Time to read: 9 minutes(s)

This settlement in the Tomsk region was disbanded in the late 90s. So, formally, it no longer exists. Wikipedia says"The population is zero." And he's wrong. One person is registered there. And he pays annual land tax for 17 acres of land in a non-existent village. Alexander Kizeyev does this voluntarily, as he loves his small homeland. He built a new house here several years ago, and, upon retirement, dreams of returning permanently to the non-existent Karakozovo.

During Soviet times, the local forests belonged to logging companies, and there was a vast network of narrow-gauge railways leading not only to the logging sites but also to the numerous logging villages. Over the past decades, everything has fallen into disrepair. First, Karakozovo was resettled, then the neighboring Chernaya Rechka. The narrow-gauge line that connected them led to the regional center of Itatka. Now the narrow-gauge railway no longer exists, but the embankment remains. Anatoly uses it to get from Itatka to Karakozovo. He travels by GAZ-66, all-terrain vehicle, or snowmobile, depending on the time of year and the weather.

We decided to drive from the other direction, along a road well-worn by logging trucks. However, we had to make a hundred-kilometer detour through the Old Believer village of Gar. We'd called Father Anatoly, a local Old Believer priest, the day before. He'd once participated in our joint expedition along Archpriest Avvakum's route through Siberia.the film "Ket. 400 Years Later"). So we know each other personally. He confirmed: the winter road-bridge across the Yuksa River in the taiga was completed a week ago, and driving across isn't a problem…

Are we sure we're here? Is there no other way to Karakozovo?

The navigator points here, and so do the car tracks.

We're standing on the bank of the Yuksa River, just outside the village of Gar. It's clear that just recently, for a day at most, a car had driven across the alluvial "bridge." But now about three meters have been washed away. Autumn has dragged on, rains had fallen yesterday, and the Yuksa has carved out its channel again. We're driving in one car; we don't know the channel and are afraid of getting stuck in the middle of the river.

Wow. How could that be? The bridge was built a week ago! We had a team from Altai here, they had an excavator, we asked them to help.

Father Anatoly came to the shore to make sure that we were standing where we needed to be.

Our guys are currently fixing the skidder they pulled out of the swamp. We went to see them, maybe they'll have some advice. Maybe we can fill the hole with logs. We still need to build a road for the winter. We haul timber from that side.

As we drive to the Old Believers' home, Father Anatoly tells us about their daily life. The domes on the Old Believers' church have been renovated; it will be 30 years old next year. Father Anatoly and his brothers built it. The local school now only goes up to the third grade. Teachers don't come to work in this remote area. And there are almost no students left. At one time, the school was primarily attended by children from the Besshtannikov family. All the brothers, including Anatoly, have large families.

The men, all bearded—Old Believers never go without beards—decide to build a new bridge. They haul the first batch of logs to the shore and cover them with wood. We, having already lost two hours and realizing that crossing the river won't be quick, decide to walk. Fortunately, Karakozovo is only 12 kilometers away.

But then another solution came to mind: simply hitch our car to a tractor and drag it to the other side. That's what they did.

When you go back, call us, we will also tow you with a tractor.

We're traveling along a former narrow-gauge railway. The tracks are gone. But the road is used by logging companies, hunters, and power line maintenance crews, so it's well-trodden. The time of year is opportune. A light frost has gripped the roadbed, but there's still little snow. We quickly cover 12 kilometers and follow tracks to find the right "street." Although there were no streets here even in the best of times. The entire village is the remnants of a logging enterprise: a garage, a clubhouse, the remains of houses, with inventory numbers still intact here and there. But among the ruins stand two new houses. They were built by two friends: Anatoly Kizeev and Vasily Voronov. Vasily died this year, and his eldest son now manages the house. And Anatoly is meeting us. This morning at 6 a.m., he left from the other side of the road to meet us. The 40-kilometer journey from Itatka in a GAZ 66 took him five hours.

I had to winch myself out twice. It's easier in the winter; we travel here on snowmobiles along the winter road. I work a shift, harvesting timber, so I get half a month off. And when I retire, I really want to move here. I was born here, married here. All these places are familiar and beloved. They've tried to persuade me to leave Karakozovo several times, but I refuse.

How is it even possible to be registered in a village that hasn’t existed for almost thirty years?

I don't know. But I get a land tax bill every year for owning 17 hundred square meters of land in Karakozovo. And I pay it regularly. Even though all that land has now been transferred to the forest fund, and it's actually a hunting ground leased to one person.

The local silence is broken by the noise of a generator. We discover that there's no power in Karakozovo after all. Even though a power line runs 700 meters away. The power company wouldn't mind running a line here. But this is all just private talk. Technically, there should be an address, but there isn't one.

I approached them with a plan, provided documents showing I pay taxes on 17 hundred square meters of land. Nope. That won't do. I need an addressee. I went to the head of the Itatskoye settlement, which included Karakozovo, and asked if he'd allow me to start a private farm, so that at least I'd have some official status here. He wouldn't agree, saying that if I granted you that right, I'd have to install electricity there and clean the roads. I said, well, let's make an agreement where I relieve you of that responsibility. He said, "Still no."

Life in Karakozovo moves slowly: hunting in winter, fishing, berry and mushroom picking in summer. Besides Anatoly, his older brother currently lives in the house, and his sons and grandchildren come to visit periodically. Sometimes the small hut is so crowded that mattresses have to be laid out in the hallway.

We ask Anatoly to show us the house where Alexander Yurkin, the last resident of Karakozovo at the time, lived as a hermit ten years ago. Anatoly and Vasily helped our film crew get here on snowmobiles.the film "Snow"). Half of the house where Yurkin lived is still standing. He himself left for Gar a couple of years after our arrival and later died. In 2013, he was still living here with a Soviet passport. We were planning to help him exchange his passport for a Russian one; Anatoly and Vasily, who periodically brought the hermit food, offered to give him a ride back to civilization. But Sasha never showed up in Tomsk. He didn't want to.

How many families remained in Karakozovo immediately after the resettlement? I know not everyone wanted to leave.

Well, the Yurkins are still here. And another retired family: Anton Ivanovich and Aunt Zoya. They died here. They didn't want to leave. It's easier for young people to move, harder for old people. My parents also held on to their home until the very end.

Did they help you move? Did they provide you with housing when you resettled?

We weren't given housing, but a cash voucher. My family, and I already had my first son, received 6.5 million. My parents received 3,5 million. And we were already buying our own housing. Some moved to Chernaya Rechka, which hadn't been resettled yet. Some moved to Itatka.

Do former residents of Karakozovo ever come here? Is there a cemetery here?

Yes, they come to visit their relatives' graves. Incidentally, the Beshtannikovs from Gari helped me make new crosses several years ago to replace the rotten and crumbling ones. We installed either 23 or 24 new crosses.

Karakozovo was a small village of about 70 households. Chernaya Rechka, later resettled, was much larger. Karakozovo's children were taken there to school after third grade. They lived in a boarding school for the week and returned home on weekends. Many of Chernaya Rechka's residents didn't want to leave either. But the logging company discontinued the narrow-gauge railway—the only link between these villages and the mainland. The people, using homemade handcars, held on for a while longer. But then the school, post office, and store closed, and they were forced to leave.

The hosts heat up the bathhouse and feed us delicious elk soup. Then silence falls. The generator is turned off. In the darkness, as we settle down for bed, we discuss the upcoming return journey.

"The Kirzhaks (Old Believers) also dragged me once. I was driving a UAZ van through the soot," recalls Alexander Kizeev. "When I arrived here, the water in the Yuksa River barely covered the wheels. We were there for a week, snow, then it melted, and the rain stopped. I'm driving back, and the water in the Yuksa River is already chest-deep. And this is right by the shore. The Kirzhaks then grabbed me with ropes and dragged me across. In the middle of the river, I saw my van floating. My dog ​​was still in the car; he was so scared, he started climbing onto my shoulder. This was also in the fall..."

We spit three times over our left shoulders, hoping that the river won't present us with any more surprises on the way back.

The roof of a house can be seen through a window in the distance. It's not obvious that the house has been abandoned for a long time. So it feels like the village is inhabited.

And who lived there?

Senturin lived, Vitka. He kept an apiary.