By COLIN ANGUS

Saturday, June 11, 2005 Updated at 3:58 AM EDT

From Saturday's Globe and Mail

ARYLAKH, RUSSIA — Cycling toward Moscow, about 2,800 kilometres from the finish line, I bask in the warmth of the Siberian summer. I'm certainly far removed, in every sense, from a pit stop I made two months earlier at a school in the tiny Yakutian village of Arylakh.

At that time, my expedition partner, Tim Harvey, and I were on the final stage of the most difficult part of a completely human-powered journey from Vancouver to Moscow. We were crossing the notorious Beringian Gap, 5,000 kilometres of wilderness and ocean between the North American and Russian road systems that had never been traversed solely by human power. We had already spent seven months hiking, canoeing, rowing, skiing and biking across two continents. On June 1, we would celebrate a year, and 14,000 kilometres, since we cycled out of Vancouver one rainy day.

The trail we were following when we entered Arylakh was a winter track used by six-wheeled transport trucks and tanks, which mainly followed the routes of rivers, streams and lake surfaces, the ice making for excellent temporary roads. Our Norco bicycles, equipped with studded tires, navigated the packed snow and ice with relative ease as we arrived in Arylakh.

"Here, have a mammoth tooth," the kindergarten teacher had said. "A gift for you." I gazed with awe at the basketball-sized molar she held. The passing millennia had coloured the tooth the shade of strong tea, but otherwise the years had been kind to it. Even the delicate furrows on the upper surface, used to grind vegetation, remained intact.

Several children clung to the folds of their teacher's skirt while she awaited my thanks. I imagined the look on a customs officer's face upon discovering pachyderm parts in our panniers, and told Yulya, our translator, that we would have to decline. Besides, the tooth was a fundamental part of a kindergarten diorama displaying cultural, historical and natural objects. By visiting classrooms like this one throughout our journey, and staying in touch with Canadian classrooms using our Iridium satellite phone, we have been sharing our journey en route with a large following of students.

In this northeastern Siberian village, mammoth teeth and tusks far outnumber the foreigners who have visited. A farmer told us that since the 1930s, only three non-Russian parties had passed through this community at 66 degrees latitude. And, like ourselves, all these strangers were on some sort of expedition.

On the massive Chukotka Peninsula -- Siberia's easternmost point -- we had passed through a completely treeless land as we approached Arylakh. The extreme cold and perpetual winds of the region -- where Arctic and Pacific weather systems meet, creating very volatile weather conditions -- sapped our strength as we pushed through and passed deep inlets. This gradually gave way to a forested land of larch and birch, with even colder temperatures as we reached the Kolyma River Valley and Arylakh, a community of 600.

Ahead, 600 kilometres remained before we would reach the Kolyma Highway, also know as the "Road of Bones." This 1,600-kilometre gravel road, traversing some of the most tortured terrain in Siberia, was one of Stalin's most despicable projects. Hundreds of thousands of gulag slaves died constructing the road between Magadan and Yakutsk, and it is claimed that many are buried in the roadbed. The highway passes Omyakon, which lays claim to the world's coldest temperatures outside Antarctica. The mean temperature in January is a mind-numbing minus 50 C.

We passed fur-clad nomadic reindeer herders living in skin tents. The beasts searched for lichen by pawing through the snow, while the herders spent their days protecting the herd from wolves and leading them to rich feeding grounds. The herders we encountered immediately invited us into their humble abodes for tea and tender reindeer meat. Although it was early February and still averaging between minus 30 and minus 40 C, they told us that winter was over. As far as they were concerned, the seasons were more about light than temperatures.

Once we reached the road network of Siberia, our travels became significantly simpler, and we were able to cycle independently -- from our support truck (a six-wheel-drive Ural transport truck) and each other. Tim and I had decided to take different routes to Moscow. It was nice to gain some personal space, but we planned to reunite before our final destination.

Connecting with the Kolyma, the mostly unpaved AYAM Highway took me south to within 180 kilometres of the Chinese border, at which point I turned west onto the M53 highway, which will eventually lead to Moscow. I pedalled into Irkutsk, a city that sits on the edge of Lake Baikal. The beautiful clear waters of the lake represent nearly one fifth of the world's fresh water. The world's deepest lake was also familiar territory for me, as I had rowed across it in the summer of 2001. On that expedition, I was part of a team that completed the first source-to-sea descent of the Yenisey River, the fifth-longest river in the world.

Two weeks of steady cycling later, I reached Novosibirsk, and I am now on my way to Omsk. Summer has thawed the Siberian winter and the cold that accompanied us for much of the expedition is almost gone.

Yet the two hours we spent in Arylakh provided just as much warmth as a change in the seasons. I was touched by the generosity and self-reliance displayed by the inhabitants of this village, necessary skills for surviving in such an unforgiving land. The community of 600 is situated beside a small river and cloaked with a thick grove of larch trees. Log homes, made from the same trees, lined snowy streets adorned with haylofts and wood stacks. Despite being well above the Arctic Circle, numerous (and extremely woolly) cows and horses roamed in and around the village.

Children immediately surrounded our bicycles and it wasn't long before the kindergarten staff ushered us into their cozy log structure. Three babushkas worked around a coal-fuelled stove fixing a nourishing lunch of borsht, bread and pancakes for the children. The tots laughed and scurried in light clothes, taunting the minus-40-degree temperatures that lay behind three panes of glass. The old men, meanwhile, talked about hunting and fishing in the wilderness around their community, a gleam in their eyes.

I couldn't help but feel envious. Shortly, we would leave this warmth and laughter, pedalling frantically to keep our core temperatures warm. Each evening, after 100 kilometres of cycling, we would retire to the frigid metal cabin of our support truck, the only wheeled vehicle burly enough to negotiate this terrain.

But soon, the days of darkness would be gone, and, therefore, winter, and Moscow awaited.This is the third in an occasional series. The author expects to arrive in Moscow in July. For more information, visit vancouvertomoscow.com.