Tracking Siberian Tigers on Foot in the Russian Far East

In Search of the Siberian Tiger

March 2012 – A Winter Quest in Russia’s Far East

Over the years, I’ve developed a deep obsession with seeing wild tigers. While not always the main reason behind my travels, they’ve often climbed dangerously close to the top of my priority list. I’ve tracked tigers by jeep, foot, and even boat—across India, Nepal, Bangladesh, Southeast Asia, and the jungles of Sumatra.

I finally had my first glimpse in Ranthambhore National Park, Rajasthan, where a tiger emerged from the brush like a living myth. But that brief sighting only whetted my appetite. I didn’t just want to see a tiger—I wanted to see one on foot, and more importantly, I wanted to find the largest tiger of them all.

So my quest led me to Siberia.

The Call of the Wild: Russia’s Elusive Apex Predator

The goal: to see a Siberian tiger—the most massive, powerful, and cold-adapted of all the tiger subspecies. Known for their stealth and resilience, Siberian tigers (Amur tigers) are ghostlike in their elusiveness, with only a few hundred surviving in the snow-laced wilderness of the Russian Far East.

Tracking them in such a vast and unforgiving region is no easy task. But I knew one thing: winter was my best shot.

Despite the bitter cold, I chose to go in March. In winter, the dense vegetation dies back, improving visibility, and fresh snow captures paw prints, allowing trackers to follow the signs left behind by these silent giants.

Choosing the Path: Lazo Nature Reserve

There are a few key tiger strongholds in the Russian Far East—Sikhote-Alin Biosphere Reserve, Ussuriisk Nature Reserve, and Lazo Reserve.

I opted for Lazo Nature Reserve, primarily because of its proximity to Vladivostok, the region’s main city and a logistical hub for any exploration in the Far East. Lazo was remote enough to offer real wilderness, but reachable enough to make the journey feasible in winter.

This was never going to be an easy trip. But the hope of seeing a Siberian tiger in its natural habitat, on foot, in the frozen forests of the wild Russian east—that was a gamble I was willing to take.

The Siberian Tiger: Ghost of the Taiga

Power, Rarity, and a Reputation That Precedes It

Siberian tigers, also known as Amur tigers, are the largest and most powerful of all tiger subspecies—and the most northerly. Adapted to survive in the freezing forests of the Russian Far East, these cats are built for endurance, solitude, and silence.

Today, there are an estimated 600 to 700 Siberian tigers left in the wild, with most found in eastern Russia, and small, scattered populations crossing into northeastern China and possibly even North Korea. They are incredibly rare, but the good news is: things are improving.

Thanks to decades of conservation work, anti-poaching laws, and the sheer remoteness of their habitat, the Siberian tiger population has been steadily rebounding. Encounters are still rare—but no longer mythical.

Close Calls and Tiger Tales

While planning the trip, I stumbled on a viral video taken outside Vladivostok, where a Russian man recorded a tiger on the highway. The tiger approached his vehicle, growled, and postured aggressively—causing a traffic jam as drivers scrambled to reverse or film it from the safety of their dashboards.

A wild tiger. On a highway. Less than an hour from the city.
That was all I needed to know—I was in the right place.

But my favorite tiger anecdote came not from a guide or a tracker, but from the receptionist at my hotel in Vladivostok. When I told her I had come to track tigers, she barely blinked before responding flatly:

“I don’t like tiger. One time, with family having picnic in taiga… tiger eat my dog.”

The way she said it—completely deadpan—made it all the more chilling. And yet, for locals, tigers aren’t the stuff of fantasy. They’re real, living neighbors, sometimes uninvited guests, and always respected.

Where wild Siberian Tigers are found

Taiga Forest-tiger habitat in winter

Lazo Nature Reserve: Siberia’s Wild Heart

A Rugged Sanctuary for Tigers—and Those Who Track Them

Lazo Nature Reserve is, without exaggeration, a wilderness paradise. Stretching across the rugged coastline of Russia’s Far East, Lazo is a place where dense forests meet windswept cliffs, and where tigers, giant brown bears, mountain goats, and wild boar still roam freely through untamed, rarely seen landscapes.

According to the tiger researchers I met in Russia, Lazo offers one of the best opportunities to observe Siberian tigers in the wild, due to higher concentrations of the species within the reserve’s borders.

But like most things in Russia—especially in the Far East—getting there isn’t easy, and being there isn’t always comfortable.

From Soviet Science to Elusive Safaris

Lazo was originally established during Soviet times, not for tourism, but as a scientific research zone. The Soviets had little interest in letting people wander freely through their nature reserves. These places were designed to protect wildlife and conduct ecological studies—not to entertain outsiders.

That legacy remains today.

Most reserves in Russia still operate with a level of bureaucratic obscurity and isolation that can make visiting them a logistical challenge. To gain access, you typically need a well-connected fixer, someone who can navigate the red tape, secure permits, and negotiate with local authorities.

Finding a Fixer, Securing a Cabin

In my case, I was lucky enough to find a fixer in Vladivostok, who arranged for my friend and me to stay with a Russian tiger researcher based inside the reserve. He lived in a rustic wooden cabin, far from paved roads and phone signals—a spartan base, but the perfect launchpad for our on-foot tracking adventures.

I initially requested permission to sleep in tents, hoping to be even closer to the land and the elements. But that request was swiftly denied with the ominous and very Russian explanation:

“A risk of unpredictable results.”

Translation: sleeping in a tent where tigers roam is a bad idea.

Getting There: A Full-Day Overland Push

To reach the reserve, we would need to drive an entire day from Vladivostok into the wilds of the Russian Far East. The roads became increasingly remote and rough as we approached Lazo, with sections requiring a 4WD vehicle and a good deal of patience and determination.

The further we drove, the more it felt like we were peeling away layers of civilization, until only forest, silence, and the possibility of tigers remained.

Lazo Reserve location

Day 1: Arrival in Vladivostok

Frozen Seas, Soviet Echoes, and the Edge of the World

To begin my Siberian tiger expedition, I flew into Vladivostok, the capital of Russia’s Far East, after a short hop from Beijing, China. This port city is not only Russia’s largest on the Pacific Ocean, but also the final stop of the legendary Trans-Siberian Railway, and home to the country’s most powerful naval fleet.

But what makes Vladivostok so intriguing isn’t just geography—it’s secrecy.
During the Cold War, the entire region was sealed off from the world. Foreigners weren’t allowed anywhere near Vladivostok, and the maps barely acknowledged its existence. Like North Korea across the border, this stretch of the Pacific rim was cloaked in military shrouds and Soviet silence.

Winter Fishing on a Frozen Ocean

When I arrived, winter gripped the city. The sea had completely frozen over, and I was greeted by a surreal sight—hundreds of ice fishermen, scattered across the solid bay, each seated on a plastic bucket, hunched over small holes carved into the ice.

The scene was quiet and meditative, like some post-apocalyptic ballet, set against the icy winds coming off the Sea of Japan.

Soviet Lodging with a Side of Disco

I checked into Hotel Amursky Zaliv, a Soviet-era monolith located along the frozen waterfront. It came with all the eccentricities you’d expect from a post-Soviet stay:

• A strip club and discotheque in the basement

• An attached casino, flickering with neon

• Peeling wallpaper, faded carpets, and a timeless air of Cold War nostalgia

It was gritty but perfect, a place that hadn’t so much aged as it had been frozen in time, like everything else in Vladivostok.

Exploring the City’s Soviet Soul

Vladivostok is a city layered in history, propaganda, and pride. I spent the afternoon exploring its landmarks:

• Lenin statues, fists raised in eternal defiance

• Brutalist architecture, poured in concrete like frozen ideology

• World War II monuments, echoing Russia’s victory narrative

• And my personal favorite: a giant Cold War-era submarine, now open to the public—a strange, hulking beast docked beside the frozen quay

I also visited the elegant Tsarist-era building that marks the terminus of the Trans-Siberian Railway, where travelers once stepped off the train after journeying 9,000 kilometers from Moscow.

Vladivostok isn’t just a gateway to the wild—it’s a city that still carries the scars, secrets, and pride of both its imperial and Soviet past.

Soviet era hotel-Amursky Zaliv

Exploring a Soviet Stalinistic Era S-56 Submarine that was launched in 1939 and decommisioned in 1959.

World War II Memorial

Me inside the Soviet Era Submarine next to a portrait of Stalin

Lenin Statue

Dinner with a Soviet Sea Captain

One of our most memorable evenings in Vladivostok was spent in our fixer’s family apartment, tucked deep inside a row of Soviet-era block buildings. The space was modest and homey, like stepping into the Cold War past.

We were treated to a traditional Russian dinner of pickled vegetables, black bread, and steaming dumplings. At the head of the table sat our fixer’s father, a retired Soviet ship captain, who regaled us with tales of ice storms, far-off ports, and Cold War naval standoffs.

The vodka flowed freely—and so did the toasts: “To new friends!” “To tigers!” “To strong Russian women!”

As the night wore on, the warmth turned slightly awkward as the toasts piled up, but it was all part of the charm—a quintessential Russian evening of generosity, storytelling, and a bottomless bottle of vodka.

Family dinner with our fixer, Inna and her family

Day 2: Into the Taiga

Cossack Villages, Ghost Factories, and the Road to Lazo

We spent the entire day bumping through the snow-covered backroads of Russia’s Far East in a Soviet-era jeep van, heading deep into the Lazo Nature Reserve. The road cut through a landscape of frozen taiga, blanketed in snow and rolling hills of fir and birch.

We passed weathered wooden villages, many looking as if they hadn’t changed since the 1800s. These settlements were largely populated by descendants of the Cossacks, the fierce frontiersmen who helped open up Siberia during Russia’s imperial expansion.

Barroom Warnings and Poaching Shadows

In one village, we noticed a bar and asked our driver if we should stop in for a drink. He immediately advised against it. With few jobs and long winters, the youth, he warned, were fond of drinking and fighting—especially if a foreigner walked through the door.

“An American would be the highlight of the night—for all the wrong reasons,” he said.

Signs of economic decay were everywhere—abandoned Soviet industrial hulks, crumbling in the snow like forgotten skeletons of a different era. With no work, many locals turn to poaching, selling tiger parts and rare wildlife across the nearby border into China, where demand remains high.

Arrival at Lazo Reserve HQ

We finally arrived at the village of Lazo, home to the reserve’s headquarters, where we registered our passports and met the warden. A local village woman joined our group to serve as our cook while we stayed in the cordon cabin deep inside the reserve.

With paperwork complete, we were now officially stepping into tiger territory.

Russian man pumping water manually from a water well

Hunting Kujo dogs tied to a chain are a common sight in Far East villages

Typical Village

Official Entrance into Lazo Reserve

Arrival in Lazo Nature Reserve

Turquoise Waters, Tiger Tracks, and Soviet Bunkers by the Sea

After hours of driving through remote taiga and empty roads, we finally reached the heart of Lazo Nature Reserve—and it was stunning.

The reserve is crisscrossed with 4WD tracks, but much of the travel is done right on the beach, where clear turquoise waters crash against long stretches of pale sand. The coast is framed by rolling forested hills, giving the place an almost untouched, primordial beauty.

Scattered along the shoreline were World War I–era concrete bunkers, crumbling relics built to defend against Japanese invasion—a haunting mix of history and wilderness that made the setting feel even more remote and surreal.

Lazo wasn’t just beautiful. It felt rugged, raw, and wild—as if we were exploring a forgotten edge of the Earth.

Our Beach Cabin and the Tiger Researcher

Our driver dropped us at a simple wooden cabin right on the beach—our home base for the next few days. There were no fences, no rules, and certainly no cell signal.

We were greeted by Alexander, a seasoned Russian tiger researcher in his 60s, whose calm, soft-spoken manner instantly put us at ease. His English was perfect, and he gave us a quick tour of the cabin—minimal, rustic, and perfectly functional for field life.

When we asked about safety, Alexander shrugged and casually mentioned that he had seen tigers around the cabin, and even walking along the beach on occasion.

“But don’t worry,” he said with a grin. “They don’t bother people.”

There were no safety protocols, no bear spray, no radio contact. Just the frozen sea, the forests behind us, and the possibility of tigers watching from the trees.

Sunsets and Vodka by the Sea

Each evening, my friend Evan and I bundled up in layers, grabbed a bottle of locally made vodka, and sat out on the freezing beach to watch the sun set over the Pacific.

The silence, the sea ice, and the pink light hitting the surf made for an atmosphere that felt peaceful, surreal, and a little post-apocalyptic.

It became a ritual—two Americans drinking vodka on a tiger beach in Siberia, watching the day disappear behind the horizon. It was bizarre. And it was perfect.

Our Van Jeep driving into the reserve along the beach

Lazo Reserve Beach

Research cabin

Tiger Vodka

Sunset Vodka

Cabin Life in Tiger Country

Our cabin in Lazo Reserve was as basic and remote as it gets—no electricity, no running water, just a wood stove for heat and candlelight after dark.

We’d been warned about the cold, so we brought heavy-duty sleeping bags, which were absolutely necessary. Even with the stove, the chill settled in hard at night, and we could see our breath indoors.

It was rugged, quiet, and isolated—a perfect base for tracking tigers, and a reminder that we were far from the modern world.

Cabin at night

Breakfast coffee in the cabin

The Search Begins

We woke early, boiled water on the wood stove, and started the day with coffee and oatmeal as Alexander laid out the plan.

There were no trails—we’d be walking off-grid, following frozen creeks, the coastline, and whatever terrain the tiger tracks led us through. Our mission: find pug marks in the snow and track them in hopes of catching even a glimpse of a Siberian tiger.

Alexander, who had spent years living alone in the reserve studying these elusive animals, was frank about our odds:

“Seeing one is rare. You don’t find the tiger—it decides to let you see it.”

Still, we had the snow, the silence, and a full day ahead in one of the wildest corners of the world.

Alexander, Russian Tiger Researcher and Our Guide

Tracking the Unseen

Over breakfast, Alexander gave us a dose of realism. Most tiger researchers, he said, spend months living in forest hides without ever seeing a tiger. The chances of us encountering one on a short visit? Slim to none.

Still, he had personally seen tigers—from the cabin and on foot—so he assured us it was possible… just extremely unlikely.

Despite the odds, Alexander’s presence made every step feel meaningful. He was a walking encyclopedia, effortlessly rattling off Latin names for trees, birds, and small mammals we passed. With him as our guide, the forest became a living classroom—even if its most famous resident stayed hidden in the shadows.

Hiking along Lazo Beach

Days 3–5: Tracking Ghosts in the Snow

Cliffs, Creeks, and the Silent Signs of a Tiger

For the next few days, we trekked up to 8 hours a day through knee-deep snow, across frozen creeks, and over cliffs that dropped into the icy Pacific. The cold was relentless—sub-zero temperatures that gnawed at our fingers and toes—but the landscape was raw, untouched, and stunning.

We weren’t just tracking tigers—we were also on the lookout for wolves, bears, and other elusive wildlife. Though most animals kept their distance, we did spot deer, a rare mountain goat, and one afternoon, Alexander excitedly pointed out a rare mole species we stumbled upon in the snow. My personal favorite? The Spock-eared squirrels, with their comically tufted ears twitching through the trees.

Following Shadows

On several occasions, we found tiger pug marks in the snow—huge, unmistakable tracks that ignited our hopes. We’d follow them for hours until the trail vanished into melted patches or dense brush. Once, we found the fresh remains of a deer kill just outside the cabin. The tiger was close—but stayed hidden.

Each evening, we returned to the cabin exhausted, exhilarated, and content just to be walking in tiger country.

We’d cook dinner, drink vodka by the sea, and warm up in the cabin sauna, sharing stories and watching the stars blink over the frozen bay.

A Change of Luck

We had accepted that seeing a tiger was unlikely—just being in its realm was reward enough. But on our last full day in the reserve, everything changed.

World War I Bunker on the beach

Rare Mole

Spock eared Squirrel

Fresh Tiger Kill by Our cabin

Me Walking through the forest

Beaches of Lazo Reserve

Into the Valley of Shadows

Fresh Tracks, Frozen Rivers, and a Predator’s Trail

On our final full day in Lazo Reserve, Alexander had a hunch. There was a remote valley, he said, where tiger activity had been reported—and he believed a tigress with cubs might be passing through.

We set off early, hiking straight up a steep ridge, then down the other side into a dense forest valley. After crossing a frozen river and pushing through five hours of deep snow and biting wind, we entered an area that stopped us in our tracks.

Signs in the Snow

The ground was littered with prints—massive pug marks from a male tiger, alongside smaller prints from what Alexander identified as a tigress and two cubs. Nearby, we also spotted brown bear tracks, fresh and overlapping with the tiger trails.

Alexander paused, eyes scanning the ground.

“They may be hunting the bear,” he said quietly.

It was a haunting possibility—a reminder that out here, even apex predators have predators. We stood in silence, overwhelmed by the raw tension of the moment. We were on active ground, and whatever had passed through here had done so very recently.

The tiger was near. Maybe watching.

Pug Marks

Deep in the Pines

Following a Tigress and Her Cubs into the Heart of the Forest

Still hoping for a miracle on our final day, Alexander pushed us deeper into the wilderness, guiding us to a distant valley where he believed tiger activity was at its peak. The air was still, the snow unbroken except for the tracks of a tigress and her two cubs, which we followed with growing anticipation.

He guessed the cubs were no longer small—likely around 200 pounds each, nearly full-grown and increasingly independent, but still shadowing their mother. We moved quietly, over a ridge and into a dense pine forest, where the snow piled high and the air carried that crisp, electric stillness that only happens when something is watching—or waiting.

Lunch in the Shadows

After hours of hiking, we stopped to eat lunch among the pines. Unlike much of the reserve—where leafless deciduous trees gave us wide visibility—this section of forest was thick and closed in. The towering evergreens blocked out the light, and our vision was severely limited.

We sat in silence, sandwiched between the tiger tracks behind us and the unknown ahead, eating quickly, our eyes scanning the forest as we chewed. Somewhere, just out of sight, we knew the tigers could be watching.

It was the most vulnerable we had felt all trip—and the most alive.

Following Pug Marks

Tiger pug mark in snow

A Roar in the Pines

Face to Face with the Wild, Almost

Midway through our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the forest broke its silence. A low, guttural roar—deep and unmistakable—echoed through the pines. It sounded no more than 100 yards away.

We froze. Then came another call, from a different direction.

Alexander snapped upright, eyes wide with recognition. He whispered, “The tigress. She’s calling her cubs. She knows we’re here.”

Adrenaline flooded my veins. This was it. The moment I’d chased across continents for a decade—tracking tigers from India to Sumatra, hoping for a chance like this.

Following the Phantom

Alexander motioned for us to get low and follow. We crept through a thick grove of pines, the snow muffling our steps. Visibility was minimal. At any moment, a tigress could explode from the underbrush—and we had no rifle, no backup, no plan B.

We were walking into the domain of the largest cat on Earth, unarmed and exposed. It was, without question, one of the most reckless and thrilling things I’ve ever done.

But we didn’t hesitate.

Just Minutes Behind

We followed fresh tracks, so new that Alexander guessed they were minutes old. We wound up a narrow ridge trail, rounding blind corners that would have been perfect for a tiger ambush. At the top, the snow told its own story—flattened patches where Alexander believed the cubs had been playing moments before.

Then I saw them.

Down in the distance at the base of the ridge, two shapes darted across the snow—fluid, feline, and unmistakably tiger-like. Just as quickly, they vanished into the forest.

It happened so fast I didn’t even raise my camera. But I knew what I saw.

A Near Encounter

We followed more tracks, trying to close the gap, but it was clear—the tigers were gone. We never saw the tigress, but we knew she was there, watching us the entire time. She had let us come that close.

With the light fading, we returned to the cabin—buzzing, humbled, and exhausted.

No close-up photo. No lingering stare.
But we were on foot, in the forest, tracking the most elusive predator on Earth. And we came within minutes of touching the wild.

Day 6: Proof in the Snow

A Photo Finish in Lazo Reserve

On our way back to Vladivostok, we made a final stop at the Lazo Reserve headquarters—the same place where our journey into tiger territory had begun. There, the warden greeted us with wide eyes as we shared the story of our near-encounter.

When we described the tracks, the roars, and the fleeting glimpse of two cub-like shadows in the trees, he nodded slowly, clearly impressed. Then he invited us inside to review recent photos from the reserve’s camera traps.

Face of the Forest

Flipping through the images, he suddenly stopped and pointed at the screen.

“That’s her,” he said.

There, captured in crisp black and white just days earlier, was a massive tigress—muscular, wary-eyed, and unmistakably wild. She walked through the very valley we had hiked, her body framed by snow-laden pines.

It was likely the same tigress we heard and nearly saw, the one calling for her cubs just beyond our reach.

We may not have captured a photo of her ourselves—but the forest did.

And with that, the search for the Siberian tiger—years in the making—felt complete.

The Tigress we were following photographed by camera trap 

Days 7–8: Farewell to the Far East

Urban Contrast and the Road Ahead

After our return from the wilds of Lazo Reserve, we spent a couple more days in Vladivostok, soaking in the strange contrast between raw wilderness and gritty port city life.

We wandered through local markets, explored more Soviet relics, and reflected on our tiger encounter over bowls of hot borscht in dimly lit cafés. After the silent forests and frozen beaches, the city felt louder, faster, and somehow a bit less real.

Eventually, it was time to move on.

I boarded a flight to Tokyo to meet my uncle, kicking off the next chapter of my journey—a completely different kind of adventure in Okinawa.