The weather was beginning to get so warm and the snow so rapidly disappearing that I made up my mind to continue my route to the frontier without delay, as I was anxious to cross Lake Baikal on the ice whilst there was still the opportunity. True, I had been informed that there was really no necessity to hurry, that it could often be crossed thus even as late as May; but such opportunities were doubtless exceptional, and this year the season showed every sign of being an early one, so I felt there was no time to be lost if I wished to see this vast inland sea in its winter garb, and I had heard so much about the wondrous beauties of this enormous expanse of ice and the novel experiences of the journey across, that I decided not to remain any longer in Irkutsk, but to push on to Kiakhta, the frontier city, and finish up my work there. Moreover, I had very positive confirmation of my views, for shortly after the news reached us that the ice on the Angara river had commenced to break up, and that for many miles the river was already clear.

I now learnt that I could not go the whole way from Irkutsk to Kiakhta by sledge, as the snow always ends some miles before the frontier is reached, and the remainder of the journey has to be made in a conveyance on wheels. I was advised, therefore, to do the snow-covered part of the road on a cheap, open sledge, which I could sell for a few roubles at the last post-house. So my big sledge, in which I had travelled so many thousand versts, had to be disposed of, and I was fortunate enough to find an enterprising dealer who took it off my hands at a fair price, probably on the off-chance of making a good thing out of it next winter. My next concern was to buy the cheap open sledge for the journey; this I had no difficulty in procuring, and for eight roubles (less than £1) I got a big, awkward-looking vehicle, not unlike a huge clothes-basket covered with sacking—a great contrast to the luxurious pavoska I had hitherto been travelling in. Still, it was in itself a welcome sign that, for me, the long Siberian winter was nearly past, and that I was soon to be en route for the sunny South.

My preparations did not take long, for the journey to Kiakhta only occupies two days, and on the evening of March 11 I left the gay capital of Eastern Siberia for the Mongol frontier. I had been advised to start at night, so as to reach the lake—which is only sixty versts off—early in the morning, and accomplish the crossing by daylight. I had not thought it necessary to hamper myself with a servant for so short a journey, so was travelling quite alone.

For many miles after leaving the city the road lay along the ice in the very centre of the river Angara, and as it was quite a warm evening and the track very smooth, the motion was so pleasant that the idea of perchance the road ending abruptly never entered my head, and it was quite with a feeling of regret that I saw the horses at last turned towards the bank and we were on land once more. But only by the wildest stretch of the imagination could it have been considered a sledge-track, my driver having actually to search for bits of snow here and there, and make for them as well as he could across the intervening mud; in fact, it seemed absurd attempting it in a sledge. However, we managed somehow to reach the first station, and found the yard full of tarantasses (the summer posting carriages, which I shall have occasion to describe further on), which had just arrived with travellers bound for Irkutsk; my sledge looking strangely out of place among the tall, unwieldy vehicles. The postmaster shook his head, and said he very much doubted whether he ought to let me proceed, except on wheels; eventually he only let me have horses on condition that I did not start till just before daybreak, so as to reach the bad part when it was light. I shall long remember that “bad part,” for I don’t think I was ever on such a road before in my life, even in a wheeled carriage, and certainly hope never to be on such a one again in a sledge. Many times I got out and tramped along in the mud out of sheer compassion for the horses, who were “pulling their hearts out” to get the unwieldy sledge through the awful quagmire, for it was nothing else.

It was a lovely morning, with every promise of another spring-like day, when we once more sighted the river Angara. But to my astonishment, this was no silent expanse of ice as when I had seen it on the previous night, for before me was a broad, swiftly running river, its clear limpid waters sparkling like crystal in the bright rays of the rising sun, while on its surface no trace of ice could I discern.

It was a beautiful and impressive scene, though positively startling withal, to see a moving river once more after the dreary ice-bound wastes one had got accustomed to look at during the past four months, and I could scarcely realize that this was the same river along which I had travelled on the ice so few miles back. The Angara here must have been at least as wide as the Thames at London Bridge, the opposite banks, which were clothed with dense pine forests, rising precipitously from the very edge of the water. On account of the pureness of the atmosphere everything appeared so much nearer than it really was, that at first I could hardly believe that what I took to be curious little bushes on the opposite side were in reality big full-grown trees. I could not help thinking that if the scene is so weirdly beautiful even during the winter months, what must it be when all these grand hills are clothed with the gorgeous verdure of an Asiatic summer? Then indeed must the effect be almost of surpassing beauty, and one which must fully justify its title of “the most beautiful river in the world.” Considering the importance of the Angara, its resources are undoubtedly as yet in their infancy, for this mighty river is the only outlet of the waters of Lake Baikal, being, curiously enough, the only river which flows out of it, and is, as may be seen by a glance at the map, the big connecting link of the whole of the huge watershed of Central Asia—a watershed so vast and extended that in comparison with it that of the Mississippi and Missouri pales into insignificance.

Unfortunately, however, there is an impediment to the entire utilization of this great waterway which up to the present has defied the combined ideas of some of the greatest practical engineers of the world, for not far from where the Angara leaves Lake Baikal it forms a big rapid over two miles in length, and before gaining its subsequent level actually falls over a ledge of rock which bars its entire width. It is this huge “step” which must be removed before the river can be entirely used for navigation. Engineers for years past have been studying the possibility of removing this obstacle, but as yet nothing has been attempted. Meanwhile, however, that Siberian magnate, M. Siberiakoff, has undertaken the task of making the river navigable the whole way for steamers running from Irkutsk to Lake Baikal, and he proposes carrying out his scheme on a chain-hauling principle on the plans of the Swedish system. Whether or not this will be successful on a Siberian river remains, of course, to be seen.

The navigation of the river Selenga, Lake Baikal, and the river Angara is at present only carried on by nine steamers, only three of which ply between Irkutsk and the rapids. All these vessels, except one, are owned by Russians. The one exception is owned and worked by an Englishman resident in Irkutsk, Mr. Charles Lee, a gentleman to whom I have already referred. The Russian steamers offer but little of interest, having been purchased in Russia, and only put together in Siberia. Not so, however, the English one, which was not only built and launched at Irkutsk, but every portion of her construction, from her engines to her outer plates and rivets, was made in Irkutsk under the supervision of Mr. Lee, who is a practical engineer of great ability. This, as being, I believe, the first attempt at actual shipbuilding (not merely putting together) in Siberia, is of great interest, and more especially so when one learns that the credit of the enterprise is due to an Englishman; not the least interesting part of it being that this was Mr. Lee’s first experience in shipbuilding, and that the whole of the work was done by convict labour; also that the ship, when finished, was launched sideways, in itself a somewhat novel feat.

We now followed the banks of the river the whole way; it widened more, and when we at length sighted the lake, it must have been considerably over a mile in width. Here, right in the centre of the seething rapids, is the celebrated “Chaman” stone, a huge rock which from time immemorial has withstood the tremendous rush of the waters round it. It is the subject of many legends amongst the peasantry, one being that on the day it is at length carried away, the waters of Lake Baikal will escape and inundate the surrounding country. Without attaching any faith to such legends, there are many people in Irkutsk who would regard with unfeigned dread any tampering with the Angara rapids, and who believe that the rocks which cause them alone hold the waters of mighty Lake Baikal in check, and that the day they ceased to exist an awful disaster would happen.

I was prepared now for any surprises, after the transformation that had so startled me in the early morning; so when a bend in the road brought us in full view of this vast inland sea, I was not astonished to see that it was still held in the icy grasp of the Siberian winter. The ice commenced again at the very mouth of the Angara, a most extraordinary phenomenon, for it was as though it had been cut away by man to allow of the escape of the imprisoned waters. From one side of the stream to the other the line of ice was as straight as if it had been ruled. The part of the lake we had now reached is the narrowest end; the distance across it here from shore to shore being about thirty miles, though the great height of the mountains on the opposite side makes it look much narrower. Our road now lay along the shore, a sort of rocky beach, reminding me very much of bits of Devonshire I know well. Under the lofty cliffs ice and snow became more plentiful, so my driver no longer had to search for a likely sledging track, and for the next few miles, till we reached the post station, we went along splendidly. The road in one place left the shore for a short distance, and went right across a sort of little harbour crowded with shipping; in fact, we actually had to dodge in and out of the vessels, and duck our heads to avoid the ropes and spars. My driver evidently knew the place well, for we went right through the sort of fleet at full gallop, and a few minutes later reached the quaint little village of Liestvinitz, the point at which the journey across the lake is commenced. And after I had had a good sluice in a bucket of cold water, I was soon comfortably settled at breakfast in one of the cleanest post-houses I had yet seen. A real square meal, followed by a good cigar, put me in the right sort of trim to fully appreciate the novel experiences in store for me, and when I gave the order to start, I was lounging back in my sledge literally basking in the genial sunshine, prepared to enjoy my self to the very utmost. Try and imagine what it would be like starting from the Lord Warden Hotel at Dover on a warm, spring-like morning, with the intention of driving over to Calais or Boulogne, and you will have some idea of this part of my journey.

The opposite shore for which I was “bound” was quite invisible; and the ice, owing to its smoothness and the unusual absence of snow on its surface, almost presented the appearance of a very calm sea under the bright blue morning sky.

Lake Baikal, or, as it is called by Russians, “the Holy Sea of Siberia,” is one of the largest fresh-water lakes in the world. Its elevation is 1500 feet above the level of the sea. This magnificent sheet of water covers an area of 12,441 square miles, equal to sixty times that of the Lake of Geneva, and is 420 miles in length, and forty in breadth in the widest part. The principal characteristics of this big inland sea are its great depth, the severe and sudden storms which rage upon it, and the curious fact that seals are annually caught in it to a great extent. That this immense lake owes its origin to volcanic agencies has, I think, never been doubted; its enormous depth alone carries out this supposition, for in parts, where lines of 5000 feet and 6000 feet have been used, no bottom has been found, while in most places its average depth is 5404 feet. I hear that it is said in Irkutsk that it is only on Baikal that “a man learns first to pray from his heart,” for so unexpectedly do its awful hurricanes arise, that no one can tell, however promising may be the outlook when starting, under what conditions the opposite shore will be reached. Of course I had no opportunity of judging for myself, but I heard anything but good accounts of the three steamers employed for the journey, which usually takes about six hours under favourable circumstances. Other remarkable features of Lake Baikal are the marvellous transparency of its water and the rapidity with which it freezes when winter sets in. The appearance of the ice on the lake depends entirely on the weather at the time the water congealed. If the surface was then much agitated, the ice everywhere will present a broken appearance like waves, plainly showing how sudden and irresistible was the icy grasp of the Siberian winter. I am informed that along the coast the curious phenomenon has often been noticed of frozen waves, the curl of the water and even the foam being plainly distinguishable in the solid mass. I was fortunate in finding the ice perfectly smooth; it had evidently been a dead calm at the time the frost set in.

The road the whole way is indicated by means of a double row of pine saplings stuck at intervals in the ice—a curious effect being thus produced, not unlike an endless miniature boulevard stretching away till it is lost in the distance. I could not help noticing the way the horses are shod for the work: huge spikes are fastened to their shoes, which, as they gallop along, splinter the ice in all directions, but give them a firm foothold on its treacherous surface. In a very short time after leaving picturesque Liestvenitz we were well out in the open, and tearing along at the horses’ top speed, the motion being simply delightful. For about a mile from the shore the ice had a thin layer of snow over it, but we gradually left this sort of dazzling white carpet, and at length reached the clear ice, when I saw around me the most wonderful and bewitching sight I ever beheld. Owing to the marvellous transparency of the water, the ice presented everywhere the appearance of polished crystal, and, although undoubtedly of great thickness, was so colourless that it was like passing over space. It gave me at first quite an uncanny feeling to look over the side of the sledge down, into the black abyss beneath; this feeling, however, gradually changed to one of fascination, till at last I found it positively difficult to withdraw my gaze from the awful depths, with nothing but this sheet of crystal between me and eternity. I believe that most travellers, on crossing the lake on the ice for the first time, experience the same weird and fascinating influence. About half-way across I stopped to make a sketch and take some photographs. It was no easy matter, as I found on getting out of the sledge, for the ice was so slippery that in spite of my having felt snow-boots on I could hardly stand. The death-like silence of the surroundings reminded me not a little of my experiences in the ice of the Kara Sea. This wonderful stillness was occasionally broken, however, by curious sounds, as though big guns were being fired at some little distance. They were caused by the cracking of the ice here and there. I was told that in some parts of the lake were huge fissures, through which the water could be seen. It is for this reason that it is always advisable to do the journey by daylight.

We reached Moufshkaya, on the opposite coast, exactly four and a half hours after leaving Liestvenitz, the horses having done the whole distance of over thirty miles with only two stoppages of a few minutes each. It was evidently an easy bit of work for them, as they seemed as fresh when we drew up in the post-yard as when they started in the morning.