A Message In Blood There was evidence, but no investigation. A crime, but no suspects. Rumors, but no one willing to point the finger. When gunmen massacred up to 20 brown bears near a Canadian grizzly researcher's Kamchatka cabin, the warning was clear: On the lawless frontier of the New Russia, outsiders are no longer welcome.
A trophy in a defunct Soviet warehouse outside the capital. (Gueorgui Pinkhassov)
THE HELICOPTER TOOK OFF AT DAYBREAK, skirting the leaden bay before rising to thread the volcanoes surrounding the city of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky. The old chopper, an Mi-8 with the carcass and portholes of a rusting tanker, eased out over the tundra as the peninsula narrowed, flying low as it headed toward the southernmost tip of the land. It was early in the long Kamchatkan winterNovember 2002, according to the best guesses that came later. The season's first snows had just blanketed the valleys slanting off the volcanoes, and the white earth below was barren except for the stone birches, their fat branches twisting skyward.
Packed in close, the men sat stiffly as the chopper bobbed south, covering the 135-mile stretch to their wilderness destination in roughly two hours. Drowned out by the roar of the blades, they said little.
Each held tightly to his weapon until, below them, there appeared a small, pristine lake, filled with some of the biggest salmon in the world. As they touched down beside a cabin, the men crunched into the hard snow.
They probably had little trouble accomplishing their mission. After all, the bears of Kambalnoye had lived in close quarters with two North American researchers for seven years. They'd almost always tolerated visitors. One or two, expecting a familiar face, may have even run up to greet their killers.