For Igor Spring

THE ARRIVAL of spring to our tiny Russian village of Chukhrai — population nineteen — means that soon the rutted, ice-covered forest road that connects us to the outside world will become passable. Slowly, the villagers emerge from hibernation. All winter I had observed subtle signs of their existence. Wispy columns of smoke rising from the chimneys of their two-room log cabins. Runner tracks in the snow left from early morning forays in a horse-drawn sleigh to gather firewood. An old man covered from head to toe in torn, dirty, yet warm wadded clothing, sitting on an overturned pail in the middle of the frozen river, his fishing line disappearing into a hole in the ice.

Surrounded on three sides by a strict nature reserve, our village is virtually inaccessible. A narrow forest road leads from the fourth side to civilization. I set out with Igor on an expedition down this road to stock up on supplies, with axe, chain saw, winch, crowbar, and rubber boots in the back of our sturdy Russian UAZ army jeep. It is perhaps the only modern invention other than electricity and television to reach this village. Our neighbors, mostly elderly women widowed half a century earlier, wave us to a stop. I write down their orders. Sacks of rye flour to bake bread. Sugar to preserve berries and make samogon (moonshine). Carrot, cucumber, and dill seeds to sow. Chicks to raise for fresh eggs and poultry. All that remains of the village store are a few bricks and chunks of mortar.

My neighbor Olga Ivanovna asks to accompany us so she can pick out a piglet to fatten up for pork and salo (salted pig fat, without which it is said no Russian can survive the winter). We pick her up, helping her into the backseat. Although she is seventy-seven years old, I consider her a close friend. She can brew herbal remedies and break a curse. Her stories of growing up in Chukhrai fascinate me, and I enjoy my frequent visits to her house.

We venture down the six-mile lifeline to the next village of Smelizh. Gripping the steering wheel, Igor drives the jeep like an ice cleaver through large, still-frozen potholes in the road. Olga Ivanovna holds on to the passenger seat behind where I am sitting. I hold on to a handle on the dashboard. We brace ourselves for each jolt. The UAZ jeep has earned the national nickname of kozyol (billy goat) for the way it jumps about. Farther on, meltwater in deep ruts engulfs the entire front half of the jeep. The engine sputters and water spills into the door wells. A fat tree accosts the side of the vehicle. Next we pull out the chain saw to clear a tree that has fallen on the road.

Igor saws the long pine into three-foot sections and tosses them in the back of the jeep.

Firewood, he says.

I help move the remaining branches aside and, in doing so, snag my pants, ripping a large gash down one leg.

From Smelizh we drive two miles to Krasnaya Sloboda, from which a paved road leads to the district center of Suzemka, about twenty-five miles away. In this town of seven thousand we find limited produce and foodstuffs at the outdoor market and half-a-dozen respectable stores. For more-substantial needs, we would have to travel more than fifty miles to Trubchevsk, the center of the neighboring district, or make a trip to the provincial capital of Bryansk, ninety miles to the north. But Suzemka's limited selection suits our needs this week. While Olga Ivanovna examines piglets rolling around on the ground in potato sacks, I send Igor to buy me a new pair of pants at the outdoor market.

Size 8, I call after him, and nothing too fancy. Blue jeans and casual tops are my standard attire, although occasionally I will don tight black pants and a slim turtleneck to venture into town.

Outfitted with new $5 black pants, I stock up on supplies: fruit, bread, pasta, cheese, ham, mayonnaise, fresh meat from the market, and beer. We have potatoes, carrots, and beets from the previous year's harvest stored in our root cellar at home. We return to Chukhrai with the piglet squealing in a sack in the back of the jeep. We let Olga Ivanovna out at her house, and Igor carries the sack with the piglet into her yard.

We drive to the end of the village and park the jeep in front of our small wooden house. Igor leans over to the passenger seat to kiss me.

Welcome home, dear, he says in English with his charming Russian accent.

Thank you, I reply in Russian, smiling.

He carries the firewood to the lean-to next to the outhouse while I unload the groceries, piled in boxes and canvas bags. The neighbors come to collect their orders, reimbursing us for the goods and trying to shove additional money for gas into our pockets. We refuse the money, saying we were going anyway, but later they bring us potatoes and salo, remarking that they don't like to feel indebted.

Once a lively village of more than three hundred people, today Chukhrai, like so many other villages in the Russian countryside, is on its last legs. The villagers here have never had it easy. There were so many strikes against them: floods, famine, purges, collectivization, war, resettlement, and the absence of a road. Now the only people left in Chukhrai are those who weren't smart or lucky enough to leave. And then there are Igor and me, two naturalists who find solace in the village's remoteness, in its total immersion in the wilderness of the Bryansk Forest, and in each other.

That night I dream I'm back at Cornell. I've overslept and I'm late for Russian. I run into the classroom and everyone stares. I look down to find that I have no clothes on. I dash out the door and up the ivy-covered bell tower that stands at the head of the campus's main square. I look out over snowy Ithaca and the icy Finger Lakes and, for some reason, they look like the frozen floodplain around the village of Chukhrai.

I wake up, relieved my nakedness was only a dream. I think back to my first Russian class, sophomore year. We began by talking about Gorbachev and his efforts to restructure the country, known as perestroika.

I looked blankly at the teacher and asked, What's perestroika?

It was 1988, and though Gorbachev had been in power in the Soviet Union for three years, I was clueless as to what was going on in the country.

Why are you taking Russian? the teacher asked.

His question was fair. If I knew nothing about Russia and didn't follow current events, why would I bother to learn the language?

So I explained that I wanted to get involved in nature conservation on an international level. I figured that to have an impact on global issues, I needed to work with the world's other superpower, the Soviet Union. That's why I was taking Russian, I said, to build relationships between our two countries on environmental policy, global climate change, and nature conservation.

For the next three years, I took courses on ecology and natural resources, combining them with studies of biology, government, and languages (French and Russian). In all, I learned a little bit about a lot, but knew very little about anything in particular.

The summer after my junior year, I visited Russia for the first time, on a student language exchange to Leningrad State University (now St. Petersburg State University). It was 1990, and the country was plagued by economic depression and food shortages. As privileged foreigners, however, our group was served a hot dog, a boiled egg, and a cup of smetana (sour cream) for breakfast each morning at the dormitory. I was a strict vegetarian then, so, unable to stomach breakfast, I was happy to find a bakery around the corner with fresh poppy seed bubliki, ring-shaped rolls not unlike bagels. I remember passing a perfume shop on the way to the bakery and being surprised that there was always a long line of puffy-faced men outside. Later I learned that they lined up early each morning to buy cheap cologne, which they then proceeded to consume, as vodka was in short supply.

On group excursions around Leningrad, we were continually buttonholed by fartsofshiki, black marketeers peddling Russian souvenirs and offering to exchange money. In a time of new economic discovery, fartsofshiki were the predecessors to Russian biznesmeny (businessmen, Russified) and the mafia. The young Russian men were handsome, well dressed, smart, and spoke English, so all the girls in our group were immediately drawn to them. They wined and dined us, taking us to hidden-away restaurants and dance clubs, showing us a livelier side of Russian life than that offered by our university classes and historical excursions. One handsome young man named Sergey lavished attention on me, admiring my red hair and freckles. So began my infatuation with Russian men, and, as a side benefit, my Russian conversational abilities improved dramatically. That summer I was bitten by the Russian bug and fell in love with the city, the country, and the wonderfully spirited and hospitable Russians I met.

I invited Sergey to visit me at Cornell during my senior year. When he fixed my VCR, Walkman, and toaster oven while I was at class one day, my admiration for Russian men went a notch deeper. Although Sergey and I parted ways, that didn't stop me from traveling to Russia the summer after graduation to volunteer for a Russian-American park exchange at the proposed site of a Russian national park, two hours north of Moscow. I helped prepare a work plan for the park, which was eventually created in 1997. I fondly remember that experience as the summer of strawberries and champagne, both of which were cheap and plentiful in the small historical town of Pereslavl, where we stayed.

Still in pursuit of my dream of working on global conservation issues, in the fall of 1991 I went to work for a brilliant man named Bill Chandler at a think tank in Washington, DC. He sent me to Warsaw, Prague, Sofia, and Moscow for months at a time to help set up and manage nongovernmental energy efficiency centers, organizations that today are active in formulating energy conservation policies for their countries. The U.S. State Department provided most of the funds for our projects, but the World Wildlife Fund in Washington, DC, also funded the energy efficiency center in Moscow. That's how I met Bill Eichbaum, a vice president of WWF, who sent me to Russia in 1993 to find a Russian compatriot and create a WWF office in Moscow.

I arrived in Moscow in the spring of 1993 to open a representative office for the WWF with my Russian colleague, Vladimir Krever. Russia seemed like an open book to me in terms of conservation opportunities. I was excited to learn that Russia had a vast network of strictly protected natural areas, called zapovedniki, covering 1.5 percent of the country. But I felt helpless to stop the preserve system's demise in the face of dwindling government support. With the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 and the ensuing economic crisis, zapovedniki lost as much as 90 percent of their government funding, putting the entire system at risk. Learning that Russia worked for the better part of a century to create these strongholds of nature that conserve biodiversity through total human exclusion, I began to admire the zapovednik system. But zapovedniki were now coming under attack. Hundreds of Russian scientists and environmental activists were rising to their defense. I, too, offered my support.

With Vladimir I set out to convince WWF leadership in Switzerland that zapovedniki should be the focus of its conservation programs in Russia for the near term to ensure that the system didn't succumb to neglect and economic pressures. Oil companies and mining operations saw zapovedniki as areas of untapped mineral reserves. State forestry enterprises were encroaching on old-growth forests, some of which had been protected in zapovedniki for more than half a century. Poaching in nature reserves was on the rise due to poverty and high unemployment in rural communities. Without funding, the protected areas were powerless to stop these incursions.

Intrigued with the idea of helping preserve a continent-wide system of unique wilderness areas, WWF leadership agreed to focus its Russia assistance on the zapovedniki. Representing the conservation organization in Russia, Vladimir and I solicited grant proposals from zapovedniki all over the country. Hundreds of proposals poured by mail, fax, and e-mail into the tiny two-room Moscow apartment that served as our office. The scope of the projects was breath-taking: saving dolphins in the Black Sea or saiga antelopes in the Russian steppe, halting illegal fishing in the Sea of Japan, protecting polar bears in Arctic reserves.

One day a tall, handsome stranger showed up at our door. He was wearing a yellow sweater, bright in contrast with his dark skin and hair. His expression was cheerful and genuine. He introduced himself as Igor Shpilenok, the director of the Bryansk Forest Zapovednik.

Where's that? I asked.

About three hundred miles southwest of Moscow, he said, or eight hours by train.

You could have sent your proposal by fax and avoided the trip, I said.

The closest fax is six hours in the opposite direction, he replied, in Kiev. So it was easier for me to deliver it myself. He smiled and his blue eyes sparkled.

He handed me his proposal and two large black-and-white photographs. One was of four men trying to dig a hopelessly stuck truck out of a muddy depression on a forest road. The other was of him standing in a camouflage uniform surrounded by five women in coats and headscarves who were sitting on a bed of leaves and vegetation amidst tall pine trees. Large buckets brimming with berries stood between the women and Igor.

These women were collecting berries in the nesting grounds of the rare capercaillie, a large forest grouse, Igor explained. The birds need the berries to survive the winter, and these women destroyed the food supply for this colony.

I could tell by the way he spoke about his reserve that he was dedicated to its preservation. I admired the pictures for a moment and then asked, Are you a photographer?

Yes. In my spare time, anyway, he replied.

Of the more than three hundred proposals we received that year, Igor's was the only one requesting funds to work with local people to promote environmental awareness. The other proposals requested funds to equip the zapovedniki's ranger services, provide capacity for scientific research, or boost administrative capabilities. While I realized that these were important aims, I wondered why more of the reserves weren't also looking to build public support in their communities. Under the Soviet regime, it was easy to keep people out of the nature reserves. The government provided funds to arm the ranger services, and people were heavily fined for violating the protected regime. But with government funds reduced to a trickle, in the early 1990s the reserves were forced to fend for themselves. It would seem that working with local communities would be important. But at the time, only Igor had a vision of building a visitor's center and increasing public support for his zapovednik.

A few days later, I met with the head of the entire zapovednik system from the State Committee on the Environment, Vsevolod Stepanitsky, to review some of the proposals.

Seeing Igor's proposal in the stack, Vsevolod perked up and said, This is a fine director. He deserves support.

Vsevolod told me that in the 1980s Igor fought for preservation of the Bryansk Forest to save the rare black stork that nests there. When a federal zapovednik was created in 1987 as a result of his efforts, Igor was named its first director. Vsevolod believed that Igor, having grown up near where the reserve was created, knew how to reach out to the zapovednik's neighbors and promote conservation efforts in his region.

Hearing about Igor's achievements, I thought back to his recent visit to my office. I admired his modesty while recalling that I was no less taken by his cheery blue eyes and broad shoulders.

Two years passed. WWF funded many of the projects Vladimir and I had reviewed and recommended. One day I received a call from a colleague at WWF-Denmark saying the Danish government was interested in supporting our projects. He asked me to draft proposals for funding two or three reserves in European Russia. Vladimir and I decided that Nizhnesvirsky Zapovednik in the Leningrad Province worked well because of its migratory bird monitoring station, and Oksky Zapovednik in Ryazan Province fit nicely with its rare bison and crane breeding programs. We decided that Bryansk Forest Zapovednik in the Bryansk Province, Igor's reserve, should go in the proposal as well due to its emphasis on environmental education. After doing some research, I wrote a proposal and sent it to WWF-Denmark. Within a few months the project was approved and we received the first installment of funds.