The Second Kind of Impossible

by Paul Steinhardt

An hour or so later, Sasha woke up and joined me atop the blue behemoth. I had originally recruited him solely as a Russian translator, but Sasha had other qualities that would make him a real asset to the team. Tall and athletic, he had a wealth of outdoor experience that would enable him to play various roles in the expedition. With his wavy blond hair, ever-present smile, and buoyant enthusiasm, he would help keep everyone’s spirits up and ensure smooth communication with our Russian colleagues.

  Sasha also possessed a basic understanding of physics from his undergraduate days and was insatiably curious. As we sat together atop the vehicle, he took the opportunity to ask a lot of questions about how I had first conceived of quasicrystals, which had been such a radical idea at the time, and why I thought it was important to now search for a natural sample.

  Soon after we got back on the road the next morning, we began experiencing more frustrating mechanical problems. The orange truck had suffered most of the problems the first day because of issues with diesel fuel. On the second day, it was the blue vehicle’s turn. One of the huge tank treads separated from the wheel sprockets, much the way a chain might detach from a bicycle gear. A bicycle could be easily turned upside down in order to reattach the chain. But this monster?

  Bogdan was prepared for such emergencies, and a thick log suddenly materialized from underneath his truck. He took out an ax and chopped off a sizable piece of the log, which he then split into quarters. He put the split pieces of wood into the gaping spaces between the gear teeth and the detached tread.

  The team was transfixed as Viktor climbed into the blue truck and slowly drove forward, drawing the relatively small pieces of wood around by the action of the gear. The wood traveled nearly full circle until SNAP! The tread suddenly reconnected with the gear teeth and crushed the wood to pieces.

  The most frightening aspect of the process was watching Bogdan reach his bare hands into the moving machinery. He had to keep jamming the wood to keep it in place as Viktor drove forward. There were several heart-stopping moments when I thought he would lose a few fingers if not his whole hand. But for the two drivers, the operation was as routine as fixing a flat tire. They would repeat the process several times during the drive, and it was always terrifying to watch.

  By the afternoon of the second day we could finally see the Koryak Mountains, home to the Listvenitovyi Stream, in the distance. That was our ultimate destination. But it was clear that we would not even come close to reaching the outskirts of the mountain range by the end of the day, given the slow pace at which we were lumbering across the tundra.

  By midday, we came across a natural gas facility that had been built to support a Russian mining operation. We were hoping to be able to clean up and enjoy lunch at the company cafeteria. But no such luck. Fresh food was in short supply at the remote location and, according to the manager, all of their spare food was frozen to help it last longer. We were turned away. But the manager promised to make up for it on our return trip, provided we remembered to call ahead to let them know we were coming.

  I couldn’t help but smile. Even in the middle of nowhere, it seemed, one needed to make a reservation.

  We continued driving for several more kilometers and came across a defunct drilling station, seen on the facing page, that appeared to be the complete opposite of the modern one we had just left behind. The dilapidated setting reminded Will and me of something out of the apocalyptic Mad Max movies with rusted oil derricks and remnants of old vehicles and oil cans strewn everywhere. But the site only looked deserted. It was still being used as a refueling station, and Viktor had arranged to pick up several drums of diesel fuel to replenish our supplies.

  Once we collected the oil drums and headed back on our way, Viktor and Bogdan ran into one dead end after the other. First a crevasse, then a quarry, or multiple times an impenetrably thick growth of vegetation. Every time we hit an obstacle we had to turn around and retrace our way back to the beginning before heading off again in another direction.

  We continued driving back and forth for several hours as if trapped in a maze until it finally became obvious that it was becoming quite late and we were getting nowhere. By now, Viktor and Bogdan were mentally spent and physically exhausted, so we headed back to the beaten-up headquarters at the Mad Max station for the night. Our second day of driving was over. But we were already a full day behind schedule, thanks to all of our mechanical and directional problems.

  Olya hastily pulled together a dinner that we ate inside one of the trailers in Mad Max-ville, when Viktor hurried back inside to tell us about yet another problem. He had been checking the two new fuel barrels he had stored in the back of his truck and discovered they were both defective and leaking oil.

  If we had continued driving toward the Koryaks, we would have been heading for disaster because the barrels would have continued leaking and gone unnoticed. We could have lost our entire fuel supply and wound up stranded in the wilderness. Worse, a leaky oil drum could have set off an explosion in the truck. So the frustrating delay turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

  “Maybe I deserve credit for our good luck,” I told Will jokingly. “Pouring out so much of my vodka as an offering to the gods during the stream crossing ritual might already be paying off!” Will just rolled his eyes, an expression every parent can relate to even if they are not camping in the middle of the tundra.

  With the leaky oil drums safely replaced, we set off the next morning and quickly found a direct route to the Koryak foothills. The soggy tundra under our treads was now replaced with solid dirt and rock and we began to fly, if you can call fifteen kilometers per hour flying.

  As we continued to climb into the foothills, we had our first encounter with a couple of the four-legged natives. We spotted two Kamchatka brown bears studying us from a distance and could see that it was a mother and cub. Even from a distance, it was clear they were both gigantic. Our diesel engines were so loud that the bears could hear us from across the valley and the cub was so curious that it stood up on its hind legs to get a better look. I was grateful to be in the truck and not out in the open because female Kamchatka bears, like every other bear species, are known to be fiercely protective of their offspring.

  The mother eventually coaxed her cub into leaving, and as they ran off together I marveled at their speed and power. Kamchatka brown bears can run up to thirty-five miles an hour, much faster than our vehicles. The mother and cub were able to keep up their strong pace until they were far from sight.

  If we were ever unlucky enough to encounter one of the Kamchatka bears at close range, I thought, there would be no point trying to outrun it.

  Chris Andronicos, one of the most experienced outdoorsmen on our team, had worked as a field geologist in a lot of regions with grizzly bears. So before we left Anadyr, I had asked him to give the rest of the team “bear safety lessons.” Chris kept it simple:

  Lesson 1: When encountering a Kamchatka brown bear at close range, it really makes little difference what you do. You are probably dead.

  Lesson 2: Try to avoid being at close range to a Kamchatka brown bear. A good way to accomplish Lesson 2 was covered in the third lesson.

  Lesson 3: Keep in groups of three or more and make a lot of noise wherever you go. Bears have bad eyesight and perceive a group of people moving together and making noise as a single beast that is much larger than they are. They will tend to move away, assuming there is another promising food supply.

  The scenery changed dramatically as we traveled farther into the Koryak range, where the slopes were brown and almost entirely barren (pictured on the next page). Chris explained that it was mantle rock that was rich in olivine and peridotite. Similar to certain mountainous regions of California, he said, the soil was toxic because of the high concentration of nickel. Trees and thick vegetation could not survive. The exotic, otherworldly setting almost made me wonder if Chris’s preferred theory that the Florence sample was made on Earth might be true after all.

  As w
e traveled deeper into the foothills, we came across a series of stunning river crossings (see the color insert, image 9). The riverbanks had dramatic drops of twenty feet or more, which was much steeper than anything we had experienced on the drive so far. The behemoths could manage the precipitous drops, but Viktor began cautioning us to hold on tight as we toppled over the edges.

  I had been sitting in the front bench seat next to Viktor throughout the past few days, spellbound by his driving technique and trying to anticipate whether he would swerve this way or that to avoid an upcoming rut or some other obstacle. By now, I had become familiar with all of his defensive driving techniques. So I was alarmed when he suddenly shifted into high gear after we completed one of the steep drops over a riverbank.

  Standing before us was a forest of tall trees. I gasped as Viktor floored the gas pedal and aimed straight for them at our top speed of fifteen kilometers.

  “Viktor, where is the trail?” I shouted, as we surged forward. My tone of voice must have said it all because Viktor did not wait for the translation. He gave me a wry look as if to say, “Trail? Who needs a trail?” And with that, he drove directly into the forest.

  The trees fell over one by one like flimsy pieces of cardboard. When I turned around to inspect the damage, I discovered that the trees I had thought impenetrable were actually quite flexible. They sprung back up behind us as if closing a trapdoor. Evidently, the trees were young enough and their trunks elastic enough so there was no permanent damage.

  Next, we made a brief stop in a strange-looking valley to pick some wild mushrooms for Olya’s kitchen. Having spent the last few hours cooped up inside the trucks, the team enjoyed a chance to stretch their legs in the field of freakishly large mushrooms, some of them a whopping ten inches in diameter. Marina, pictured above, and Olya led the effort.

  Chris and I stayed behind to study the maps and current GPS positioning. We concluded that we were not making good enough progress. So I made the extremely unpopular decision to cut the mushroom-gathering adventure short so that we could get back on the nonexistent “road.” And once we did, we came up upon the mighty Khatyrka River, the deepest and widest river in the Koryak mountain range.

  I’ll never forget that moment. As we approached the river, the normally quiet Valery Kryachko leaned forward from the backseat and said something to me in Russian.

  “Valery says there is considerable uncertainty whether we can cross the Khatyrka,” Sasha translated. “The depth of the water varies from year to year and from season to season.”

  What? Is he serious?

  I thought back to all the planning meetings over the past six months. We had discussed government approvals, food and fuel supplies, weather conditions, and bears. But during all those meetings, we had never discussed the terrain we would be dealing with and the challenges it might present. I had been told there would be roads. But there had been no roads and now a pretty wide river was blocking our path.

  Why am I only hearing about this now—just as we are approaching the water’s edge? I thought with disbelief.

  Sasha continued to translate, this time for Viktor.

  “The vehicles were designed to float,” he said. “Except for the fact that. . . . well, except for the fact that no one has ever tried to float them across a river as wide as the Khatyrka when they were carrying so many people and so much weight.”

  It was a nice time to let me know, I thought. I had no notion until that exact moment that we might need to float across a river hundreds of meters wide and of indeterminate depth to get to our destination. I had been concerned about making it to camp by midnight. Now, I was worried the Khatyrka would keep us from ever getting there at all.

  How in the world did we get this far without having had this discussion? I thought, shaking my head.

  We stopped on the bank of the Khatyrka and disembarked while Viktor and Bogdan set off in the orange vehicle to scout the way forward. In the interim, the rest of us had the opportunity to share a late lunch. The team’s spirits were buoyed by the delicious smell of the freshly picked mushrooms Olya cooked as part of the meal. So I kept my concerns about the river crossing to myself and let the team enjoy their lunch, most of them unaware of the peril that lay ahead. Everyone would find out soon enough, I figured.

  When the two drivers returned, they announced that they had identified what might be the shallowest route across the Khatyrka. So we packed up our gear, climbed back into the two behemoths, and braced ourselves for the weighty experiment.

  I had no idea what to expect as we surged into the river waters. It was a strange sensation to feel the strength of the river as it periodically took control of our mammoth vehicle as if it were a toy floating in a bathtub. The current lifted us up and off the riverbed, and then carried us sideways downstream before letting us back down. For the next ten minutes, both of the behemoths drove, then drifted, then drove, then drifted their way across the river.

  Eventually, both vehicles made it to the other side. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as we drove out of the water and up the riverbank.

  What was the next surprise? I wondered. What else did Valery forget to tell me?

  We continued on, with the blue truck once again racing ahead of the orange. Years earlier, Viktor had taken part in a mining expedition in the area and was familiar with the path. So he knew that we were getting very close to our intended campsite when he spied an odd row of poplar trees. He turned to follow the row of poplars until we suddenly reached a clearing and riverbank.

  Here was the Iomrautvaam River, a tributary of the Khatyrka River, along which we would be camping. Viktor barreled across the waters, drove onto the riverbed, and hit the brakes.

  I climbed out of the truck and looked at my watch: 8 p.m. Four days of driving for sixteen hours at a time, some of it frustrating, all of it uncomfortable, and we had finally arrived at our destination. Everyone cheered and offered Viktor congratulations.

  We didn’t waste a moment. Without waiting for our companions in the orange truck to arrive, we left Viktor behind to take care of the camp and headed off for a short hike. With Valery leading the way, we walked along the edge of the Iomrautvaam until we reached the place where a small stream, the narrow Listvenitovyi, flowed down into it. The growth was too dense for us to turn upstream and walk along the Listvenitovyi itself. But Valery told us we would be using a different path the next day that would take us to the dig site.

  I was elated to have finally arrived, recalling the many hours spent staring at maps of the region with Lincoln Hollister and dreaming of how we might be able to organize a team of experts to explore it. Now it was actually happening and I was leading that team. Despite what Valery told us, I had the urge to march right through the dense growth blocking our path and start digging right away. I felt like a child being told they had to wait to open their birthday present.

  As we strolled back to our new campsite, Valery made sure all of us got a good look at the huge, fourteen-inch bear tracks along the trail. Kamchatka bears were nearby, drawn to the river’s fish supply. It was fair warning that we would need to take every possible precaution to avoid meeting them.

  By the time we returned from the Listvenitovyi, the rest of our expedition team had arrived. In a remarkably short amount of time, our gear was unloaded and the first tents erected, including a dinner tent draped in mosquito netting.

  Most of the team members were assigned tents with just enough room to sleep one or two people. But Valery had thoughtfully selected a much larger tent for Will and me that was almost tall enough for the two of us to stand up in. It had double flap doors and was equipped with its own heater and, thankfully, its own bug killer. Valery even ran electrical power to the tent from a nearby generator so that we could recharge our computers. He knew that with me, he was dealing with a complete indoorsman and seemed to want to do everything possible to make my first camping experience a pleasant one. I was grateful that he took such good care of me. I was also gratefu
l to my son for accepting the embarrassingly luxurious accommodations, even though he was an experienced camper accustomed to rougher conditions.

  The campsite itself was a few hundred feet from the Iomrautvaam River, close enough that we could hear its waters flowing while inside our tent. In the distance, we were flanked by the Koryak Mountains, the source of the Listvenitovyi Stream. The area where our tents had been set up was fairly nondescript and ordinary looking. It was flat, with sprouts of shrubs popping up here and there. Across the river, the shrubs and growth were somewhat taller, a few as high as twenty feet. The place felt strange and unfamiliar to me, but not threatening.

  Will and I spent the first night organizing our tent and discussing our plans for the next day. In contrast to the cramped conditions in the back of the truck the last four days, there was more than enough room in the tent for our sleeping bags and I had no trouble falling asleep.

  The next morning, our expedition began in earnest. We trudged off for the dig site, where we would try to replicate Valery’s 1979 success. I made sure to put Valery’s mosquito hat on before going outside because I never wanted to repeat my nearly suffocating introduction to the tundra. Will and I had brought along enough DEET to supply an army, but the lotion seemed to attract mosquitoes as if we had coated ourselves with delicious candy. All of our Russian teammates, as well as Chris Andronicos, were used to such environments and seldom resorted to using netting or bug repellent.

  After a fifty-minute hike, during which we made lots of noise in order to announce our presence and keep the bears away, we arrived at the stream (pictured in color image 13). Almost immediately, Valery pointed out the legendary blue-green clay described in the Razin paper. It was astonishing. He casually reached into the mud to scoop out a handful of the clay, then rolled it into a ball and passed it around the group. Once it was compacted, the clay seemed to have the same texture as chewing gum or Silly Putty.