khanty-mansiysk: when the cold steals your focus (and your battery)

i stepped off the train in khanty-mansiysk with a backpack full of lenses and a heart full of naive optimism, only to have the -29°C air slap me back to reality. the sky was a dull, washed-out blue, the kind that makes snow look like a blank canvas, and the wind carried a bite that felt like tiny knives across my cheeks. i pulled my scarf higher over my face and immediately regretted not buying that -50 sleeping bag the salesman suggested. note to self: next time, trust the gearhead at the store.

i checked the weather app for the hundredth time that morning- -29°C, feels like -29, pressure 1020 hPa, humidity 69%-numbers that might as well have been written in a sci-fi novel. the barometric pressure was so stable it seemed like the atmosphere was holding its breath. i joked to myself that at least the humidity was low; my camera wouldn't fog up as much… oh wait, it fogged up the second i opened the shutter. lesson learned: keep the camera in the bag until the moment you need it, then work fast. my Nikon D850, usually a workhorse, was already complaining through its battery icon, dying faster than i could say ‘cold’. i learned quickly to keep spare batteries in my inner pockets, close to my skin, and to switch them out every twenty minutes. also, hand warmers are not just for hands-they're great for reviving batteries too.

khanty-mansiysk sits at roughly 61°N, 69°E, a speck on the map in the middle of the western siberian plain. if you're as directionally challenged as i am, here's a visual pinpoint:

outside the station, the city sprawls with low-rise soviet-era blocks, their faded pastel fronts barely visible under a thick blanket of snow. the streets are mostly empty except for a few bundled-up locals hurrying towards the market. the air smells of woodsmoke and diesel, a scent that's oddly comforting in its rawness. i wandered towards the frozen ob river, where kids were skating on a cleared patch, their laughter echoing off the ice. i set up my tripod, trying to capture the contrast between the pale sky and the dark water that showed through cracks in the ice. the light was that soft, diffused kind that photographers lust after in the middle of winter-no harsh shadows, just a gentle glow that makes everything look ethereal. i shot with my 35mm f/1.8 at ISO 800, 1/125s, because the scene was too bright for long exposures but still needed a bit of grain.

after a few hours, my stomach rumbled, so i followed the smell of something savory down a side street to a cramped bistro called 'U Stroma' (i think). inside, the walls were covered with yellowed photos of the town in the 70s and a shelf of dusty samovars. i ordered the borscht, which arrived steaming hot, thick with beetroot and a chunk of sour cream that slowly melted into the crimson broth. as i sipped, i overheard a group of old men arguing about the best fishing spots. one of them, with a fur hat pulled down to his eyebrows, told me conspiratorially that the chef-a stern-looking woman in her sixties-was actually a retired olympic speed skater who turned to cooking after an injury. someone else chimed in that she adds a shot of vodka to the soup for 'extra heart'. i'm not sure what's true, but it was the best soup i've ever had. you can read some reviews on TripAdvisor if you want to find it; just be prepared for a grumpy welcome if you ask for extra bread.

it's funny how in a place this remote, word travels fast. i asked my Airbnb host about any hidden gems, and she warned me about the ice on the eastern bank of the river. 'it looks solid but it's only a few centimeters thick,' she said, shaking her head. 'last winter, a kid fell through and had to be pulled out by firefighters.' that was enough to keep me on the safer side of the water. later, at the market, i bought some smoked salmon from a vendor who claimed his fish were caught before the river froze completely. he also bragged about how his grandfather once wrestled a bear that wandered into town during a particularly harsh winter. i don't know if i believe him, but the salmon was delicious.

the neighbourhood around my place was quiet, mostly families and retirees. i struck up a conversation with a neighbour, a young woman named anastasia who worked as a freelance graphic designer. she told me that khanty-mansiysk isn't on many tourists' radars because it's so far off the beaten path, but that's exactly why she loves it. 'the silence at night is profound,' she said. 'you can hear your own thoughts, which for a creative is both a blessing and a curse.' she invited me to a local indie film screening at a community center, where i met a handful of artists using the winter as inspiration-painters, poets, and a guy who made abstract music from recordings of ice cracking. it was a refreshing change from the typical backpacker trail.

as the week went on, i started to feel more at home. i settled into a routine of early morning shoots, afternoon edits at a cafe with terrible wifi but excellent espresso (Yelp led me there), and evenings spent huddled under a blanket, scrolling through Siberia Travel Forum threads about the best spots to catch the aurora. unfortunately, clouds hid the lights every night i was there, but i still managed to take some long-exposure shots of the city lights reflecting off the snow, giving the sky a ghostly greenish tinge that i later enhanced in post. i posted a few on my instagram, using #khantymansiysk, and was surprised to get comments from locals who said they'd never seen their town look so magical. that's the power of a different perspective, i guess.

one evening, i decided to check out the only bar in town that played anything other than russian pop. it was a dimly lit dive called 'The Icebox', where a local band covered acoustic versions of american rock songs. the drinks were cheap, the crowd was friendly, and i ended up sharing a table with a couple of australian backpackers who were on a 'cold challenge'-they wanted to spend a week in the coldest inhabited place they could find. 'we thought we were tough,' one laughed, 'but this place humbled us.' they were planning to head to oymyakon next. i wished them luck and bought them a round of shots. it's weird how in such an isolated spot, you meet people from all over the world, all drawn by the extreme weather. maybe it's the same curiosity that makes us point a camera at a frozen river and hope to capture something beyond the obvious.

i also got some practical advice from a local photographer i met at a camera shop (yes, there is one). he told me that in extreme cold, you should let your camera acclimate slowly when moving between indoors and outdoors to avoid condensation. 'bring a ziplock bag,' he said, 'put your camera inside it before you come inside, and let it warm up gradually.' i followed his tip religiously, and my gear survived without any mold spots. he also recommended i try a film camera for the grainy, nostalgic look that suits siberian landscapes. i didn't have one, but i did apply a preset in lightroom that mimicked Kodak Portra, and the results were stunning. i left khanty-mansiysk with a memory card full of images and a heart a little less afraid of the cold. maybe i'll come back in the summer to see the river without ice, but there's something special about winter here-the silence, the stark beauty, the way the cold forces you to be present, to notice the subtle play of light on snow. i'll be back, probably with more hand warmers and a better plan for the aurora. until then, khanty-mansiysk, you've earned a spot in my portfolio and in my travel memory bank.

if you ever tire of the endless white and silent streets, tyumen is about a five-hour drive south on the main highway, a city that's a touch more cosmopolitan with coffee shops that actually stay open past 6 pm. it's a good excuse for a day trip if you need a change of scenery-and maybe a warm meal that doesn't involve beet soup.

khanty-mansiysk: when the cold steals your focus (and your battery)

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About the author: Chloe Weaver

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