The First Summit never quite let me go. Its silence stayed with me, and I knew I would come back — to walk the ridge further, to its highest point. It happened only in January, in the longest nights of the year, when the Urals lie under snow all the way to the horizon.
This time the way led through Veselovka, a small village at the foot of the ridge. The trail up begins at its very edge, beside a guesthouse with a cheerful name — the “Merry Mill.” But what stays with you is neither the trail nor the house; it’s the people. Warm, open, unhurried — as if the mountains themselves had taught them how to welcome a stranger.
You can walk to the top, or ride the rough road up to the old relay tower, and from there it’s only a couple of kilometres to the summit. It’s a logging road — battered, unforgiving; in summer only a prepared vehicle makes it through. Winter changes everything: snow fills the ruts, and even an ordinary car can climb. We drove ours as far as the tower.
Beyond it — only snow, wind, and silence. They call the Second Summit the Bald one: above the treeline nothing hides, only tundra and stone remain. This is the highest point of Urenga, the longest ridge in the region. From here the land opens for tens of kilometres — the Taganay range, the massif of Iremel, the frozen mirror of Lake Zyuratkul, and Zlatoust far below. You stand on the roof of an entire ridge, and the world unfolds in every direction at once.
This is what you come back for.
The Book
