Kamchatka

This is a story about travels through an extraordinary wild country, where nature at its most awesome forms a backdrop to the lives of some of the most powerful creatures that walk the earth: Kamchatka, the land of volcanoes and bears. Kamchatka, in the far north east of Russia, is one of the largest peninsulas in the world. It is washed on three sides by major bodies of water: to the south, the vast Pacific Ocean, on its western shores the Sea of Okhotsk, and separating it from the Alaskan landmass, the Bering Sea.

To deliver the motorcycle to Kamchatka, I had to freight it in advance, about two months before my travels were due to start. Disassembled and packed in a wooden crate along with all my travelling gear, the motorcycle traveled east across the country to Vladivostok along the Trans-Siberian Railway, and then on a cargo ship north to the city of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky.

From my home in western Russia the flight to the fire-breathing mountains of Kamchatka takes eight hours and crosses eight time zones. From the aircraft window chains of mountain ranges and individual snow-capped peaks are visible – the volcanoes of the Pacific Ring of Fire. Standing proud above the clouds, protruding from wooded valleys, there are several dozen active and hundreds of extinct volcanoes in Kamchatka.

This region is home to the Kamchatka Brown Bear, the largest species of bear in Russia. I will ride to Kuril Lake, a major salmon spawning ground. Around this lake, the abundant food and absence of human interference has provided an ideal habitat for bears, with their population rising to 20-30,000 individuals, roughly one bear per ten humans of Kamchatka.

The climate in Kamchatka is heavily influenced by marine weather. The narrow peninsula is bounded by two seas, the Sea of Okhotsk and the Bering Sea, and to the south lies the vast Pacific Ocean. Cyclones bring rain and strong winds. In the course of one day, the warmth of summer can be replaced by cold drizzly rain, reminiscent of late autumn, or fog with a piercing wind, and then heat can return to replace them again. To the west, by the Sea of Okhotsk, bad weather is especially pronounced. After waiting for a few fine days between weather systems, I drive from the Pacific Ocean to the Sea of ​​Okhotsk, to the most bearish places on the planet. My goal is to get to the Kuril Lake along the coast of the Sea of Okhotsk, a treacherous route due to the lack of a good road, difficult weather conditions and rivers that must be crossed. In this region there are no bridges and many rivers are too deep to ride across. To solve the problem an inflatable boat had to be developed, enabling me to literally float the motorcycle to the other side. Existing boat options on the market were too large and heavy, so it was necessary to design one from scratch for this specific task. The boat needed to be able to support the 300 kg weight of myself plus the motorcycle, weigh no more than 5 kgs, fold into a small dry bag and be strong enough to avoid damage from the sharp corners of the motorcycle. All credit to the company Birdypackraft my crazy idea became reality. The boat was named the Great Heron, and is now part of my equipment for almost every overland motorcycle expedition.

The hardest part of the journey to Kuril Lake runs along the Sea of Okhotsk, starting at the village of Oktyabrsky. This settlement is located on a narrow sandy spit between the Sea of Okhotsk and the Bolshaya (Big) River. Living conditions here are among the harshest experienced in the world. Trees cannot grow here, strong winds blow all year round, and fog and rain take away half the days of summer.

Standing in the centre of the village, I hear dogs barking. I turn around and as I do a bear cub runs past me. Seemingly unconcerned, it sits for a picture, as indifferent to the people on the street as they are to it. Only cars honk as they pass. No fear, panic or surprise. Just another normal day in the village of Kamchatka.

The coastal way is absolutely flat, not a single hill. Only in the distance on the horizon beyond the tundra are the outlines of volcanoes visible. The water in the Sea of Okhotsk is grey because of the dark volcanic sand that is raised from the bottom by the waves. I see huge whale bones on the shore, gnawed clean by bears. Red bear hair remains on the sharp fragments, and there are still fresh animal tracks around. Wide paths can be seen in the tall grass, made by bears moving along the coast. Every day of the trip I spot several of them. Rising from the grass on their hind legs or simply sticking out their wide-browed heads with small eyes, the bears are watching me critically. When one stands on its hind legs, you see how large these dark brown beasts are. Like a huge statue, he stands among the grass, only his nostrils greedily catching the air. Having satisfied his curiosity and deemed me no threat, the bear goes his own way.

My attention is drawn to a large dark mass ahead on the shore. Nearing it, I see a huge whale, evidently washed ashore by a storm. The whale has not yet been stripped bare by predators and has not begun to decompose, so this must have happened recently. Whales feed en masse near Kamchatka, and those that die are often washed ashore by the powerful tides. The huge creature now lies stretched out on its belly, measuring about 15 metres from head to powerful tail. Its large front fins are half settled in the sand, its mouth showing a long row of moustaches with a hairy fringe. As I observe, the furry head of a bear appears from behind the whale's carcass. Feelings of alarm and fear surge through me. Being near feeding bears is a dangerous place to be. Other bears may well be waiting for their turn for a feast, nearby in the tall grass. On the other hand, I cannot pass by without taking a picture of the remarkable scene that has opened up in front of me. Leaving the motorcycle engine running, I quickly take out the camera and the quadcopter. I fly the drone around the whale, picking out the bear next to it. Against the background of the enormous marine mammal, even the adult bear looks small. The bear stands on its hind legs, leaning its front legs against the body of its prey, and with its claws rips at the whale's thick skin. Presented with this rich meal, he seems happy to ignore me, only occasionally raising his head to see if I am approaching him, making sure I pose no threat to him. As he feeds, the sun goes down to the water on the horizon and the tundra is illuminated by soft evening light. Great time to keep filming, but now the bear has other ideas, as he leaves his meal and starts to walk towards me. I raise my head from the screen of the quadcopter, turn around and see, rather closer than I would like, two more bears to my rear. Whether the first guy has eaten his fill or whether he has decided to defer to the bigger animals, he is leaving and so am I. I bring the drone directly back, stuffing it in my bag without closing it, and jump on the motorcycle for a swift getaway. My adrenaline is pumping, not just from fear but also at the sheer joy of being part of nature and witnessing this primal sight. Oddly, everything is feeling right, as it should, despite being alone here, in wild, unpredictable, new places for me. I wonder, do my feelings come from dangerous experiences such as this? Or from the realisation that my plans seem to be working out? I feel this expedition is my destiny, I am strengthened by it, I have a goal. And, of course, feel utterly privileged to have experienced such a great natural spectacle.

Continuing southwards, I reach the mouth of the Opala River. The river in this place is very wide as it flows into the sea. I see how the dark water of the river mixes with the lighter water of the sea. On the border of the waters, the heads of seals stick out like floats. Marine animals prey on fish, which don’t live in shallow water. I pump up the boat and tie it to the side of the motorcycle. Roll the motorcycle into the water and lay it carefully on its side, on the boat. I pack my luggage under the motorcycle so that nothing is washed away by any waves. I put on neoprene shorts, a T-shirt and a membrane jacket. Sneakers on feet. Nothing in my clothing absorbs water well and could prevent me from swimming away if the boat and motorcycle go down. I take the oar, push the boat out of the shallows into the water. I sit on top and start rowing. Even with the river at its calmest, waves sweep water into the boat. I row with a small paddle, throwing it from side to side as we cross the wide expanse of water. It feels like an age before I finally reach the opposite shore. Safe back on land, I rest while the boat dries, and once again I pack everything away onto the motorcycle. Rejoicing in my success, I thank the river for its kindness allowing a lonely traveller across.

As the day draws to an end, I am tired, very tired. There is a small encampment of fishermen nearby and I ask if I can lodge with them. It is dangerous to spend the night alone in a small tent in these places because of the many bears. After asking me a few questions about who I am and where I am from, they escort me to a spacious tent and show me where I can lay my sleeping bag. As so often happens, lone travellers are treated with kindness and hospitality. In difficult times, I am glad and grateful for the opportunity to sleep in a large communal tent with a dozen strangers. After a hard and dangerous day, a basic fishermen's tent fills me with a sense of security; a strong and safe home, that feels for the moment as good as any stone building in the city. No fine dining restaurant in the world can compete with a simple fisherman's dinner when you're camping. And no five-star hotel feels as good as a stove where you can dry your clothes, wash in hot water and a working generator from which you can charge electronic devices. I love to travel alone, but meeting good and generous people is truly heart-warming.

I​ wake at 6 am. My fears about bears are justified. On the sand next to our tent, I see fresh tracks of an animal that passed during the night. I pack my things, bid my goodbyes, and continue south. There are so many bears in the tundra that after a couple of days I am no longer surprised to see them. In the cities you see cats and dogs, here it’s bears. Humans aren’t their natural prey and they generally stay clear of us, but due to the proximity of wild animals to people, every year in Kamchatka there are several cases of fatal animal attacks on humans. The riskiest encounters are a she-bear with cubs, or a bear defending its meal. And sure enough on the bank of the river, less than 50 metres from me, sits a she-bear with two little cubs. Mother bear will do anything to protect her offspring. She stands 2,5 metres tall, weighs half a tonne, has 10 cm claws and can run at 50 km/h. This is not a good time to see if she’s in a good mood. I pull the motorcycle down to a halt, ready for a U-turn and escape, but mother bear has already made her mind up. Faced by this strange human-hybrid creature, she snorts and trots down to the water, her cubs following.

Finally, the smooth surface of the Kuril Lake opens before us, the road to which inspired me to go to Kamchatka. Kuril Lake occupies a deep basin of about 10 sq.kms between the Ilyinsky and Dikiy ridge volcanoes. It is a major spawning ground for sockeye salmon, one of the common local salmon species. By the lake, a research station has been built to study its fish stocks. People live alongside the bears, separated from them only by a flimsy looking electric fence. The voltage it carries is not dangerous for animals or humans, but from a young age the bears learn to avoid the uncomfortable electric shocks. But sometimes bears fight each other, and then the massive animals demolish everything in their path, shocks or no shocks. Kamchatka brown bears are among the largest in the world, and adult males can reach 700 kgs. As apex predators they attain their great size thanks to the abundant food resources of Kamchatka – salmon, pine nuts and berries. Building weight and fat reserves is essential for the survival of all bears during hibernation. In addition, the larger the male brown bear, the higher is his status in his hood. This gives him an advantage in choosing females and foraging. From a distance, I observed the alpha bear of the Kuril Lake, a red-brown giant more than 20 years old, named Casanova. His muzzle is scarred from numerous fights, and one ear is torn off. Casanova is the most ferocious bear ever seen on the lake, ruthlessly asserting his dominance over rivals and even once attacking females before eating his own cubs. Attacks on cubs are not uncommon as males seek to protect their genetic heirs, and if females try to defend their cubs, they are likely to come off worse. The hierarchy of bears is brutal, and even the largest males are not immune. As they age, their senses and claws become less sharp and they too can fall victim to challenges from younger power-hungry males. And so, I later heard Casanova had done, meeting his end in mortal combat with another bear. No doubt the old warrior would have thought it a fitting end.

I spend a nervous night in a tent inside the electric fence perimeter. The next morning I back to the place where I left the motorcycle. At some point it has been knocked over by a curious bear, fortunately without damage. The gasoline I have left is just enough to get me back to the small village of Ozernovsky. In the village I find fuel and retrace my journey back along the Sea of Okhotsk for a couple of days, then cutting across the peninsula to the city of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky.