photo - A Savin
The shore of the lake lay ahead down the snow packed street. On either side were small, colorful houses with yards - sites of the sometimes infamous "garden plots" of the Soviet era. Many yards contained a fruit tree or three. Others had a few stacked cages for rabbits. At the end of the street Lake Pleshcheyevo's 20 square miles was clearly spread out on this cold, sunny day. I gingerly put one foot down testing where I believed the lake began - it was like stepping on granite. I began walking east across the lake's southern edge towards the center of Pereslavl-Zalessky. A thin layer of snow covered the lake and periodically a gust of wind would create a snow spout or better yet a Rimsky-Korsakov snow maiden undulating in the distance. There were some fishermen - tiny, dark figures crouched down on the ice. There are a reported sixteen species of fish in Pleshcheyevo. But they were probably after ryapushka - fresh water herring. It is a fish so delicious that it was sent to the dinner tables of the Tsars.
I went ice fishing twice - once with Alex, his five year old son and ten year old Dima. My second outing was with a physical education director, two army officers and a "top" noncom. Twice - bundled in a great coat and boots I sat with my back to the wind on a steel can and stared down at a six inch hole in the ice. My numb fingers held a fishing line equipped with multiple hooks and baited with wasp larvae. Occasionally I would pull up the line and remove a three inch ryapushka and drop it on the ice in front of me. Within a minute it was frozen rock hard. With Alex I caught two herring. But with soldiers of the Red Army - feeling pressure to show that Americans "can do" I caught six. Typically my companions had twenty-five to forty herring spread at their feet. Time for a snack -four of the five items my army colleagues brought I found wonderful - bread, hard boiled eggs, one inch squares of pure lard, vodka and camaraderie. Later with darkness settling in we collected the day's catch and proceeded to the director's apartment. There his wife fried almost 200 herring. We ate the entire catch with bread, butter, salad and vodka. As I remember this meal I salivate.
My walk continues across the lake with the shore about a half mile to my right. I took care not to slip on the patches of ice the wind had exposed. Somewhere to my left up on the hilly shore was the Botik Museum, a small classical structure devoted to Peter the Great. Between 1688 and 1693 Peter probably learned to sail on Lake Pleshcheyevo and a replica of his small boat is in the Museum. Pleshcheyevo must be a great lake on which to learn to sail. It is an expansive body of water, 82 feet deep in the center with extensive shallow water along the encircling 17 miles of shore line. In summer the lake water is warm - swimming in June I found the water almost bath temperature. In the beautiful River Trubezh - it flows into the lake - the moving waters were cooler. The entire Pleshcheyevo area has a beauty winter and summer that could be the brilliant setting in any Nikita Mikalkov film. For good reason the Russian government created the Pleshcheyevo National Park designed to offer camping and outdoor recreational opportunities and (hopefully) protect the lake from encroaching industrial pollution.
As I approached the point of the shore where I planned to exit from my walk on the waters, I noticed the cupola of an old church tucked behind dense, bare branches in a corps of trees. Altering my direction 45 degrees I headed straight for it. Climbing off the lake and through some snow placed me in front of a decrepit Orthodox Church. Lined up to my left were several long, wooden lake boats partially submerged in snow. I approached the front doors of the church and gently pulled at one. It opened. I entered and moved toward the center of the structure. Next to the walls were piles of line with buoys attached. Standing against the walls were oars, paddles and a few molding life jackets. The Soviets had taken this small Orthodox Church with its waterfront view of Pleshcheyevo and converted it into a boathouse. Scanning the walls I could see where large areas of decorative masonry had fallen away. But one could still see places where wall and spots of paint from frescoes remained. I looked straight up at the inside of the cupola. It was a barren brown except for one small area with some black, blue and white. Studying it for some time I was able to determine that it was the partial remains of the single eye of a profoundly agitated and furious god. I quickly departed.
Sources; Wikipedia; Advantour; WikiTravel
Dozer - Bull Mastiff - a perfect companion.
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