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...