He’d arrived after dark. Stanislov was Russian. Walking the length of the US Pacific coast. Twenty, sometimes thirty, miles per day. Joining me by the small camp fire I’d eventually got lit, mostly with Coleman fuel.
In the gloom amidst the trees he’d shown me his kit. Couple of walking poles, a bivvy bag, sleeping bag, roll mat, waterproofs and wash kit. All packed into a small Bergen. Together with a little food.
Did he always camp I’d asked. No, he admitted. Sometimes got to stay with fellow Russians. There was, he said, an entire network of them across the globe. I smiled. Said I’d heard of it. SVR? He didn’t reply.
[Author’s note: The SVR is what the KGB re-invented itself as post-Cold War. Sounds a bit softer. Ironic really as, by all accounts, greater freedoms means it’s more active today than ever before]
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