I remember how we would often go fishing and stay there overnight, to set up trotlines. We would haul the boat up the Katun River with a rope, with Mazaev sitting in the stern with an oar and us pulling the boat like the barge haulers on the Volga. We would go far, as far as Obraztsovka (the first village on the way from Srostki to Gorno-Altaysk). There, on our favorite island, we would stop, drag the boat ashore, turn it upside down, gather grass (for our improvised bedding), and collect firewood. We would cook fish soup, eat it, and then spend the night under the boat. In the morning, after removing the trotlines, happy with the burbot we had caught, we would sail down the Katun River, singing ‘Varyag’ at the top of our lungs.

And above all this, there is the perfectly blue Altai sky. The hot air blushes and appears to shimmer in the distance. All day long, the grasshoppers chirp on the uphill slopes. At night, there is a smell of wormwood, smoke, and damp dust… Quails crow, and ducks quack on the lakes… Far away, one can hear the rapid Katun River rushing over the rocks. In the west, the dawn lights up the sky like a straw fire. The atmosphere is contemplative and nice…