2003, Afanasia and Ponoy rivers
Each of the subsequent days were similar to one another. It was hard to get up in the morning, our whole bodies ached, then we would have a hurried breakfast and then we were on the road. The rain fell without stopping, only sometimes it reduced to a drizzle, but at other times it came down in cold showers, as if the sky had apportioned a certain amount of water that had to be poured down on the earth, burning with passion. Wet clothes, wet feet. Bushes. After a couple of days our cheerful singing about Skippy had turned into a cheerless ballad: “Don’t tell me about bushes, don’t. Better mix some alcohol with water. And don’t let my new hat be lost, oh don’t…” Things started to be lost with alarming frequency. A knife, our landing net, socks. Our gear dwind
