6^th of September, 6am and we waited outside.  16 aspiring wilderness guides with packs neatly stashed in trailers behind two minibuses.  We were heading for Russia; looking for learning, adventure and culture.  The stars were still speckled across the sky and my breath came out misty white...

'Where are Martti and Henkka?'

In 2 seconds Lauri was on the phone.  Another 10 seconds and he had hung up. 

'They thought we were to meet at 7.'

'Oh.'

We cruised along the grey tarred rivers; even and clean-cut with parallel power lines trimming the edges and shiny cars parked in front of neat, symmetrical houses.  Evegeniy spoke words of warning:

'Oh, the roads in Russia are nothing like this theyre terrible and the drivers are crazy.'

By around 4pm the roadside signs began to appear in dual language.  As we pulled up to the border, the mood in the bus change from sleepy obliviousness to an alert excitement, a few people looked decidedly nervous.  It was a breeze getting out of Finland, and we held our breath for the entry to Russia.  We handed our papers to an austere and stiff woman tightly pulled blond hair under a guards cap, khaki uniform and deep red lipstick.  She opened each passport and looked pointedly at the owner.  I gazed out the bus window at the border; a prominent clear-cut through the forest, as definite as if it had been cut by a knife - and realised that there really is more to it than just a line drawn on a map.

'Hey, Amanda...yo' Kristiina nudged me desperately and seriously, as though the wrath of the earth was about to rain down on me.  She whispered urgently; 'She can't see you.'

'Oh, right.'

I poked my head round the seat obscuring the guard's view and flash a large grin, aiming to imitate my passport photo; I forgot about being serious, and a couple of people squirmed.  Our scrutiniser looked, laughed and nodded, signalling for us to go.

Henkka turned around from his seat at the front and said:

'That's the first time I have seen a Russian border guard smile.'

Immediately the landscape changed.  Not more than 100 metres from the border and the symmetry of Finland no longer existed. 

'Ah, we don't have to wear these anymore,' Evgeniy said, as he unclipped his belt and pushed it away from him.  I look a little confused.

'Hey, Evegniy, I thought you said Russia roads are terrible!'

'Yes, but its not the law to wear a seatbelt.'

'Right.'  I knew that was the end of the conversation.  I was soon to see first hand that no one bothered with seatbelts, and that its also quite insulting to the driver to wear one. 

The next morning after some food, sleep and a hair-raising drive through the city we hauled our things out of the trailer and into Petrozavodsk airport.   Before we could leave, it was apparently absolutely necessary we pass through the security system.  I walked through the 'beeper' with my 3 knifes, scissors, axe and saw.  I have no idea what the security were looking for as I laid my substantial haul of weapons on the table - they didn't bat an eyelid. 

In the helicopter the engine fired up.  The roar was deafening and the machine shuddered, I mean really shuddered, to life. 

We touched down  in Vodlozero a couple of hours later.  The whirl of the chopper propellers took my breath away as we jumped down and walked across to Varispelda a small community that was our starting point.  Vodlozero occupies over half a million hectares in northwestern Russia, between the Republic of Karelia and the Archangel Oblast, a Russian province.  It was to be our home for 10 days.  Natalia, the park manager's wife, took us on a tour of the 3 buildings and small church of Varispelda.  The community grows most of its own food, and is aiming to attract tourists to stay in the traditional house build by a former student at Kuru.  Natalia is slim and beautiful; old clothes mixed with fresh make-up and a scarf over her dark hair.  Her deep brown eyes oozed kindness and offered warmth.

We took three boats across a small corner of Lake Vodlozero, cutting 4km off our journey.  From here we began to walk. 

The bogs could not be avoided.  Everyday the 'golden savannahs' would come into view.  As we came to the edge of the sheltered forest, the bogs appeared as dry and hot; I half expected to walk past grazing buffalo.  The closest thing to this we had were large piles of bear droppings.  Looks can be deceiving and who could say when your boot would puncture though the mushy moss and swallow your legs whole.  I certainly couldn't; consequently each night I left my boots and socks by the fire to dry and felt great satisfaction as the stream rose out of them. 

It was inevitable then that on the second morning I pulled out my needle and thread and began to repair the remains of my charred socks so that they at least covered part of my feet.

We were 'lucky' with the weather - sun, blue skies, warm temperatures and nights that barely fell below zero.  By our 6^th day in the forest I was craving some sort of adversity, cold or rough weather, to improve the skills of camp and fire making I was gaining and also put my gear to the test before the expeditions get seriously chilly.  I wanted it to rain for a day!  But the sun continued to shine down on us, and I could barely feel a breeze brush my skin, even out on our golden savannahs.  Warm or not, the Finns were missing their saunas.  Heikki and Kristiina, daily leaders on our day off, gave instructions:

'Kaisu will take a group to make the sauna.'

So we gathered stones, stole a couple of groups shelters and set about making long poles to make this 'bush sauna'*. 

'So, Kaisu, what do we do?'

'Not sure, how do you think we make it?'

'Hey... you're the Finn here, shouldnt these sort of skills be in your blood.'

We shrugged our shoulders and laughed, and then set about making some sort of makeshift (quite cold!) sauna, and each mistake showed us that Siberia really does teach.

*NOTE: this is definitely an Aussie term.