I am in Soomaa national park, Estonia, standing in the middle of one of Europe’s largest peat bogs, with what look like red tennis rackets strapped to my feet.
And I’m conscious that one false step could lead to me ending up to my chest in cold, muddy water.
‘I don’t know about that bit. It looks a bit too wet,’ Algis Martsoo’s warning comes just in time. I still have chance to change direction and skirt around a sinister-looking patch of black mud splashed with sporadic greenery.
Still, if one must be in the middle of a bog, Martsoo is a good person to be with. As a ranger, ecologist and guide at the national park, he is something of an expert in local habitats and to spend an afternoon in his company is to take a crash course in one of the continent’s rarest landscapes.
Soomaa is an extraordinary place, more than 200 square miles of wetlands, forests, floodplains and water meadows that comprise Estonia’s second-largest and newest national park.
It is also home to rare species such as European brown bear, wolves, lynx and beaver.
Thankfully, none of the large carnivores are likely to be lurking in the immediate vicinity – which is fortunate, because my bright red bog-shoes have not been designed with rapid flight in mind; nor camouflage, for that matter.
‘There are lots of myths associated with bogs in Estonia,’ says Martsoo – a thoughtful, bearded, pipe-smoking mine of information, ‘of people being lured away from the track by strange lights or by the sound of singing…’
He gestures into a middle distance that is shrouded by an incoming rain storm – the treeline a vague, grey smudge in the background.
‘There’s an island of firmer ground over there. In the old days there were seven farms there, so people would have to cross the bog sometimes. If anything bad happened, stories and myths would grow up about it.’
It does not take much imagination to think of what might happen if you were caught unawares out here without your bog-shoes.
Today, thankfully, the marsh is crossed by a wood-plank walkway which ensures most visitors can keep their feet – and every other part of their anatomy – dry, but it only requires a tentative prod to either side to realise just how wet and unstable the landscape is.
As the rain begins to fall we retreat to the wooden path and follow it back to the edge of the forest. Aspen, oak and birch trees provide some limited shelter, while the shimmering water that shrouds their roots is stippled by raindrops.
This is beaver country and we soon find proof of the fact. An aspen trunk hangs weirdly among the branches of its neighbours. About half a metre from the ground it has been gnawed through with conical precision – its stump standing out pale in the shadows, like a freshly sharpened pencil.
‘Beavers fell lots of trees,’ says Martsoo, ‘and when they do it fills the rivers and waterways with debris – that provides shelter for fish and helps to protect the whole ecosystem.’
Life hasn’t always been easy for these charismatic rodents in this part of Estonia, though. They were hunted to extinction in the 19th century, and were only reintroduced in 1982.
Today, there are believed to be more than 140 beavers within the park, but as much as we peer out through the rain, we do not see a hint of one.
Wise creatures, they are probably snugly tucked away in their lodges by now. No bogs and bog-shoes for them.
www.soomaa.com
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