LIFE
AND OTHER STORIES
Let’s Take a Walk Through the Ussuri Taiga. Reportage
LIFE
AND OTHER STORIES
Let’s Take a Walk Through the Ussuri Taiga. Reportage

Written by: Nikita Lavrenov
Photos by: Timur Sabirov
Everything felt familiar yet strange—that’s how Primorsky Krai struck me. Take this parking lot barrier gate: it works from both the left and right sides. The forests here seem similar to those in Central Russia—their genera are recognizable, but the species elude me, even after a decade of studying botany. Besides wolves, foxes, and lynxes, there are also tigers and leopards here. What does nature look like here? We attempted to answer this question by exploring the Ussuri taiga within the precincts of the city. Our guide was Pavel Krestov, the director of the Botanical Garden-Institute of the Far Eastern Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences and a corresponding fellow of the Russian Academy of Sciences.

Written by: Nikita Lavrenov
Photos by: Timur Sabirov


Everything felt familiar yet strange—that’s how Primorsky Krai struck me. Take this parking lot barrier gate: it works from both the left and right sides. The forests here seem similar to those in Central Russia—their genera are recognizable, but the species elude me, even after a decade of studying botany. Besides wolves, foxes, and lynxes, there are also tigers and leopards here. What does nature look like here? We attempted to answer this question by exploring the Ussuri taiga within the precincts of the city. Our guide was Pavel Krestov, the director of the Botanical Garden-Institute of the Far Eastern Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences and a corresponding fellow of the Russian Academy of Sciences.
It was rainy and warm the day we arrived. Even with a light jacket on, it was quite hot. The next day greeted us with blinding sunshine, cold winds, and biting air. I ended up piling on layers like a Russian cabbage: a T-shirt, a sweater, a newly-bought hoodie cinched tightly at the hood, and my light jacket done up to the last button. And still, I felt cold. The next day, when we were set to walk through the forest located within the Vladivostok Botanical Garden, the weather forecast was identical. It was chilly as I stepped outside. But as soon as we approached the botanical garden fence and walked about a kilometer and a half to the entrance along it, it started to warm up. It turns out this place is peculiar this way. Renowned Far Eastern biologists—Boris Kolesnikov, Nikolay Kabanov, and Dmitry Vorobyov—carefully selected this location for the botanical garden.
The garden's director explains:
— The Botanical Garden was established in 1949 after the war and spans 169 hectares, 150 of which are forested. The main criterion for choosing the site was its location at the heart of the Muravyov-Amursky Peninsula, with minimal exposure to unpredictable maritime air masses. When it’s like this here—overcast, drizzly, and windy—the city can feel entirely different. This unique climate provides unparalleled conditions for cultivating plants.
Even cultivated water lilies thrive here—a lake was created in the garden just for them. The stable aquatic environment allows them to flourish further north than expected.
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— We cleared it out, uncovering multi-layered deposits—a kind of “cultural strata” filled with historical oddities. Among them was a bedframe stamped with the year 1947, complete with an armored mesh. Once the garbage was removed, we were left with a vast hole. Rather than filling it with soil, we decided to create a lake.
I have a fascination for checking old maps to see what once stood in the places I write about. The forest, covering more than 90% of the Botanical Garden, appears on maps from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Detailed maps from 1936 and 1941 even mark the site as a “state fur farm.” It seems this forest survived the rapid logging during Vladivostok’s growth because it was used for fur trapping by settlers and indigenous people.
The Far East is a land of immigrants. Active settlement began after the abolition of serfdom in 1861. Entire villages of peasants, mostly from the Chernihiv and Poltava provinces, migrated here, travelling by cart—a journey that could last several years. Why did they come? Because instead of a few dessiatinas in Central Russia, they were granted up to 100 dessiatinas—over 100 hectares in modern units. All these land grants were meticulously recorded in official documents. By some miracle, the area where the Botanical Garden now stands was excluded from land development plans.
The 10% of the territory that the Botanical Garden has cultivated is unusually vibrant. Mothers with children, elderly couples, and some solitary visitors with cameras (yes, cameras, not smartphones) walk along paths amidst brightly colored flower beds and botanical collections. The director specifically points out two collections.
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— Any lilacs brought from the European part of Russia don't survive here. We have a very aggressive East Asian pathogenic environment, and all European lilacs succumb to local infections. Our staff conducts selective breeding of lilacs to enhance resistance to local pathogens. Currently, we have about 30 original varieties in our collection, which we’re actively propagating. 
The second significant collection is our magnolias. It includes 26 wild species from East Asia and North America. The first magnolia was brought from North Korea in 1974— Siebold's magnolia, which adapted successfully here. It has since begun to naturalize, spreading into nearby forest ecosystems. The first seedlings in the forest appeared in 2012. When we reviewed our phenological data, we found that the growth period for magnolias had increased by an average of eight days, and the flowering period had doubled. Seeds began to mature, birds dispersed them, and new magnolias started to sprout. Climate change is driving this; the warming trend favors species that thrive further south.
Unfortunately, we missed the blooming of the magnolias. These trees are among the oldest flowering plants, aving appeared before bees evolved, and they adapted to beetle pollination. To prevent beetles from devouring their flowers and disrupting pollination, magnolias developed thick, leathery petals and carpels. We could only touch their dark green leaves, which were just as dense and leathery. A little further on, near the forest entrance, we stopped to admire a real living fossil. 
There stood a small coniferous tree. A botanist could estimate its age at around six years by examining the whorls. Its needles were incredibly soft, and the branches from this year re sembled feathers. This is a metasequoia—a living relic. It was first described based on fossilized remains from Japan, but in 1941, living specimens were discovered in Central China. The existing population consists of merely around 800 trees, all of which grow in China's Hubei province. In cultivation, the metasequoia has spread widely across the globe and has started to grow again on continents where it vanished millions of years ago. 

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— It struggled to adapt to our environment for a long time but has now gradually started to grow without any winter protection. While metasequoias are cultivated almost everywhere, only recently has our climate allowed them to survive harsh winters. We planted it purposefully in the shade Once it grows a bit more, we’ll thin the surrounding trees to let in more light. Soon, we hope to see a genuine metasequoia grove here,” the director explained.
The local climate poses unique challenges for plants. Although the winters here are milder than in Central Russia, temperatures can occasionally drop to -20°C. The lack of snow causes the soil to freeze up to one and a half or two meters deep, damaging roots Plants here lead tough lives, tied to the spot where they sprout, needing to endure whatever nature throws at them. Only those capable of withstanding soil freezing thrive, and others, like the metasequoia, are carefully acclimatized.
As we entered the forest trail, it led us to an exhibition set up in collaboration with the WWF (considered a “foreign agent” in Russia), showcasing the habitat of tigers and leopards. Although no tigers currently roam the Botanical Garden, this forest closely replicates the Ussuri taiga, where they thrive.
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— Before the World War II, the tiger population had dwindled to 100 specimens—a significant decline. But now , thanks to conservation efforts, it has increased to 750. This number is sufficient for the vast territory they inhabit, as tigers are the top of the food pyramid. If tigers disappear, smaller predators become the apex, causing the pyramid to collapse. Small predators cannot control populations of herbivorous ungulate, which can  devastate the forest ecosystem within a single generation of coniferous trees by destroying the undergrowth. Without the undergrowth, and with old trees falling, the forest ceases to exist. Tigers, however, keep the ungulate population in check, allowing the forest to regenerate normally.
A single tiger requires a large territory of at least 100 square kilometers. They are solitary creatures, each maintaining its own range and fiercely defending it. Cubs stay with their mothers for about two years, during which the mother avoids males. Male tigers often kill rival offspring, even their own. This territorial behavior and limited population density mean that tigers cannot thrive in fragmented forests. When roads, settlements, or logging divide the landscape, tigers leave, and the food pyramid collapses, disrupting the entire ecosystem. 
In the Lazovsky Nature Reserve, for example, we observe an interesting effect. The reserve is small, home to only one or two tigers, which cannot control the population of spotted deer. Outside the reserve, hunters shoot deer, prompting the animals to use the reserve as a safe haven, increasing their numbers. Like goats, the deer overgraze the forest floor, destroying grasses, shrubs, and undergrowth. The forest is vanishing. 
Besides the Amur tiger, the symbol of Primorsky Krai—depicted everywhere in Vladivostok, from building murals to souvenir stalls—the region is also home to the Amur leopard. However, they live in the shadow of the tigers' glory. These elusive creatures live in the tiger’s shadow, both literally and figuratively. Locals have historically disliked leopards, and with good reason. 
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— There were very few leopards. Until recently, they lived only in the very south of Primorsky Krai, protected within a small reserve called Kedrovaya Pad. By the early 21st century, their number had dropped to about 30 individuals, remaining at that level since Jankowski’s time in the early 20th century. Early Russian settlers actively reduced the leopard numbers. Why? Because leopards are quite ’jackal-like’. Unlike tigers, which kill a deer and feed on it for three days before hunting again, leopards prefer to kill any potential prey they encounter. This behavior, reminiscent of wolves, hinders livestock farming. When Jankowski faced this issue while raising sika deer, his first step was to cull the local leopard population to protect his livestock.
Leopards were once considered game animals and prized trophies. Today, thanks to emergency conservation measures implemented in the 21st century, the leopard population has grown to over 100 individuals. They are now expanding beyond their traditional habitats in the south of Primorsky Krai.
The Jankowski family, one of the most prominent dynasties of pioneer settlers in southern Primorsky Krai, played a pivotal role in developing agriculture and industry in these new Russian territories. They laid the foundations for velvet antler farming, horse breeding, and ginseng cultivation. They also fostered trade with Korea and China, leaving behind a rich scientific and literary legacy. Tragically, all members of the family were repressed.
The trail soon led us to an unusually bright section of the forest. Sunlight pierced through to the ground, and the sudden brightness made me squint. What lay before us was the catastrophic aftermath of a typhoon Maysak in 2020: a jumble of massive fallen trees, jagged stumps broken across their trunks by monstrous forces, and a fir tree with twisted roots, precariously leaning on its neighbors.
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— Typhoon Maysak hit us hard in 2020, toppling many trees. Typhoons are becoming more frequent in our region, and we are now actively researching this phenomenon. Our colleague Kirill Korznikov, in collaboration with the Czech Academy of Sciences, has obtained very fascinating results. 
This area, a research plot, has been a valuable source of data for studying the history of typhoons in the region. Every tree here has been bored into, and its core and annual rings analyzed. Then we studied a series of similar areas across Primorye, while our Czech colleagues conducted parallel research on the Korean Peninsula. Using tree cores, we reconstructed the history of typhoons in a large region over the past 300 years.
The research methodology is straightforward. Cores are extracted from living trees 200–300 years old and measured precisely. When the width of a series of annual rings significantly exceeds the width of previously formed annual rings, it indicates accelerated growth. Trees naturally experience growth spurts when a larger tree shading them dies, allowing more light to reach them. If most trees in a sample plot exhibit synchronized growth, it indicates a widespread canopy collapse, likely caused by a typhoon. In total, scientists have drilled and analyzed several thousand trees. 
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— Our data shows that the intensity and frequency of typhoons have sharply increased over the last 50 years. They are penetrating further into the continent, heading north. This is a very serious issue, as it indicates that the tropical cyclone formation zone is. Previously, tropical cyclones would form between the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn, but now this zone has grown significantly larger. Currently, Japan serves as a natural barrier against tropical cyclones for us. If you observe the cyclone paths, they usually strike Japan and then veer off to the northeast. However, they are now more frequently breaching this barrier or passing through the Yellow Sea between Japan and Korea, before proceeding deep into the continent.
The director noted that a crane will be used to remove the fallen fir tree. As I looked down, I spotted a few tiny pine seedlings, barely the height of my pinky finger, sprouting from a patch the size of a five-ruble coin.
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— Oh, these are cedar pines. Squirrels, chipmunks, nuthatches, and nutcrackers are the four main seed spreaders here. This one is definitely the work of a squirrel—you can see how three sprouts growing together. Squirrels usually stash two or three nuts for winter. They’re the most efficient cedar seed dispersers!
Across the globe, cultures often refer to the most valuable coniferous tree as "cedar". In North America, these are junipers, thujas, and false cypresses, while in Eurasia, it’s used for pines. Here in Primorye, the "cedar" is the Korean pine (Pinus koraiensis), whose cones are significantly larger than those of the Siberian pine (Pinus sibirica), also called "cedar" in Siberia. Strictly speaking, true cedars (Cedrus) belong to a distinct genus of coniferous plants found in the Mediterranean and the Himalayas. 
Observing the Ussuri taiga stirs up mixed feelings in me, a botanist from Central Russia. On one hand, most of the plants seem familiar, and I can often identify their genus. On the other hand, the species here are quite different and more numerous. Instead of two kinds of maple, there here are five. Instead of two birches, there are six. There are three types of linden instead of one, plus two ash species, a local oak, and enormous pines  (also known as cedars) and firs (which, like hornbeams, are not found at all in  Central Russia).
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— The biodiversity here is immense. If you establish a 20-by-20 meter geobotanical plot, you’ll find at least 80 species of plants, excluding mosses. That's remarkable. It indicates that this ecosystem has evolved over an incredibly long time, with each species has found its niche. 
High species diversity also limits the establishment of invasive species. However, global warming is tipping the balance in their favor. Canadian goldenrod, for instance, is beginning to spread everywhere. Sosnowsky's hogweed hasn’t established itself here yet, but it likely will in the next five years. This plant was introduced to the Far East after World War II for silage production and even took root on Sakhalin. Sakhalin always seems to follow trends. 
You know, they say that Hitler introduced our Far Eastern rugosa rose (Rosa rugosa) to Germany because it supposedly strengthens coastlines. It could be used to build barriers against landing, making coastlines harder to penetrate or observe. Today, the rugosa rose is now spreading extensively across the North Sea. Under Stalin, it was hogweed; and under Hitler, it was rugosa. These invasive plants almost feel like echoes of totalitarianism.
We gradually returned to the cultivated part of the garden while chatting about the “botany of totalitarianism.” Suddenly, it felt crowded and bright. The absence of people earlier had gone unnoticed, but now their presence was impossible to miss. A man in his sixties, with camera hanging around his neck, approaches the director. He eagerly explained that the giant hawk moths had reappeared in the botanical garden, and he was trying to photograph them. After the man left, the director humorously noted that every fall, someone inevitably reports spotted hummingbirds. Still, the hawk moths here are so huge, and their proboscises are so long, that it's understandable to mistake them for small birds if you're not familiar with them. In reality, what they’re seeing is the hummingbird hawk-moth (Macroglossum stellatarum), whose body is even larger than that of some hummingbirds.  
At the public greenhouse, which was closed to visitors that day, we had the privilege of entering with the director. Inside, a banana plant was blooming, while the corner with carnivorous plants displayed trumpet pitchers for mosquitoes, monkey cups for termites, sticky-leaves sundews and butterworts, and Venus flytraps with open traps. Everything was ready and waiting for prey, yet not a single insect was in sight. Nearby grew a sensitive tropical plant Mimosa pudica, which typically folds its leaves at the slightest touch to deter predators. However, this one reacted sluggishly. “It’s too used to being touched by visitors,” the director laughed. 
On the way out I noticed a meter-tall cycad—one of my favourite plants—and asked the director about its sex.
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— She’s the girl. She doesn't have a male partner, so she doesn't bear fruit. But she has been growing for a very long time. We brought her about 50 years ago.
It's their leisurely nature that makes me love cycads. The local 50-year-old girl is still a child by cycad standards. The cedars here, though—it's hard to fathom—have been growing since before Vladivostok existed, with some trees twice as old as the city itself. Botany, much like its objects, is a slow and contemplative science.
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