We drove west, out of the city of Novosibirsk and into the flatlands called the steppes. A wet snow melted and froze again as it hit the pavement. The treacherously icy road surface preferred four-wheel drive. Sand trucks were few and far between. Circling the little golden dome of the St. Nicholas chapel, which marks the geographical center of Russia, was a pointed reminder that we were still more than 4,000 miles from the Atlantic Coast in Norway.
Like the Great Plains of North America, the steppes stretch nearly flat to the horizon. Fields of wheat and grass are broken only by small random clumps of trees. The typical village is predominantly of small log homes which have neither running water nor sewer. The harvest was over now, and the Russian country peasants were busy hauling in last stacks of hay.
Trees that once offered us protection were now barren, and small side roads lay camouflaged under an early blanket of winter. Finding safe camping for the night was becoming increasingly difficult. Recurring reports of highway bandits left us feeling uncomfortable if we were forced to compromise the security of our stops. The incredible traction of four BFG Mud-Terrains harnessed to 210 horsepower and yoked by ARB locking differentials could be used to isolate ourselves from normal traffic, though our heavy support trailer limited our maneuverability.
The large Russian cities of western Siberia were uniformly gray, dirty, chaotic and of little interest to us. We skirted them whenever possible. Two hundred and fifteen miles from Novosibirsk, the pavement turned to gravel, and then dirt, but the cold weather had been in our favor for a change. Instead of the impassable mud we had been warned about, there were only frozen ruts to contend with. The next 145 miles were a bone-jarring 30mph exercise in patience.
Winding our way through the sooty congestion of Omsk, we reached the town of Isil'kul'. This had been the furthest point east we had traveled to on our 1995 reconnaissance trip, and it was a safe haven with friends whose surprise at seeing us was surpassed only by their hospitality. The usual banyas (Russian saunas) and parties followed. Three days quickly turned to a week before we could say "dasvidanya'' and head west into Kazakhstan. A temporary transit permit is issued to allow travelers to pass through this now-independent state.
The small log homes of the Russian peasant offer little of the comforts we take for grante
In Kurgan, we turned northwest to follow the historic trail used by Siberian pioneers and later by millions of social and political prisoners, on their way to die in the gulags of the northeast. We stopped briefly in Yekaterinburg to visit the site where Tsar Nicholas II, his wife and children were murdered in July of 1918, brutally ending the Romanov dynasty.
Leaving Yekaterinburg, we began to climb into the Ural Mountains, the boundary between Asia and Europe. One might expect something like the Sierra Nevada, but no such range exists. At 900 feet, the rain turned to sleet, and at 1,020 feet, we pulled into a mixed forest of Scotch pines, birch and aspen to camp for the night. Using four-wheel drive, we backed the truck and trailer into deep snow to safely isolate ourselves from the approach of bandits and roving Mafia who supposedly prowled these mountains like jackals looking for easy prey. Was it all a joke? We kept the Dan Wesson and two cans of Counter Assault pepper spray at the ready.
It was minus-7 degrees in the morning. We stopped at the 1,200-foot pass for coffee and watched our last Siberian sunrise. The Urals had been no more than foothills. Dense forests rolled east toward Magadan, by our odometer 13,900 miles away on the distant Pacific Coast. We had crossed the continent of Asia, the hard way.
Ice was already forming on the rivers as we made our final push west to Moscow and the Eur
Descending into hilly farmland now, we followed the main highway through Perm, Kazan and Nishny Novgorod. It was seldom above freezing, and the roads were like sheets of ice. Rare sections had been sanded, but it was not to be expected. Four-wheel drive helped, but the trailer had a mind of its own. On one occasion, dropping into a valley, we hit black ice. Both truck and trailer went into a 45-degree drift for about 50 yards. Though only seconds elapsed, it seemed an eternity before I was finally able to nurse things back in line.