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Christina's books

"Christina Dodwell continues the tradition of many renowned travellers, of Gertrude Bell, Annie Taylor, Isabella Bird, Freya Stark and Ella Maillart."

Chris Bonington

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Rebecca Hurst, from her book of poetry called The Iron Bridge

Distilled from  Beyond Siberia. Dodwell, Christina. 

The moment you sit on a sled the dogs bound forward. Kamchatka—remote as the moon. 

 

Land of permafrost and volcanoes. Reindeer, gulags and gold. Snow lies on the ground ’til June. 

 

Wearing a deerskin kurlanka and three pairs of trousers, Damart fleece and Gore-tex weather proof. 

 

Also two pairs of socks, gloves and mittens, balaclava, scarf and fur hat. And I was sometimes cold. 

 

Vitali and I went looking for bears winter dens, up a broad valley. Myth says that hibernating bears can read people’s thoughts.

 

It was a glorious day. The sun had a halo, almost a rainbow. Already minus 40o centigrade according to my travel thermometer. 

 

At this temperature your breath can freeze as you exhale. Tiny crystals which drop to the ground—‘the whispering of stars’. 

 

Three huts among trees at the frozen river’s edge. Dogs barked. Suzviy scraped deerskin—her scraper blue obsidian set in wood. 

 

I climbed a hill and looked down on the river’s course, frozen ox-bow lakes, sled tracks, fishing holes, sea-ice cracking into giant plates. 

 

Before I reached the track I heard a sled and a man singing with the full force of his deep, bass voice. The valley reverberated. 

 

A team of dogs came bowling round the corner, their master wearing a big red fox-fur hat and singing with all his might. 

 

Six swans were calling musically as they flew the river’s course. 

 

At night I listened to the clicking of hooves as the reindeer herd moved around our camp. 

 

We made nettle soup, lunched ravenously on wild garlic, caviar and bread. I felt inexplicably content.

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