My first real hike happened when I was five.
Kamchatka. It was summer, but patches of snow still lay on the ground — or maybe they had just returned. In Kamchatka, snow isn’t something strange; it’s a normal part of the landscape, especially if you’re heading into the mountains or climbing higher than the ocean shore.
Yes, snow in June is completely normal — even in town. But I’ll save that story for another time :)
At first, I thought about asking my parents for the details — they remember everything so well. But then I decided to write about how I felt back then, because childhood memories are precious and tend to fade with time. So please forgive a bit of a messy story. This is how I saw it — the little girl who was five and went on a grand adventure with her family (well, grand by a child’s standards, of course).
So, I’m five, and we’re heading out on what we used to call a “weekend hike” — usually a two- or three-day trip with tents, food, and friends. That tradition came from the old Soviet-era trekking clubs, where my parents first met. We didn’t know anything about trekking, hiking, or other fancy terms like that.
It was me, my mom, dad, brother, and a few of our friends. We used to go in big groups — it made bears less scary and everything more fun :)
The hike to the Bannyye Hot Springs was about 30 kilometers — through a mountain pass, forests, rivers, and at the end, hot springs tucked into a mountain cirque. You could cook sweet condensed milk in them, soak in natural thermal pools, and feel completely at peace with the world around you.
Here’s one of my strongest memories:
The first part of the trail follows a dusty gravel road. That’s what you had to walk if you didn’t have a car to drop you closer. And so we walked.
I remember my little green rubber boots — damp from the morning dew, covered in grey dust, speckled with bugs and tiny colorful stones.
There was tall, juicy grass growing on both sides of the road. Then came the forest — twisted, knotted stone birch trees. Each one looked like an animal or a dragon or a character from a storybook, especially when you’re five.
Then we heard a truck — and a huge dump truck rolled by, blocking the morning sun. Then we heard a truck — and a huge dump truck rolled by, blocking the morning sun.
The drivers slowed down and asked where we were headed.
“To the start of the trail to Bannyye,” my parents said.
The mustached man behind the wheel smiled warmly and waved toward the back: “Hop in — we’ll give you a ride.”
My parents loaded the backpacks, and I got to sit up front with the workers. I chatted with them the whole way.
I was never a shy or quiet kid, so the conversation started quickly and easily.
I remember how surprised they were when I started talking about horses — I used to go on and on about them back then. They laughed, asked questions, and joked.
The driver was turning the wheel with effort — now I know it was probably without power steering.
They were probably on their way to a shift somewhere. Simple people with kind eyes.
About fifteen minutes later, we reached the trailhead. We said goodbye and stepped into the birch forest.
Yes, snow in June is completely normal — even in town. But I’ll save that story for another time :)
At first, I thought about asking my parents for the details — they remember everything so well. But then I decided to write about how I felt back then, because childhood memories are precious and tend to fade with time. So please forgive a bit of a messy story. This is how I saw it — the little girl who was five and went on a grand adventure with her family (well, grand by a child’s standards, of course).
So, I’m five, and we’re heading out on what we used to call a “weekend hike” — usually a two- or three-day trip with tents, food, and friends. That tradition came from the old Soviet-era trekking clubs, where my parents first met. We didn’t know anything about trekking, hiking, or other fancy terms like that.
It was me, my mom, dad, brother, and a few of our friends. We used to go in big groups — it made bears less scary and everything more fun :)
The hike to the Bannyye Hot Springs was about 30 kilometers — through a mountain pass, forests, rivers, and at the end, hot springs tucked into a mountain cirque. You could cook sweet condensed milk in them, soak in natural thermal pools, and feel completely at peace with the world around you.
Here’s one of my strongest memories:
The first part of the trail follows a dusty gravel road. That’s what you had to walk if you didn’t have a car to drop you closer. And so we walked.
I remember my little green rubber boots — damp from the morning dew, covered in grey dust, speckled with bugs and tiny colorful stones.
There was tall, juicy grass growing on both sides of the road. Then came the forest — twisted, knotted stone birch trees. Each one looked like an animal or a dragon or a character from a storybook, especially when you’re five.
Then we heard a truck — and a huge dump truck rolled by, blocking the morning sun. Then we heard a truck — and a huge dump truck rolled by, blocking the morning sun.
The drivers slowed down and asked where we were headed.
“To the start of the trail to Bannyye,” my parents said.
The mustached man behind the wheel smiled warmly and waved toward the back: “Hop in — we’ll give you a ride.”
My parents loaded the backpacks, and I got to sit up front with the workers. I chatted with them the whole way.
I was never a shy or quiet kid, so the conversation started quickly and easily.
I remember how surprised they were when I started talking about horses — I used to go on and on about them back then. They laughed, asked questions, and joked.
The driver was turning the wheel with effort — now I know it was probably without power steering.
They were probably on their way to a shift somewhere. Simple people with kind eyes.
About fifteen minutes later, we reached the trailhead. We said goodbye and stepped into the birch forest.
The path ahead felt alive and full of stories.
Everyone laughed, talked, and remembered old times.
Dad walked next to me, always pointing things out — berries, mushrooms, animal tracks.
The walking was easy. Then it started to rain — and the whole forest smelled like fresh leaves and wet ferns.
Raindrops pattered on the canopy, soft and rhythmic.
The forest was speaking.
I remember our friend Uncle Sasha with his huge backpack.
He was short and strong, a former boxer, and one of our closest and most reliable friends. He worked up north in platinum mining, and when he came back from a shift, he’d either visit or invite us on a hike.
At every rest stop, we’d all take off our backpacks, pull out thermoses and snacks — and then, when it was time to go again, Uncle Sasha would roll his pack onto a little hill, lie down on it, slip his arms through the straps, and with one strong move — stand up, pack and all.
Everyone would laugh and ask, “What do you have in there?”
And he’d carry ropes, climbing gear, an ice axe, crampons — all kinds of things “just in case.”
And more than once, those things really saved the day.
Our backpacks, by the way, were homemade — with metal frames, sewn from what must have been parachute fabric or old canvas.
By evening, we reached the first campsite.
Back then, the group always chose the place — there were no designated campgrounds in our childhood.
I only learned about those later in Europe — and I have to admit, I was totally disappointed.
We pitched our tents, built a fire ring, propped up a cooking stick over the fire.
Dinner time. The rain picked up again, and I sat inside the tent, watching the flames flicker and the camp moving around me.
The smoke rose high into the dark blue sky.
Later, we played cards — I think it was a game called “fool.” I kept winning. Maybe the adults let me, but the memories stayed warm.
Dinner was buckwheat and canned stew.
I remember Dad smashing the can with the back of his axe, flattening it into a neat little piece of metal before tucking it into his backpack.
Leaving trash behind wasn’t just wrong — it was shameful. Not because of fines or rangers — but because of how we were raised.
Even now, I couldn’t drop a piece of paper in the forest or on the street — it just feels wrong and out of place.
And I like that kind of upbringing. It sticks.
ALL OUR TOURS YOU CAN FIND HERE
Everyone laughed, talked, and remembered old times.
Dad walked next to me, always pointing things out — berries, mushrooms, animal tracks.
The walking was easy. Then it started to rain — and the whole forest smelled like fresh leaves and wet ferns.
Raindrops pattered on the canopy, soft and rhythmic.
The forest was speaking.
I remember our friend Uncle Sasha with his huge backpack.
He was short and strong, a former boxer, and one of our closest and most reliable friends. He worked up north in platinum mining, and when he came back from a shift, he’d either visit or invite us on a hike.
At every rest stop, we’d all take off our backpacks, pull out thermoses and snacks — and then, when it was time to go again, Uncle Sasha would roll his pack onto a little hill, lie down on it, slip his arms through the straps, and with one strong move — stand up, pack and all.
Everyone would laugh and ask, “What do you have in there?”
And he’d carry ropes, climbing gear, an ice axe, crampons — all kinds of things “just in case.”
And more than once, those things really saved the day.
Our backpacks, by the way, were homemade — with metal frames, sewn from what must have been parachute fabric or old canvas.
By evening, we reached the first campsite.
Back then, the group always chose the place — there were no designated campgrounds in our childhood.
I only learned about those later in Europe — and I have to admit, I was totally disappointed.
We pitched our tents, built a fire ring, propped up a cooking stick over the fire.
Dinner time. The rain picked up again, and I sat inside the tent, watching the flames flicker and the camp moving around me.
The smoke rose high into the dark blue sky.
Later, we played cards — I think it was a game called “fool.” I kept winning. Maybe the adults let me, but the memories stayed warm.
Dinner was buckwheat and canned stew.
I remember Dad smashing the can with the back of his axe, flattening it into a neat little piece of metal before tucking it into his backpack.
Leaving trash behind wasn’t just wrong — it was shameful. Not because of fines or rangers — but because of how we were raised.
Even now, I couldn’t drop a piece of paper in the forest or on the street — it just feels wrong and out of place.
And I like that kind of upbringing. It sticks.
ALL OUR TOURS YOU CAN FIND HERE
