Where's Whalley? Permanently out to sea.

Melancholy hangs in the cold winter air. The biting -27’C wind permeates my clothes, my bones and the ground I tread as I navigate my way down the main street of Khuzhir, the principal but tiny township of Olkhon Island. Beyond Moscow’s halo of smog and through the hibernating, snow covered emptiness of Siberia; a frozen lake separates Olkhon Island from everything that comes before it. It is a world way from home. Away from Australia’s dry flat expanse, the sun on my face and the blue coastal skies of NSW.

Grey cloud hangs low while this backwater outpost slumbers through winter. The surrounding wilderness is rugged and raw in its beauty, an echo of Australia, despite the contrast in climate. The isolation is palpable. The geographical remoteness and severity of season ensures few visitors this time of year and as I observe my surroundings I wonder what I am doing and why.

The frozen mud streets are littered with car shells, pieces of broken machinery, frozen cowpats and packs of marauding dogs. On the short but frigid walk down to the shores of Lake Baikal I pass no one. Smoking chimneys and a corner store selling vodka and limited canned sundries which belts out Russian psych-trance, are the only signs of life.

Down at the lake the tide is frozen in time. I think of my local beach, with the sand under foot and the water swelling around me and the allure of looking out across a body of water while standing on the edge of land. Here, the peaks of low gentle waves are crisp and hard and the sandy, rocky shoreline is rigid. The pink of the sun pushes through the clouds and at the water’s edge, before the horizon, the ice of the lake meets the frost of the sky and engulfs the world in a gentle frosty fog and a beguiling serine beauty. This celestial grace and encounter with the fabled Siberian winter reminds me why I journeyed so far.