin about the size of an old warming house. A wood burning stove, sweaty sox, old leather and smoke gave the room an inviting smell. I reveled in my own satisfaction for completing the marathon an experience I would never have voluntarily signed up for.
They rewarded our journey with sandwiches which were welcome since we were famished. I took a huge bite and it was chewy and creamy. I opened the bread to reveal what looked like thick raw bacon and huge squares of butter or maybe it was cheese, it was difficult to tell. The voice in my head screamed to not eat it, the tape worms, the trichinosis, the pragmatic instruction from my parents in my head. But I was so hungry and it tasted so good I couldn’t resist. I looked up at my friend Cynthia, who to this day, I remember making eye contact, she and I thinking the same thing about the sandwich. We both giggled without sharing words. The Russians were so proud of those sandwiches, making our reward the most special to them. I think under the circumstances my parents would have agreed, tape worms and trichinosis might have been justified in that moment. A refusal would not have been acceptable. Just like Indiana Jones and Willie Scott in the small village in India blowing flies off of their stag beetle and rice, “eat, eat.”
I have not matched the flavor of whatever that was in the sandwich, a secret recipe left to the Siberians. Although, I have never made myself a raw bacon sandwich either. I guess I will never know.
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