We will be picked up at the airport by Konstantin, our contact here. The connection had been established by an Austrian who had been fishing here with his friends years ago and reported about it on the Internet.
For the night we are still here, we can move into a cozy wooden hut where we are greeted by a bearskin.
We explore the place and find that despite the fact that there are virtually no tourists here, people are still not very warm or hospitable, but rather disinterested. We are hardly addressed. Here, too, people don’t like to be photographed. As if they were ashamed.
People speak their own language, the Yakut. Lyoba said the language was similar to Turkish. Sled dogs bark at us expectantly behind many fences. The time of the huskies comes later. We sit in the evening with bread and the sound of my guitar and expect the next few days. It is no longer getting dark here, so far north. We are located six hundred kilometers north of the nearest city, which is the one we left.
Otherwise there are only a few scattered settlements. We are excited. None of us has yet made a trip to the really distant wilderness. It is no longer easy in modern times, when every spot on earth seems to have already been populated and advertised by a tourist agency.