Starting Out in Moscow

Arrival in Moscow: The Gateway to the Arctic

My friend Kent and I flew into Moscow on Aeroflot, knowing that we still had another 1,000 miles further north before reaching the Yamal Peninsula. The moment we stepped off the plane, we were greeted by biting cold and swirling snow, a small taste of what awaited us in the Siberian Arctic.

We checked into an old Soviet-era guesthouse perched above the train station—a drab, noisy, but cheap accommodation. The walls were thin, the furniture outdated, and the hallways dimly lit, yet its prime location made up for the lack of charm. Despite the bleak atmosphere, it was within walking distance—albeit a long one—to many of Moscow’s iconic landmarks.

Exploring Red Square: The Heart of Moscow

No visit to Moscow is complete without stepping into Red Square, arguably the most fascinating and historic part of the city. This massive open plaza is flanked by some of Russia’s most symbolic landmarks:

• The Kremlin, the seat of power where Putin resides.
• St. Basil’s Cathedral, a breathtaking 16th-century basilica built under Ivan the Terrible, famous for its onion-domed towers painted in surreal, candy-like colors.
• Lenin’s Mausoleum, where the embalmed body of the first Soviet leader, Vladimir Lenin, lies in eerie preservation, available for public viewing only on rare occasions.

The Red Square is unpredictable—one day it might be empty, blanketed in snow, and the next, it could be the site of a pro-communist rally, with demonstrators waving Soviet flags and banners of Lenin. During one of my previous trips to Moscow, I stumbled into one of these protests, a surreal scene where elderly die-hard communists passionately chanted slogans under the shadow of their long-defunct empire.

Life in the Rolling Furnace

As the train rattled deeper into the Russian wilderness, we made acquaintances with many of the miners onboard. The unwritten rule of Russian hospitality meant vodka flowed freely, and soon we found ourselves taking shots, sharing strips of dried meat, and fumbling through card games with men whose faces were weathered by years of hard labor in the Arctic north. Communication was futile, a patchwork of broken Russian and English mixed with gestures and laughter—but that was part of the charm.

At the back of the cramped third-class cabin, near the filthy, closet-sized toilet, was a particularly rowdy group of miners. Their beds were unkempt, littered with half-empty bottles of cheap vodka, and the party never seemed to end. Every time I approached the toilet—a metal bowl bolted to the floor that opened directly onto the tracks below—they would beckon me to join them for another round of drinks. Occasionally, I obliged out of politeness, but more often, I declined, trying to pace myself through what was already a long, grueling journey.

One detail stood out—a lone woman among them, always inebriated, regardless of the time of day. She swayed as she walked, slurring her words, eyes half-lidded from intoxication. I initially assumed she was just another passenger, but the truth became apparent when I saw three different men escort her in and out of the tiny bathroom within the span of a few minutes. The offer soon came to me.

One of the miners leaned in, grinning with missing teeth, and gestured toward the bathroom door. “Your turn?” he asked in crude, broken English. The implication was clear.

I declined immediately, my stomach turning—not in shock, but in sadness. This was life for some on the rails of Russia. The train wasn’t just a mode of transport—it was a moving world of hard lives, fleeting pleasures, and quiet tragedies. I later found out that she was most likely a prostitute the men hired in Moscow to accompany them on the train. 

Escaping the Heat

The cabin itself was a furnace, thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, coal dust, and stale liquor. The air was stifling, and sweat clung to my skin. Whenever it became unbearable, I escaped to the inter-carriage platform, where frigid Arctic air leaked through the flimsy metal enclosure. Passengers smoked in silence, their faces glowing under the dim overhead light as the landscape outside blurred into endless snow-covered tundra.

It was the best place for fresh air—even if it was laced with tobacco smoke and coal dust. Here, I could watch the train attendant, a hunched man in a soot-streaked uniform, methodically shoveling coal into the furnace that powered the train’s antiquated heating system. With every scoop, he wiped his brow with a blackened sleeve, barely acknowledging the world outside his routine.

As the train thundered on, I stood there in the freezing wind, listening to the rhythmic clank of the steel wheels, watching smoke curl into the Arctic night. This was Russia in its rawest form—gritty, relentless, and unfiltered.

Even Colder in Yarsale

The next morning, we attempted to explore Salekhard, but at -50°C with windchill, even the idea of going outside felt like a suicide mission. The cold was not just uncomfortable—it was hostile, like an invisible force that wanted you dead. With the real tundra journey still ahead, we decided to minimize exposure and stay indoors as much as possible.

Our only real activity was dinner at a restaurant that transformed into a techno bar—because, of course, this was Russia. The bass thumped aggressively, the room was dimly lit by strobe lights, and the bartender was built like a powerlifter who moonlighted as a bouncer. Midway through the night, a drunken Russian stumbled into me, his glassy eyes locking onto mine. For a brief, adrenaline-filled moment, I thought I was about to have my first Arctic fistfight. He mumbled something incoherent, but just as quickly as he sized me up, he seemed to forget what he was angry about and wandered off into the techno fog.

It was time to leave civilization behind.

The Tundra Trek: A Mechanical Odyssey

Late in the evening, we departed Salekhard in a convoy of tundra trucks, heading toward Yarsale. Convoys are necessary in case of a breakdown of one of the trucks, as we later discovered happens. The journey would take us deep into the Arctic wilderness, where no roads exist in winter, only the seasonal ice road that snakes across frozen tundra, lakes, and rivers.

Our ride? A Trekol—one of those absurd, oversized, all-terrain Russian monstrosities that looks like it was designed by someone playing around in a post-apocalyptic video game. The vehicle sat on enormous balloon-like tires, built to traverse anything and everything the Arctic could throw at it. The only thing it wasn’t designed for? Passenger comfort.

Inside, I was crammed in the back, seated directly on top of a gearbox, my knees practically touching my chest. The heat was cranked to hellish levels, as if the driver was trying to recreate a tropical summer inside a steel coffin. Our Uzbek driver, like many of the workers in the far north who migrate from the Stans, was blasting deafening electronic techno music at ear-piercing levels—the kind of techno that makes you question whether you’re on a road trip or inside a Moscow nightclub at 4 AM.

For eight grueling hours, we rumbled across the Arctic void. The landscape outside was an endless whiteout, a featureless expanse of ice and snow stretching to infinity. Occasionally, the convoy would stop for a bathroom break, which meant stepping out into the abyss, making sure not to wander too far, lest we become permanent residents of the Siberian tundra.

Then came the real crisis—one of the trucks lost its heating system, and in this weather, that wasn’t just an inconvenience—it was a death sentence. The only solution? We crammed the frozen passengers into our already overpacked truck. Suddenly, our uncomfortable ride turned into full-blown Arctic misery. The air inside became thick with sweat, body heat, and the unmistakable stench of too many people wearing the same clothes for too long.

With every bump and jolt, my spine absorbed the full impact of the unforgiving gearbox. The techno music didn’t stop. The heat remained unbearable. And the Arctic outside continued to remind us that, at any moment, this journey could turn into a disaster.

Arrival in Yarsale: A Refuge from the Cold

At some ungodly hour, we finally arrived in Yarsale, a small, snow-cloaked village on the edge of the known world. The Trekol sputtered to a stop, and for the first time in eight hours, I felt my legs again.

We were greeted by a Nenet family that Edward had befriended on a previous visit, their expressions calm and welcoming, as if hosting foreigners fresh from an Arctic ordeal was just another Tuesday for them. It was not, but we soon discovered that this was the normal level of emotion displayed by Nenets. The truck dropped us off at their home, and the moment I stepped inside, the warmth hit like a drug.

We collapsed onto the floor, half-frozen, half-cooked, and fully exhausted. For the rest of the day, we slept in the safety of their home, trying to regain feeling in our extremities and recover from the hellish tundra trek.

Our plan? Wait for the nomadic Nenet relatives of our hosts to arrive—the ones still living in the tundra, migrating with their reindeer. They would take us even deeper into the Arctic, to their camp, where we would experience the true heart of their nomadic existence.

But for now, I just wanted to sleep in warmth, away from techno music, gearboxes, and the unforgiving cold outside.

Frozen to the Bone in Yar-Sale: Life at -70°C

Yar-Sale is a tiny, wind-swept village on the edge of civilization, home to about 800 people, mostly Nenets. The settlement is a mix of permanent residents who have left behind the nomadic life and visiting reindeer herders who come to town for supplies, medical care, or to trade antlers and meat for food and, more commonly, vodka.

The temperature had plummeted to -70°C with wind chill—a number so absurdly low that it almost didn’t seem real. I grew up in Minnesota, so I thought I knew what cold was. I was wrong.

Life at -70°C: When the Air Itself Hurts

You don’t just “walk around” at -70°C—you dart from one warm refuge to the next, praying your fingers don’t turn black along the way. Every step outside felt like stepping into an industrial deep freezer, except you’re in it, and it wants you dead.

We attempted to explore the village, but our excursions lasted only minutes at a time before the cold physically forced us back indoors.

• Breathing hurt. The air was so cold that inhaling through my nose felt like snorting glass shards. Every breath stabbed my lungs like tiny icicles.
• Eyelashes froze together. A few minutes in the open, and suddenly blinking became a struggle, as if my eyes were being glued shut by frost.
• Exposed skin was a death sentence. Any area left uncovered—even for seconds—would instantly feel like it was burning, except instead of fire, it was ice doing the damage.

The forecast for the entire week was a relentless -50°C to -70°C, and this was for Salekhard—a much milder place than the tundra. According to Edward, once we left for the tundra, it would only get worse.

This was not a place for the unprepared.

Yar-Sale: A Frontier Outpost at the End of the Earth

The village itself was a cluster of snow-covered wooden buildings, their windows thickly frosted over. Some were traditional log homes, while others were modern Soviet-era blocks, looking forlorn and battered by the elements.

Despite the extreme cold, life continued as normal:

✔ Nenets men walked the icy streets wrapped in thick reindeer coats, their fur hoods pulled tight over frost-covered faces.
✔ Women bundled up in layers of bright scarves, darting between markets and small shops, their breath visible in the freezing air.
✔ Children played in the snow, completely unfazed by temperatures that would kill an unprepared outsider in minutes.

Inside one of the small village shops, Nenets hunters bargained over fresh meat, while another tried to trade reindeer antlers for supplies. One shop sold vodka in bulk, and judging by the groups of slightly swaying men, it was clearly the most popular place in town.

Everything in Yar-Sale felt both surreal and utterly real at the same time—a place where the modern world barely existed, where life was still dictated by the brutal, unforgiving Arctic wilderness.

The Plan: Journeying Even Deeper Into the Cold

Our Nenets hosts were expecting relatives to arrive soon from the tundra, and once they did, we would begin our journey into the heart of the Arctic wilderness.

We would leave the relative warmth of Yar-Sale behind, traveling by sled and snowmobile to their reindeer herding camp, where temperatures would plunge even lower, and survival depended entirely on adapting to the Nenets’ way of life.

I knew one thing for sure:

If -70°C in Yar-Sale was unbearable, the tundra was going to break me.

Waiting to Depart into the Tundra

We had been waiting for days in Yar-Sale, hosted by a Nenet family that Edward had befriended on his previous trips. Edward had spent months in this region, earning the trust of the locals, and because of this, he interacted with them like a family member rather than an outsider.

Their home—a warm, cozy house filled with life—was a stark contrast to the harsh, frozen tundra just beyond its walls. Inside, a Dalmatian dog lazily stretched by the fire, while a box of kittens curled up together, indifferent to the blistering -70°C cold just outside.

The family was an interesting mix of cultures:

• A stoic Russian white man
• His Nenet wife
• Their children, who less Nenet and more mainstream Russian
• A constant rotation of visiting Nenet nomads—relatives stopping in before heading back into the tundra.

While we waited for our nomadic hosts to arrive, we passed the time watching Russian soap operas, sipping vodka, and eating frozen reindeer meat.

The Endless Wait & the Nenet Concept of Time

The nomads were already a day late.

According to Edward, this was completely normal. The Nenets do not operate on Western schedules. Out on the tundra, there is no phone reception and no need for punctuality. Time is fluid, dictated by weather, reindeer movements, and necessity rather than clocks or calendars.

As the waiting stretched on, so did the drinking.

The vodka continued to flow, and just as I began to wonder if this trip was even happening, our hosts suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

A Nenet mother and her daughter arrived on a snowmobile, their young teenage son confidently driving. They didn’t stop long—they were headed straight back into the tundra.

I assumed we’d be leaving immediately too with the Nenet father, a middle-aged man with a well weathered face.  But no.

• First, we needed to purchase fuel for the snowmobile—a task that, for reasons unknown to me, wasn’t happening anytime soon.
• There were no updates, just more vodka drinking, as the sun inched lower in the sky.
• Hours passed. The waiting turned into a vodka marathon, with everyone getting increasingly intoxicated.

Then, without warning, someone slurred, “We’re leaving soon.” Wait… now?!

A Risky Departure: Riding into -70°C Without Proper Gear

We had been promised full-body reindeer fur clothing—malitsa and leggings—to survive the extreme cold of the tundra. But there was a problem.

The Nenet father only had reindeer fur coats with hoods, but no leggings that fit us. He assured us that we’d be fine for the snowmobile journey, claiming there were extra leggings waiting for us at the chuum (tent) in the tundra.

I hesitated. This seemed like a terrible idea.

• I was wearing modern REI synthetic snowpants, boots, wool socks, and long underwear, but this was nothing compared to the insulating power of reindeer hide.
• At -70°C, exposed skin freezes in minutes. Even thin clothing is almost useless at that temperature.

But despite my concerns, we had come too far not to go through with it. We took one last shot of vodka, which the Nenet father insisted was necessary to “keep us warm”—a claim I strongly suspected was more tradition than science. Then we climbed into the wooden sledge:

✔ Kent and I huddled together in the back, clutching onto whatever warmth we could find.
✔ Edward rode on the snowmobile with the Nenet father.
✔ The sun was already setting.

The temperature had plummeted. The wind howled across the barren tundra. Then, with the roar of the snowmobile engine, we finally set off into the Arctic wilderness—our bodies woefully unprepared for what lay ahead.

Into the Siberian Night: A Journey with the Nenets in -70°F Wind Chill

The last glow of sunset painted the Arctic sky in hues of orange and pink as we set off on our snowmobile, leaving the small village of Yarsale behind. Ahead of us lay the vast, frozen tundra of the Yamal Peninsula—one of the coldest and most desolate environments on Earth.

As we rode out of town, we passed a Nenet graveyard, an eerie and sobering sight. Due to the permafrost, all the coffins lay aboveground, exposed to the elements, a reminder of the harsh realities of life in this unforgiving land. Not long after, we made a brief stop at a sacred Nenet site—a towering pile of reindeer antlers, a spiritual marker for the nomadic herders. Following local tradition, we paid our respects with a ritual: one shot of vodka for ourselves, and another poured over the antlers as an offering.

The Nenets, an indigenous Arctic people, guard their sacred sites fiercely, many of which are strictly off-limits to outsiders. We were honored to be granted access, yet the moment felt fleeting as our true challenge lay ahead—the deep tundra, the biting winds, and the bone-cracking cold of a Siberian night.

The Journey into the Frozen Abyss

As the sun dipped below the horizon, we were swallowed by darkness. The temperature, already brutal, plummeted further with the wind chill, reaching a mind-numbing -70°F (-57°C). My friend Kent and I huddled together in a wooden sled, wrapped in thick layers of fur and wool, gripping onto whatever warmth we could find. The sled, tied to the back of a snowmobile, lurched violently as we were dragged across the endless expanse of white.

The driver? A vodka-impaired Nenet herder.

This man, a nomadic reindeer herder, had agreed to take us from Yarsale to his family’s encampment—a collection of chums, traditional teepees made of reindeer hide. It was the middle of their migration season, and their herds were on the move. He was our only hope of reaching shelter, and yet, as the sled rattled and the wind howled, doubt gnawed at me.

With my head tucked down, I focused on one thing—staying alive. There was nothing to see, nothing to do, only the creeping realization that this might have been a terrible mistake. Had my adventure lust finally led me too far? Had I just signed our death sentence?

I had known, deep down, that leaving at night was a bad idea. But I had agreed to it anyway. And now, with the Arctic cold pressing in on us, I feared we wouldn’t make it to morning.

Survival in the Yamal Wilderness

The Yamal Peninsula is a place of extremes. It is a treeless, frozen wasteland bordering the Arctic Ocean, inhabited only by the Nenets and their migrating reindeer herds. Temperatures here can drop to lethal levels, and a single misstep—getting lost, a mechanical failure, an injury—could mean certain death.

As we continued across the tundra, each passing moment felt heavier. The darkness was absolute, the only sound the roar of the snowmobile and the crunch of ice beneath the sled. Our driver, despite his evident vodka intake, navigated the frozen expanse with an uncanny ease, as if guided by an instinct passed down through generations.

How long had we been traveling? An hour? Two? Time had lost all meaning. I clung to the hope that the flickering light of a chum would appear in the distance, that warmth and safety weren’t just figments of my imagination.

We had ventured into one of the harshest environments on Earth, putting our trust in a nomadic herder and his snowmobile. As the wind howled around us, I wondered—had we made the right decision, or were we simply passengers on a journey to the edge of survival?